Honeymoon Hotel

by Bretton, Barbara

  He had the strange feeling global nuclear disarmament would probably be easier.

  #

  "Just bring me a pot of coffee -- no wimpy decaf either -- and a banker's light," Maggie said to the aide Alistair had provided for her.

  "I have a crypto background," the young man said, shifting nervously from one foot to the other. "I'd be glad to stick around and --"

  "No, thank you," Maggie snapped. She looked up and tried to soften her words with a smile. "I work best alone."

  She was drowning in information and well-meaning help. All she needed was twelve hours of uninterrupted work and, with a little luck, the system would be back up just in time for the president's arrival.

  If she remembered right, output relays were a frequent trouble spot, and she'd quickly brought the system down and swapped the old output relay for a new one.

  A simple solution, but in the past, simple solutions had always proved best. Maggie was usually better at cracking codes than maintaining equipment.

  The crypto codes changed daily, and each morning Maggie drove to the center of the town with a huge high-tech tape recorded on the seat next to her and taped five minutes of random street-corner noise.

  That street-corner noise -- impossible to predict or duplicate -- would be translated into a series of frequencies that would provide the key to the crypto code being that day.

  Who would have thought the sound of The Mountain Greenery's delivery truck and the blare of Alice Niedermeyer's horn would figure in world affairs?

  It had been years since she'd seen any of this equipment, and those years had brought changes and modifications that made her feel as if she were swimming against the tide.

  Only the McBride gift kept her from being swept out to sea.

  Alistair was going out of his way to be solicitous of her feelings, but she found it difficult to manage more than a civil response to his questions.

  Whenever she saw him she thought of John, and she wanted to haul off and give her uncle a good right hook. But, even though that right hook would be immensely satisfying, it wouldn't change a thing.

  She was here in this arid room, surrounded by more high-tech equipment than even the Pentagon had at its disposal.

  John was in Bermuda doing who-knew-what with she-didn't-want-to-know-whom.

  Being a hopeless romantic was one thing; being played for a fool was something else. And the John Tyler she'd read about in Time and Newsweek and Forbes wasn't a man who would take kindly to being played for a fool.

  The figures on the screen in front of her swam before her eyes.

  The aide came back in and put a tray on the end of her desk.

  "Where should I put the lamp?" he asked. "If you need it for paperwork, maybe you should --"

  She covered her face with her hands, but the tears seeped through her fingers. "Just leave it," she managed. "I'll take care of it."

  "No problem," he said, relentlessly helpful. "Just point me to where you want it."

  She pointed to the door.

  "There's no outlet over there, but I could run an extension and --" Maggie looked up at him and he stopped. "You want me to leave?"

  "Good thinking," she said, grabbing for a Kleenex.

  "You're crying." Obviously an unknown concept to someone in the organization.

  "I have hay fever."

  He looked at her curiously and then brightened. "It's the season for it," he observed. Certainly no professional would let something as unruly as emotion get in the way of the job at hand. "I'll bring you something for it."

  The young man hurried from the office, and as Maggie got up to lock the door behind him she didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

  So what she did was get back to work.

  #

  "I thought you were supposed to be in Bermuda," Shawna, John's assistant, said as he strode into the inner office.

  "I thought so too."

  "First your friend, now you. This place is getting possible."

  He paused on his way to the master file cabinet. "What friend?"

  "Steve? Dave? One of your hoodlum buddies."

  It took him a second to zero in on the name. "You mean Dave, the replacement drummer?"

  "Whatever," Shawna said with a shrug. "He came back last night. Said he'd left his wallet behind in his room."

  That explained Dave's quick getaway after the concert.

  "What are you doing?" Shawna tried to block his access to the files, but he was too quick for her. "It took me a month to put them back in order after your last sneak attack."

  "I don't have time to talk about it," he said, yanking out the top-drawer and dumping the contents at his feet.

  "Do you mind telling me what you're looking for?"

  "Blueprints."

  "Blueprints are kept in the safe deposit vault."

  "Not these."

  "Do you mind being more specific? Maybe I can help."

  He crouched down, sifting through the ankle-deep papers. "Do you remember the investigation we did into The White Elephant when we were thinking of buying the property?"

  "Vaguely," said Shawna. "Once you found out she wasn't interested, you tabled the idea."

  "I'm untabling it," he said, yanking out drawer number two and tossing the contents on top of the first batch. "I need those blueprints."

  "Why didn't you say so?" Shawna stepped lightly over the papers, opened the top drawer of the map chest and extracted a thick, flat envelope.

  "Okay," he said. "So now I feel like a total ass."

  "Your words not mine."

  He took the envelope from her. "Remind me to raise your salary."

  "The paperwork will be on your desk tonight," she said as she headed for the door. "Feel free to add on a Porsche while you're at it."

  John nodded absently and ripped open the envelope. At that point he'd add on a Porsche, a Bentley and a private jet if the information he needed was here in the blueprints.

  His terror had grown in the three hours since his encounter with the barbed-wire fence and the two goons guarding it. He'd dialed all four business numbers for The White Elephant and Maggie's two private ones, only to come up each time with the recorded message: "This number is temporarily out of service."

