“What do you mean?”
“Did you see the way he glared at us? As if he hated us? Hell, it was his fault he bumped into us, not ours.”
“I didn’t notice.” She eyed Holly’s abstract expression curiously. “I just thought he had nice brown eyes.”
“Green,” she said automatically.
“Were they?”
Holly grinned. “You know they were. And don’t worry—he’s not my type.”
“I’ve never figured out what exactly is your type,” Maggie said.
Holly smiled, her dazzling, serene smile, and the captain flashed her a startled returning smile as they stepped aboard. “Neither have I,” she said sweetly.
Timothy Seamus Flynn pushed the heavy china plate away from him and belched quietly. The rare roast beef lay congealing in fat, and he eyed it curiously, contemplating the nature of dead meat. He was sitting in Champignons, a very posh, very private gambling club in the heart of London, where he intended to throw a great deal of money away at the gaming tables. Whether he came away richer or poorer made little difference to him. He’d made more money than he expected on his latest undertaking, enough money to throw around for a good long time.
Not that he was going to do that. A few nights of rich British food and rich British pussy and then he’d head back to Northern Ireland with what was left of Sybil Bennett’s jewels. Explosives cost money, and while it was a constant battle between his own expensive tastes and his devotion to the cause, it was time for the cause to win out for a bit. In a couple of days.
He belched again, and he could taste the beef blood on his tongue. He smiled lazily, drained the cognac, and headed for the gaming tables.
Randall shifted his long legs and grimaced at the darkness outside the plane. He hadn’t had much choice when it came to night flights to London, and this particular airline came with seats so jammed together that his six-foot-plus frame could barely squeeze into the classless flight. The food had been worse than usual, and there was a baby crying unceasingly three rows behind him. He swore beneath his breath, using words he hadn’t even thought of in years, and the savage, fluent cursing soothed some of his temper. He had five more hours to go, five more hours crammed into this tourist-laden airplane, and then he could concentrate on what was foremost in his mind: finding Timothy Flynn.
There was no guarantee that Maggie would appreciate the gesture, no guarantee at all. But since their last, hostile meeting when she’d flatly told him he was second best and she wouldn’t settle for him, he’d been waiting for the right moment. Presenting her with her mother’s attacker might be just the right touch. Better than candy and flowers any time.
He shifted uncomfortably, staring out into the rainy night, and wondered where Maggie was at that moment. If he knew her, she was already on her way to London herself. She wouldn’t be counting on anyone else to find Flynn. And she certainly wouldn’t be counting on Randall.
But he’d find Flynn. And he’d find Maggie. And then, just maybe, he’d find some peace of mind.
Customs was easy enough, with all the holiday traffic. Maggie managed her innocent calm as the officials made a cursory inspection of her luggage, of her makeup case with the hidden gun, before gesturing her onward while they dealt with Holly’s mountain of suitcases. There were times when her sister’s proclivity for fancy clothing had its uses.
Maggie stood there patiently, her own modest suitcase at her feet, when her senses suddenly became very alert. She didn’t whip around, didn’t move, didn’t even risk a furtive glance over her shoulder. She just stood there, absorbing the feel of hostile eyes boring into her narrow back, burning her vulnerable, exposed nape. And then she moved across to Holly, who was busy dazzling the Customs inspector, and touched her lavender silk arm.
“We’re being watched,” she murmured. “Have any idea who it could be?”
Holly turned, her face wonderfully bland as her magnificent eyes swept limpidly over the bustling tourists before resting on Maggie. “Yup,” she said succinctly. “Green Eyes.”
“What was he doing?”
“Just standing there with the London Times, leaning against a pillar and trying to look innocent. Except he was glaring at me again.”
“Maybe you remind him of his ex-wife,” Maggie suggested, inwardly pleased at Holly’s deft handling of the situation.
“Maybe,” she said with a grin. “Or maybe he just hates beautiful women.”
“I love your modesty.”
“You love my honesty,” Holly shot back. “Are you going to call the hospital? This may take me awhile.” She flashed another brilliant smile at the customs official wading through the fourth suitcase. The bemused official smiled back.
Maggie nodded. “See if he follows me.”
The row of telephones were well within sight of the customs tables. Green Eyes was lucky, he could watch them both from his vantage point with the London Times shielding him. At that moment he seemed far more interested in Holly than her sister, a fact Maggie noticed without a trace of rancor. Holly was absolutely right, she thought as she dealt with the vagaries of transatlantic telephones. He was staring at her with intense dislike, if not outright hatred.
Such animosity was unnerving and completely unexpected. As far as Maggie knew, Holly had no enemies. If she lived a butterfly existence, the very rootlessness that kept involvement away also kept hatred away. There were no deep emotions, either negative or positive, to interfere with her admittedly shallow existence.
Could the man be Flynn? He hardly seemed Sybil’s type. He was too sturdy, too pugnacious, too lacking in charm or beauty to appeal to someone of Sybil’s exacting tastes. Of course, his eyes were quite beautiful, but Sybil was more into handsome faces and broad backs. No, it couldn’t be Flynn, and Flynn worked alone, without accomplices. Besides, Holly would have recognized him.
Maybe he was just a nutcase, a random psycho who preyed on beautiful women. Holly’s face was famous enough if one was a reader of Vogue or Elle. Somehow Maggie doubted Green Eyes was into high fashion.