“My sister criticized me for coming here,” she said pensively.
“Well, I wouldn't want my sister coming here either—”
“No, she meant I shouldn't accept hospitality from Veracruz. She said he...” She shrugged. “Well, you know.”
“Yeah. But at least you'll be safe.”
“That's what I said.”
“And since you didn't want to go back to—”
“No,” she said quickly. “I didn't.”
Remembering her moment of softness before boarding the plane, he decided to ask a question that had plagued him for months. “You weren't registered there. I checked. The next morning.” He saw her jaw clench, but he didn't let it drop. “What were you doing there, with no room and no luggage?”
She smoothed her skirt. She didn't meet his eyes. Her voice was distant as she said, “I'd spent all day at the airport waiting for my flight to leave. After it was finally cancelled, I learned that my luggage had been put on another plane.” She frowned and added as an afterthought, “I never did get it back.” She cleared her throat and continued, “So I had a drink. Several drinks, actually. I was just about to go across to the hotel lobby and get my old room, or another room...”
“When we met,” he concluded, watching her closely. The sunlight gleamed on her pale hair. She was too disciplined to fiddle with the hem of her skirt or display her tension in some other ordinary way, but he felt it, winding around her like a rope. “Well, that explains why no one could answer my questions the next morning. No one knew you were still in the country.”
She didn't respond.
“Still,” he mused, “I'd have thought they'd remember a woman like you, even without a name.” When she finally looked at him inquisitively, he explained, “I described you to the morning desk clerk. Either he hadn't seen you before or he just didn't want to get involved.”
“Oh.”
She looked away again, staring out of the window. He wanted to ask her the important question—why had she left like that? But the answer was probably not something he wanted to hear. Why should she have hung around, she'd ask? So they could exchange phone numbers over breakfast? Yeah, right.
He glared at her. She was still looking the other way.
He knew now why he had come back to Montedora with her, why he hadn't quit or let her fire him. It had nothing to do with Doby Dune or Joe Marino or his job or even promises made to her father. He'd made his decision the moment he'd seen her picture in her father's office, the moment he found out who she was. He just hadn't understood it until a moment ago, when he'd nearly blurted it out without even thinking. He had come here with her because—however stupid or crazy or hopelessly masochistic of him it was—he wasn't willing to entrust her safety to anyone else. If she had to come to Montedora, then he had to come make sure that nothing happened to her. It was that simple.
He wasn't at all happy about it. What the hell had she done, anyhow, to deserve such doglike devotion from him?
He glared at her again, annoyed with her for pretending she didn't need his protection. Did she think those frosty glances of hers would protect her down here?
The way those two guys had looked at her in the airport ... leering, smirking, muttering and snickering. He had wanted to tear them apart, but he'd had to settle for getting her out of there fast. He didn't want her to endure looks like that. He wanted to fight for her, shield her, keep her safe.
Ransom leaned his head back against the cushioned seat. Christ, maybe what he really needed was a good long vacation when this was all over. Something was wrong with him.
* * * *
After another twenty minutes in traffic, they came to a military checkpoint along the road. Recognizing Miguel and one of Veracruz's own limousines, the soldiers waved them through.
There were two more security checkpoints when they reached the gates of the Presidential Palace. These were manned by the President's personal Guards. At the first gate, Ransom and Madeleine were instructed to get out of the car, which was then thoroughly searched, despite its belonging to Veracruz.
When one of the Guards began going through their suitcases, Madeleine murmured, “Apparently being a guest of the President doesn't mean you get special treatment here.”
“My orders.” Ransom glanced at her. “When I first came here, a known Dorista could have stuck a pink bow on a bomb and carried it right into the President's bedroom without too much trouble.”
Five minutes later, a stout female Guard arrived, took Madeleine to the far side of the car, and searched her. After this distasteful procedure was over, Madeleine found Ransom being relieved of his guns.
“I take it you don't think you'll need those inside the gates?” she asked.
“I'd rather have them with me,” he admitted, “but it's nice to know they've stopped letting armed civilians enter the Palace.”
“Also your orders?”
He nodded. “Now no one except the President and the Guards carries a weapon beyond the gates. Not even the Seguridores.”
“So I'm safe as long as none of the Guards decides to shoot me.”
His eyes sparkled. “Something like that.”
Once cleared, they got back into the car. Miguel drove them through the first gate, which immediately shut behind them. The second gate, up ahead, was still closed, effectively trapping them. A Guard at the second gate questioned them, verified something on his walkie-talkie, then permitted them to pass through.
A dozen more Guards were posted at the front entrance of the Presidential Palace. It was an enormous white mansion with marble steps and pillars, a red tiled roof, a sweeping driveway, and extensive gardens. It had been built more than fifty years ago by the ruler of what had then been a peaceful agricultural country. As impressive as the Palace was, it was reputedly humble compared to the country estate one hundred miles south of here which one of Veracruz's recent predecessors had built, and where Veracruz spent his weekends and holidays.
Madeleine glanced curiously at Ransom as he helped her out of the car. “You preferred staying at the Hotel Tigre to staying here?”