  What the hell was going on? Vivid, horrifying images of Maggie being locked in a room somewhere, unable to escape, seared his brain. She was a tough woman, Maggie Douglass was, tough and resourceful. He knew in his gut that if there was any way for her to contact him, she would have.

  And that left only one explanation: she was in big trouble.

  He spread the blueprint on top of his desk and zeroed in on the answer to his prayers.

  There, just as he remembered it, was the underground passageway that would lead him straight to the woman he loved.

  Chapter Eighteen

  "Let me guess," said Holland as she saw the suitcase in Joanna's hallway. "You've been suddenly invited on a madcap romantic weekend with your husband." She stormed into the living room, headed straight for the bar and poured herself a tumbler of Scotch. "Say hello to Alistair for me, will you?"

  Joanna, feigning surprised, followed her into the room. "I'm going to Florida for the weekend to visit Rosie and Bert," she said. "I don't understand why you're so upset."

  "Joanna, Joanna. What am I going to do with you?" She draped herself elegantly on the arm of the couch by the window. "I know you're all going someplace together. I must say you three haven't been as clever as you'd like to believe."

  "Holland, is this your first drink of the day?"

  Holland nodded and took a lingering sip. "Yes, my dear, it is, but I daresay it won't be my last."

  Joanna sat down on the chair opposite her. "I think you've gone mad."

  "You're probably right. Mad with curiosity." She polished off the rest of the Scotch. "What is it, Jo? Are you drug runners? Are you Russian spies? Do you sell secrets to alien visitors in UFOs? For two years I've been trying to figure it out and I still don'
t have a clue."

  "Then for two years you've been wasting your time. Hasn't Alistair explained it to you before?"

  "Naturally," said Holland, "but I'd love for you to explain it to me again."

  "They're financiers."

  Holland barely stifled a snort.

  "They work the international money markets. Alistair deals with men. Ryder deals with machines."

  "Where do you fit in?"

  Joanna's eyes widened. "I'm married to Ryder and fond of Alistair. I work magic with makeup, Holland, not money."

  "It's a good story," Holland said, wondering if she dared face Joanna's wrath and pour herself another Scotch. "It's just that I don't believe a word of it." She leaned forward and pinned her friend with her gaze. "Why is it you always disappear whenever the two of them go off on one of their jaunts?"

  Joanna didn't flinch. "I don't always disappear."

  "I'm afraid you do."

  "Okay, so I went with them to Gstaad last month. Who wouldn't if she had the chance?"

  Holland listed fifteen cities Joanna had had the chance to visit in the last year.

  "I traveled that much?" Joanna asked, seemingly shocked.

  "Those are just the ones I remember," Holland said. "And when you don't go with Ryder outright, you disappear on your own."

  "Suspicion doesn't become you." Joanna tugged the drapes closed, blocking out the view of the city street below. "Besides, I thought you and Alistair were finished. Why all the interest now?"

  Of course Holland had no answer for that. The endless stream of flowers still continued, and so did her longing for the man responsible.

  "Come with me," Joanna said suddenly. "You have this weekend off. We'll visit Bert and Rosie."

  "You're really going to Florida."

  "I said so, didn't I?"

  "And you're inviting me to come with you."

  Joanna made a show of looking around the room. "I think that was me."

  Holland stood up and reached for her purse. "This time I'm calling your bluff. I'll go to Florida with you."

  That is, if the whole trip wasn't mysteriously cancelled before they reached the airport.

  Four hours later a very disappointed Holland Masters deplaned in Fort Lauderdale and kissed a very surprised Rosie Callahan hello.

  "Satisfied?" Joanna whispered as they climbed into the back of Bert's Oldsmobile.

  "For the moment."

  They were a clever lot, she'd grant them that, but one way or another, Holland was going to get to the bottom of this or know the reason why.

  #

  "I'm taking a break." Maggie switched off the computer and scooped up a thick stack of printouts. Her head pounded, her eyes burned, and she was famished. "I've asked that dinner be sent to my room."

  Alistair, who had been working with her on the problem, looked up. "I had hoped we would dine together, Magdalena."

  "No, thank you." She was scrupulously polite. "I'm going to take a nap." Never let it be said she was anything but a lady.

  "You realize the cut happens tonight, don't you?" That was his way of asking if the problem she'd been working on nonstop would be remedied in time

  "Of course I do. That's why we've been working around the clock, isn't it?" World leaders had been arriving since midmorning, and so far they had successfully eluded the press. Rumor had it that the real work on disarmament had been done over the past six months in private negotiations, and that this Summit Meeting was to be the final, face-to-face hammering out of details.

  It was an honor to be part of it, but Maggie still would rather have been in Bermuda with John.

  "I appreciate all you've done," Alistair said.

  She said nothing in return.

  "Maggie." He touched her forearm. She arched a brow, and he quickly dropped his hand. "It will all work out," he said, and she knew it wasn't the crypto equipment he was speaking about. "Trust me on this, please."

  "Trust you?" she said, heading for the door. "I'm afraid not, Alistair."

