“Randall.” There was relief in his voice, relief and resignation. “It’s a code thirty-seven, I’m afraid.”
“You sure?”
“What’s a code thirty-seven?” Maggie had demanded, and Randall looked up at her from his position beside Mullen.
“That’s only for senior agents,” Mullen said with a grim smile. “You’ll get her out, Randall?”
“I’ll get her out. Have you got everything you need?”
“I’m set. Take care of her, will you? She’s a good woman.”
Randall had managed a cynical smile. “Now what the hell would I do with a good woman, Jim?”
And Mullen had laughed. “You’ll think of something. Thanks, Maggie.”
She’d stood there, uncertain, exhausted. “Aren’t you coming with us?” She’d been too tired to see the look that had passed between the two men.
“He’s coming later,” Randall said, patting Mullen’s clenched hand and rising to loom over her in the predawn light. “We’ve made special arrangements.”
“Maybe I should wait—” She didn’t even bother to finish the sentence. His hand had clamped down over her wrist, and his face had been remote, implacable.
“Maybe you should come,” he interrupted. “Good-bye, Jim.”
“Good-bye, Randall.” His voice was stronger than it had been in the thirty-six hours she’d been attending him. “Take care, Maggie.”
“You, too.” She’d had no choice but to follow Randall, what with that manaclelike grip on her wrist. She’d climbed into his Mercedes and sunk into the leather seat with mingled relief and doubt.
Randall had said nothing as he started the car and drove out of the graveyard. She allowed herself a furtive glance at him as they drove down the road, then leaned back against the seat. It was out of her hands. There was nothing she could do to fight it, not at that moment. And closing her eyes, she’d fallen asleep, never guessing what they’d left behind in that tiny shack.
But I know now, Maggie thought, stretching her cramped legs out in front of her and pouring herself another glass of Scotch. She knew, and would always remember, exactly what she’d left behind in that cemetery. And she’d remember that Randall had had full knowledge, damn his soul to hell. Holding up her glass, she drank a silent toast to the memory of Jim Mullen.
five
There were few things Randall Carter detested more than hotel rooms. No matter how spotless, no matter how luxurious, they all had a mass-produced feel that left his skin crawling and his spirits edgy.
Not that that was unusual nowadays, he thought, stretching out on the king-size bed that was much too big for one person, even for someone as tall as he was. There were times when it seemed as if he’d spent his entire adult life waiting for something, working for something, only to have it become worthless once he had it in his hands. Except for Maggie Bennett. He hadn’t had a chance to lose interest in her. He’d been careless, damnably careless, and she’d slipped away like a wisp of fog, and during the last six years there’d been no way he could get back to her, to find out why she had this incomprehensible effect on him. Until now.
He could remember the first time he had seen her, standing in Mike Jackson’s office, long and leggy and curiously untouched, like a young colt, with those magnificent aquamarine eyes staring up at him. If he believed in love at all, much less in love at first sight, he would have known what it was that had knocked him sideways. But he didn’t believe in those things; he called it sex, and he was determined to get her.
His wife’s existence was a minor inconvenience that he intended to ignore, as he’d ignored it before. But he’d seen Maggie’s withdrawal when Jackson mentioned her, and he had known it wasn’t going to be easy.
And it wasn’t—which only made him more determined. He was very careful not to hound her. He’d simply appear when she least expected it, making no demands. He’d just watch her, knowing she felt the same pull he felt. Knowing that sooner or later she’d get tired of fighting it, and he’d have her.
He thought he’d have more time. He’d made his plans carefully, baiting his trap, waiting for her to return to Georgetown after her first easy mission. But that easy mission had gone suddenly, horribly awry, and he’d taken off in the dead of night to try to salvage some part of it. And the part he wanted most to salvage had been Maggie Bennett.
He loosened his tie, kicked off the handmade Italian shoes, and sipped the brandy that was older than he was. The hotel room was the best money could buy, but it was barren, anonymous, and empty. Lonely was a word he never used, refused to use, but it was dangerously apt. He took another slow sip of the brandy, leaned back against the feather pillows, and gave himself up to the indulgence of remembering Maggie.
“I don’t feel right about leaving Jim,” she’d said when she’d woken up two hours later. It had been almost six in the morning, and she had looked like a sleepy kitten, rumpled, hungry, and utterly delectable. Randall had always liked sleek, well-groomed women, every hair in place, makeup perfect. Maggie’s wheat-colored blond hair was a tousled mane around her pale face, and when she yawned, stretching with uninhibited abandon, he’d almost driven off the side of the road.
“You didn’t have any choice in the matter,” he said repressively.
She looked up at him. “No, I suppose I didn’t. How long before they pick him up? I hate to think of him alone there when he’s in such pain.”
“They?”
She was bright enough, he had to grant her that. She simply didn’t have much experience with how brutal intelligence work could be. “They,” she repeated. “Your backup people. The ones sent over to rescue us. The ones who are going to get Jim out and get him back to the States and to medical treatment.”
“I’m the only one who was sent over.”