“Too many wild parties,” Ransom said briefly. “I need my beauty sleep.”
That was clearly all he intended to say on that subject. Madeleine wondered what really bothered him about staying at the Palace, since it seemed much more comfortable (and now much safer) than the city's hotels.
A pleasant looking middle-aged man came down the steps to greet them, introduced himself as Veracruz's personal secretary, and offered to show them to their rooms. Miguel would bring their luggage up in a few minutes.
They were given rooms on the second floor, where a long a balcony overlooked the elaborate fountains and gardens behind the palace. Ransom gave Madeleine's room a brief search, then showed her the motion sensors installed at the door to her room and at the french doors leading onto the balcony.
“Punch in the security code when you're asleep in here. Just remember to punch in the disarm code before you go through the door or out onto the balcony, though, or you'll set off an alarm that'll alert over a hundred Guards,” he told her. “And there are video cameras trained on all the exteriors, so don't go out onto the balcony half-naked unless you want to give a thrill to some bored Guards monitoring the system.”
“I'll try to remember that,” she said dryly.
He disappeared into his room when their luggage arrived, but returned a moment later. “We've been invited to dinner this evening. The President would like to know if you can spare my services between now and then.”
Madeleine nodded. “I'm just going to stay in here and make a lot of phone calls. I've got to talk to my local bankers and lawyers, confirm our meetings. Check in with my secretary in New York. That kind of thing.”
“In that case ... Veracruz has left a message asking me to do a follow-up review of the security here. It'll take me the rest of the afternoon.” He handed her a small electronic device and showed her how to use it. “If you ne
ed me for anything, page me with this. I'll come right away.”
She nodded again. He checked his watch and said, “I'll meet you back here around seven o'clock, local time.”
He left. There was a discreet knock at the door only moments later, far too gentle to be Ransom. Madeleine opened the door and found a smiling maid awaiting her pleasure. Madeleine's Spanish was minimal, but she understood the woman's offer to unpack for her. She politely refused. She had never liked anyone touching her personal things, and she'd already watched the Guards investigate every single item inside her suitcase today.
She'd grown up in a very wealthy home, but the security system at the Presidential Palace was like nothing she had ever encountered before. Although she doubted even a virus could get past Ransom's security measures, let alone a person, she found the elaborate precautions very depressing. Imagine living like this. Imagine being hated by so many people that you needed to live like this.
She made a few local calls, then unpacked and showered. While drying her hair, she remembered that she had promised to phone Preston upon arriving. She might as well get it over with. Checking her watch, which was still on New York time, she picked up the phone, spoke to the operator, and gave her the number for Preston's private line at work.
He expressed pleasure at hearing from her, but she realized after a moment that he had someone in his office, so she kept the call very brief. When he said he hoped they could talk again soon, she hedged, tactfully avoiding committing herself to that. After ending the conversation, she stared at the phone for a moment, finally reaching a decision.
She couldn't marry him. She didn't love him, and she couldn't envision spending the rest of her life with him. Being single was preferable to having a loveless marriage, or a marriage in which she constantly hurt a loving husband by not loving him back. Her decision was so clear to her now, so self-evident, she couldn't understand why she'd ever needed to think it over. She was fond of Preston, and her main regret was that she had, through her own blundering, confused him and led him on. And now she would have to hurt him.
She was appalled by her behavior toward Preston in recent days. She'd like to blame Ransom for it—indeed, she would dearly love to blame him for it—but, in truth, he hadn't forced her to snap at Preston, lie to him, go to bed with him, or, having done so, to make such a fiasco of last night. Madeleine had to take full responsibility for all of that, and more.
She nodded as she faced herself in the mirror and styled her hair. If there was one thing Madeleine Barrington was used to, it was accepting responsibility. She didn't like to make mistakes, and she habitually made very few, but she now admitted the mistakes she had made with Preston and acknowledged her failings. It wasn't easy. She didn't like having failings. Not one little bit.
And, as with every problem in her life except one—the one currently reviewing President Veracruz's security measures—she immediately developed a plan to resolve matters.
The best thing for Preston—and herself—would be to let him off the hook as soon as possible. She was already planning what she would say to him, comments which would make her position clear without hurting him unnecessarily. Tactful, appropriate comments. The sort of comments that only seemed to desert her when she dealt with Ransom.
However, talking to Preston would have to wait until she returned to New York. A phone call was no way to tell a man you wouldn't marry him. She would tell him in person. He deserved at least that much consideration from her.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The sharp knock on her door came promptly at seven o'clock. It seemed that Ransom was habitually punctual. Madeleine supposed it was the only trait they had in common. Dressed for dinner and ready to go, she opened the door.
“Hi, are you...” His voice trailed off as his gaze swept over her. Madeleine's mouth went dry at the look that blazed through those green eyes. She wore a black, knee-length sheath with a white, satin, off-the-shoulders neckline; simple, elegant, classic. She had considered her appearance appropriate for a formal dinner, but something in Ransom's expression suggested that he found it appropriate for things best done in private. Her cheeks felt warm. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears. He had looked at her that way once before, and she remembered exactly what he had done next.
