Holly’s hand shook as she let herself back into her hotel room. She didn’t even bother to glance at the bed, to see whether Ian’s leather suitcase had made a reappearance. She knew it hadn’t. She shut the door behind her, fastened the chain, and headed straight for the bathroom.
Once there, her misery-induced nausea passed, and she was left staring at the spotless commode and bidet with something less than pleasure. “God damn it,” she said out loud, and the tiled bathroom provided a pleasant echo. She sat back on her heels beside the john and tried it again. “Damn it to hell,” a little louder, and the sound bounced off the walls. She kicked off her high-heeled Charles Jourdan shoes, wiggled her silk-covered toes, and leaned back against the marble bathtub. In the circumstances there was only one thing to do. She’d call down to room service, have them send up a bottle of Amaretto and a box of chocolates, and spend the next few hours drinking and eating and singing in the bathroom.
Sir Alfred had been more than kind. More than helpful. He’d sent his willowy young aide scurrying after information while the two of them had enjoyed a high British tea, complete with Hu Kwa and real scones with Scottish marmalade, until Tavistock reappeared with the information that effectively wiped out Holly’s appetite. Ian Andrews was no longer a member of British Army Intelligence, and hadn’t been for six months. He’d received the British equivalent of a dishonorable discharge arising out of an incident when h
e was stationed in Northern Ireland. He’d let a known terrorist escape, a terrorist who’d been linked to bombings and ambushes that had resulted in the death of more than forty people in the last three years.
“Was the terrorist Tim Flynn?” Holly had questioned, her stomach burning with rage and disbelief.
Tavistock shook his marcelled blond hair. “No. It was a woman named Maeve O’Connor. Apparently she’s his half sister. And the man spent a great part of his childhood in Londonderry—half his friends are now members of the IRA. Including Timothy Seamus Flynn.”
“Did the army think he was helping them?” Sir Alfred demanded, his beetled white brows bristling.
“I don’t believe so, sir,” said his aide. “But they felt, given his connection with various criminals, that his integrity might be compromised. He was offered a post in the Falklands but he declined.”
“Well, well, young lady, does that answer your questions?” Sir Alfred demanded, clearly eager to get back to their light flirtation.
Holly had summoned up her best smile. “Some of them,” she replied, forcing herself to swallow the cold tea.
She stretched out on the bathroom floor, reviewing her information. It explained quite a bit, as a matter of fact. Ian Andrews knew what Tim Flynn looked like because he grew up with him. Apparently he’d taken on a private vendetta against the man, one that the British army failed to sanction. Rather than accept exile to the Falklands, he’d decided to go after Flynn himself.
At least, that was the most palatable explanation. Another, far less pleasant one, was that he was an undercover member of the IRA, hand in glove with Flynn and his ilk. But that didn’t make sense. He would never have gotten involved with her, would have kept his distance from Maggie and Randall, led them away from Ireland, from Beirut, from Rome. Unless he’d been setting them up for Flynn.
But no, that was impossible. If he was helping Flynn he wouldn’t have rescued her from Flynn’s bloodthirsty clutches yesterday.
But where the hell was he? And why hadn’t he told her the truth?
Of course, they’d never done much talking. They’d been too busy fighting and then too busy doing other, inventive things with their mouths …
It started as a polite knocking on the door, quickly escalating into a noisy pounding. Holly pulled herself to her feet, leaving the doubtful haven of the bathroom and heading toward the door. She didn’t even allow herself the momentary fantasy that Ian had returned. For one thing, he had his own key. For another, he wasn’t coming back. Not with Tim Flynn still out there.
“What took you so long?” Maggie didn’t look much better than she did, Holly thought as her sister rushed into the room. Her face was pale, her mouth slightly swollen, and her aquamarine eyes were shadowed. Randall followed, and Holly instantly noticed the bite mark on the side of his neck. Apparently her sister had been indulging in the same sort of dangerous exercise she had. They were Sybil’s daughters, all right. Always choosing the wrong men.
“I was in the bathroom,” Holly answered truthfully enough.
“How’s Sybil?”
“Not great. She took a turn for the worse a couple of days ago, but Kate says she’s holding her own right now.”
“I guess that’s better than nothing.” Maggie dropped down on the bed closest to the door, Ian’s unused bed, and kicked off her Nikes.
“Where’s Ian?” Randall was leaning against the closed door, his face impassive, at least half of his attention riveted on Maggie.
“Gone.”
“Gone where?”
Holly managed a creditable shrug. “Who knows? He’s been lying to us.”
Randall didn’t even blink. “About being in the army?”
Holly glared at him. “I should have known you men would stick together,” she snapped. “And not just about him being kicked out of the army. What about his connection with the IRA? With Maeve O’Connor and Tim Flynn himself? All hell has been breaking loose since we left Beirut. I nearly got butchered by our quarry.”
“You saw Flynn?” Maggie cut straight to the heart of the matter.
“I saw Flynn. He was registered at the Cielo under the name Robert Browning.”
“The bastard,” Maggie breathed. “Thank God Sybil’s so predictable. Every man in her life has been Robert Browning to her Elizabeth Barrett since she made the damned movie. So you and Ian went after him and he got away?”