  The look of sadness on his face lingered with her as she climbed the stairs to her apartment in the tower, past the swarming technicians and operatives and diplomatic attaches all scurrying to command the best position for the weekend. Her heart was hardened against her uncle, and she refused to let any other emotions dilute her righteous anger.

  Not even his invitation to join the dignitaries at dinner tomorrow night was enough to soften her hard feelings.

  She owed him her skills, but she didn't owe him her future, and her future was exactly what he had ruined when he had her kidnapped at the airport.

  Besides, how could she ever explain this to John?

  Sunday morning when the news of the Summit hit the papers, he'd know she'd been involved in something of monumental proportions. There would be questions, a lot of questions, most of which she'd be unable to answer.

  Her past association with PAX was classified information. Rick hadn't known of it. Nor did Rachel or anyone else Maggie was close to.

  But John wasn't Rick. He saw around the corners of her mind. He would know there was more to the choice of The White Elephant as Summit site than a fortuitous arrangement of adjoining cabins.

  Of course, that was assuming John ever spoke to her again which, at the moment, seemed highly unlikely.

  Dinner was waiting for her in her living room and she locked her door. The act struck her as particularly ludicrous since there wasn't a lock on God's earth that could keep a PAX operative out.

  Quickly she stripped off her jeans and sweater, donned her favorite well-worn nightgown and sat down to dinner.

  No matter how she was feeling about PAX and its people, she had to admit they knew how to cook.

  The meals since they'd swooped down on The White Elephant had been superb.

  Maybe if she'd been able to provide meals like this for paying customers she wouldn't have been tempted by PAX's offer.

  The Consomme Madrilene was wonderful. The Caesar salad, incomparable. She lifted the silver lid and stared at the entrée.

  Chicken Kiev.

  So much for dinner.

  She slammed the lid back down and, still hungry, she crawled into bed and pulled the covers over her head.

  #

  Holland winced as she slid her jacket on over her silk dress.

  The Florida sun was vicious. Her back felt raw and blistered, and she thanked God she'd slathered sun block on her face and arms before she'd joined Joanna and the two newlyweds by the pool that afternoon.

  Her director on Destiny was going to be surprised enough when he saw the extra four pounds she'd added. A sunburned face complete with freckles wouldn't do much to help her TV-vixen image.

  She leaned forward to put the finishing touches on her eye makeup when she heard a knock on the guest room door.

  "You decent, honey?"

  "What passes for decent these days, Rosie?" she asked, opening the door. "Sorry if I kept you waiting. I'll just grab my bag and --"

  Rosie laughed. "We're not in any rush. I just came to tell you there's something in the living room you should see."

  Holland looped her bag over her shoulder and followed Rosie into the hall. "Don't tell me Joanna is working on another new makeup technique," she said with a groan. "Having breakfast this morning with a zombie Martian was enough for one weekend."

  "It's not Joanna," Rosie said, practically dragging Holland toward the living room. "Just you wait until you see this."

  How did Rosie manage to still sound so enthusiastic about life? Holland was half her age and she felt old and tired.

  She glanced around the room.

  Joanna, looking perfectly normal, was crouched down near the television, watching another of those boring news programs she'd been addicted to all weekend. What on earth was wrong with that woman? It seemed as if she'd switched from Entertainment Tonight to The MacNeil-Lehrer Report without a backward glance.

  She turned and looked toward the foyer, and that's when she saw i
t.

  Bert, a huge smile wreathing his cherubic face, was standing in the middle of more baskets of long-stemmed American Beauties than you'd find in the Rose Parade.

  Her heart twisted dangerously.

  "For you, honey!" Rosie pulled her over to the huge baskets. "Pretty nifty, isn't it? There's a dozen in every basket."

  "A baker's dozen," Holland said, fingering the familiar ivory card.

  She caught Joanna's eye across the room, but her friend just smiled absently and turned her attention back to her beloved news report.

  "They're from that English fellow, aren't they?" Rosie prodded. "The one with the nifty Rolls-Royce?"

  "Yes," Holland said. "But we're finished, Rosie. Kaput. Finito. Sayonara."

  Rosie hooted with laughter. "The gent is sending you roses and you don't want to see him? Honey, I'm eighty-two years old, and I'm here to tell you playing hard to get never works."

  Holland glared over at Joanna who was oblivious of what was going on. "I don't know what our friend has been feeding you, Rosie, but I'm not playing hard to get. Alistair has his life and I have mine and, unfortunately, that's the way it's destined to stay.

  "I hear what you're saying, Holland, but I just don't buy it," said Rosie sagely. "You left him a forwarding address, didn't you?"

  "No, of course not," Holland snapped, tossing the ivory card into her bag. "Why would I leave him a --" The words died in her throat.

  Her decision to come to Florida with Joanna had been so spur-of-the-moment she hadn't even had time to pack.

  Not even her agent knew where to find her.

  She plucked one of the blood-red roses and touched it to her cheek.

  Alistair Chambers, however, was another story.

  #

  Something small and silent whizzed past John's face and he hoped like hell it wasn't a bat.

  For thirty minutes he'd been picking his way through the crumbling passageway that went from beneath the old barn cum antique shop at the edge of his property to the hidden staircase behind the west wall of The White Elephant.