“I'm ready.” Her voice sounded wooden.
He took a steadying breath and said dryly, “Nice dress.”
She looked him over and gave an involuntary start. “You're still wearing that tie,” she blurted. He frowned. She clenched her teeth. What was it about him that made her constantly forget herself when she was with him?
“It's still my only tie, except for the black one I—”
“Yes, yes, I remember.” She heard the arrogant dismissal in her voice. She knew how it must sound to him, but she really couldn't face any more reminders of that night. Not now.
“Shall we?” His voice was bland.
She nodded, stepped into the vast hallway, and closed her door behind her. He silently led her to the central wing of the mansion, then downstairs, through a vast, elaborately decorated hallway, and out onto a covered patio where drinks were being served. Veracruz wasn't present, but there were a dozen other people already there.
Sipping from the glass Ransom handed her, Madeleine noted, “French champagne.”
“Foreign aid buys the good things in life.” He kept his voice low.
“Like security?”
“That, too.”
“And it doesn't bother you?”
“If you're asking, does my professional help imply support for, or even approval of, my client—the answer is ‘no.’ I keep people safe and alive, that's all. And it's not a bad day's work.” He lit up a cigarette and continued, “The month before the President contacted Marino Security and hired me, someone nearly killed his two daughters while they were playing in the gardens.”
“I didn't—”
“I think those girls deserve to grow up no matter who their father is, and no matter what kind of enemies he's made.” He met her eyes. “That's the kind of thing I think about, when I do a job like the one I did here.”
In that moment, Madeleine liked him very much. Just the way she'd liked him when he explained why he couldn't apologize to Doby Dune. She valued integrity. She valued the quiet nobility that he kept concealed behind cynical comments and an irreverent attitude. And she knew that these softening emotions she felt for him were dangerous, because they made her lower her guard. And she didn't think he was noble enough to resist the urge to prick her again. He'd been pretty clear about where he drew the line.
“El Presidente!” someone cried.
Every Guard in sight saluted. Madeleine turned and saw His Excellency President Juan de la Veracruz coming toward her, surrounded by an entourage of nearly a dozen people. He was tall, overweight, and appeared to be in his late forties. His curly hair was still pure black, as was his mustache. He wore some sort of white military uniform with gold braid and fringe on it. Assorted colorful ribbons decorated his chest.
“Ransom! My friend! So sorry I could not greet you when you arrived!” Veracruz pumped Ransom's hand.
“That's quite all right, sir. I'm pleased to see you now.”
Madeleine blinked involuntarily at Ransom. She'd never heard him sound so neutral and blandly polite. He really disliked Veracruz. Even Preston didn't get such a total lack of tone and expression from him.
Veracruz turned to her. “And this beautiful young lady must be Miss...”
“Barrington,” she supplied, not surprised he'd forgotten. There must be more than twenty sycophants at tonight's cocktail party, all gathering round to meet the man. And this was probably a pretty typical evening. “How do you do, Mr. President?”
Veracruz actually kissed her hand, bowing over it flamboyantly. Then he held onto it for an awfully long time as he welcomed her to Montedora, expressed his pleasure at being able to offer her his hospitality, and asked if she found her room comfortable.
&
nbsp; Ransom's eyes narrowed as he watched Veracruz go from ostensibly holding Madeleine's hand, to practically making love to it. Loathing the way the man ogled her, Ransom spoke again, drawing Veracruz's attention back to him. Madeleine used the lapse in attention to pull her hand out of the President's.
“The security pleased you today, eh?” Veracruz asked, accepting a glass of champagne from his secretary.
“A little fine-tuning was needed. I took care of it,” Ransom said. “I'll send you a written report after I return to New York.”
“You! Ha-ha, you haven't changed!” Veracruz clapped him on the cheek, then lightly plucked the lapel of his sportscoat. “You see this?” Veracruz said to Madeleine. “I was insulted by this, at first, but this is merely Ransom. For his own funeral, he will not dress well!”
“Indeed,” Madeleine said, carefully avoiding Ransom's eyes.
Veracruz introduced them to his wife, some of his staff, and a few of the other people present, then went off to greet someone else, leaving the two of them mercifully alone again.
Ransom ground out his cigarette, then looked up in surprise when Madeleine asked, “Why don't you ever wear a suit?”
“All those years in the Secret Service.” Seeing her expectant look, he continued, “We almost always had to wear them. I never liked wearing a suit much anyhow, but then one day on the campaign trail, guarding a candidate, I sweated all morning in a wool suit that felt like body armor, while everyone in the crowd wore shorts and T-shirts. By the time we left New Orleans at noon, the thing was drenched. So that afternoon, I got off the plane in ... Where the hell were we? Oh, yeah—Chicago. They were having a sudden cold spell, with wind like you wouldn't believe. I nearly froze to death in that same damned suit.”
“Sounds awful,” she agreed.
“And I swore that when I left the Service someday, I'd build a bonfire with all my suits and never wear another one. Stupid way to dress.”
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