He wanted to crawl down beside her and take her into his arms. He wanted to sleep in the popcorn with her, just holding her, listening to her breathing, feeling her warmth. But he sat where he was, watching.
The first VCR clicked off, leaving a fuzzy white television screen. Five minutes later, the second one followed suit. The darkened room was eerie in the flickering light of the television sets. He crossed the room on silent feet, turned off both sets, then moved back to the sofa to turn on the small lamp. She was afraid of the dark—Willis had told him that with great glee. She never had been before, and he had to wonder what had caused that uncharacteristic phobia. He knew it predated Pulaski, and it mystified him—as did everything about her.
There was no way in hell he was going to carry her into her room. She’d have to sleep on the floor and deal with the aches tomorrow. At least it would give her something to think about while she was cursing him.
And curse him she would. Because when she woke up tomorrow morning, he’d be long gone. Now that he knew how the information was being passed, he needed to find out who was receiving it. Who was the intermediary between Stoneham Studios and Red Glove Films? And once he found that intermediary, it would take a very short time to uncover the rest of the mess.
The easiest, fastest way to do that was to go to the source. Back to Eastern Europe, back to Gemansk. He still had more than enough contacts, and although his guilt over Vasili’s death had kept him away for six years, he knew it wouldn’t take him long to renew those connections.
He looked down at Maggie’s sleeping figure. Her thick blond hair obscured her face, obscured the eyes that would be blazing with fury tomorrow when she found he’d gone. He couldn’t figure out why the hell she’d started flirting with him tonight. She probably didn’t know, either, but it was going to make for a very uncomfortable few nights until he came back and found out why.
It was almost five A.M. Flights to Eastern Europe were notoriously poor, but if he were lucky, today would be one of those days when an airplane was headed in that direction, and he’d be in Gemansk and have the answers he needed before the weekend was over.
In the meantime, there was one last thing he had to do, just to prove to himself that he could, and then stop. He walked silently over to Maggie’s sleeping body and squatted down beside her. Very gently, he reached out and pushed the sheaf of hair away from her face. His long fingers caressed her so lightly, she would never feel it. And then he rose and moved away before he could think twice about it.
The door shut silently behind him as he stepped out into the hall. Maggie lay in the deserted apartment, her eyes wide open in the semidarkness. Her instincts were alert, her brain was wide awake. Slowly she pulled herself into a sitting position, shook her cramped muscles, and folded her legs underneath her. “What the hell are you trying to pull this time, Randall?” she muttered out loud. She already knew the answer.
She’d stake her reputation, her career, and her sister’s peace of mind that Randall had decided to fly to Gemansk. Leaving her behind, of course. Damn the man. Damn the sneaking, low-living, cowardly bum.
Well, she was going to take that bet. She was going to call the airport and book the first flight for Gemansk, throw everything she could in an overnight bag, and head straight for O’Hare. If Randall wasn’t there, if she’d overestimated his resourcefulness, so much the better. She could find the answers she needed just as easily as he could.
But he’d be there—and he’d be none too pleased to see her. The thought was absolutely delicious.
Slovak Airlines had a small, dingy corner in the northeast terminal at O’Hare. Business was far from brisk when Maggie arrived in the late afternoon—the only other customer was a tall, well-dressed gentleman with his back to her. She moved up on him silently and waited with all the patience of a saint as he bought a round-trip, first-class ticket on the flight leaving in just over an hour. He was completely oblivious to her as he dealt with credit cards and window seats with his customary efficiency. For a moment she considered tugging on his jacket like an importunate child, but she resisted the impulse. It would be much more fun to see the look of shock when he turned and saw her.
Trust Randall to travel first class, she thought with a grimace, hoping she had enough credit left on her Visa card to cover her costs. She just might have to suffer along with the peasants in tourist class while Randall swilled champagne with the nobility. Why the hell did a Marxist country have an airline with classes? she thought self-righteously.
Her patience was wearing thin as she waited for him to turn. It had been an endless day, waiting for the one flight O’Hare boasted. Kate hadn’t bothered to show up at home, and Bud Willis was nowhere to be found. The anonymous voice at Langley had told her he’d taken a leave of absence, but she didn’t believe that for one minute. When it came right down to it, she was just as glad she hadn’t been able to reach him. It wasn’t that she was adverse to taking information from him; she just wasn’t eager to return the favor.
Randall turned, and she waited with delicious anticipation for his eyes to widen with shock and annoyance and for his mouth to thin with irritation. He looked down at her, raised an eyebrow, and handed her her ticket.
“I got you a window seat,” he said.
She grimaced. “I shouldn’t underestimate you.”
“You don’t. Not by much, at least. And I shouldn’t underestimate you.”
She nodded. “True enough. Know thy enemy.”
“I thought we were partners.”
“For now, Randall. I’m only taking it one day at a time.”
He smiled that faint, wintry smile that seldom reached his stormy eyes. It didn’t reach them now. “That’ll do,” he said.
She looked at him, remembering the surreptitious caress in the darkness before he had left her. And she wondered if she dared trust him even for a day.
twelve
Gemansk hadn’t changed in the last six years; it was still the same depressing, gray industrial town, full of downtrodden, beaten people with lost eyes and pale faces. The moment Maggie stepped off the airplane onto the pitted tarmac, depression settled in around her. Randall strode beside her, and she spared a furtive, curious glance up at him. He was clearly lost in his own thoughts; his face was shuttered and closed. But that was nothing unexpected—he’d never been a man with open emotions. His blue-gray eyes were hooded, and his mouth a thin, grim line. She looked at that mouth, remembering the brief moment of hateful, unwanted passion on her sister’s couch the night before, and looked away, to the squat, cinder-block building that housed the airport. With every ounce of effort she had, she tried to bring forth the memory of Mack, with his smiling eyes and warm, laughing mouth. But he was fading, leaving her almost more bereft now than his actual death had, and she knew with a desperate certainty that there would be a time when she would r
each out for his memory and try to summon him back, and he’d be gone beyond reach, leaving her to Randall’s tender mercies.
“I don’t suppose you made any arrangements,” she said, her voice cold and cranky.
Randall roused himself from his abstraction long enough to smile at her. That smile wasn’t reassuring. “What caused this charming mood? You slept almost the entire trip.”
Actually, she hadn’t. She’d curled up into the cramped, uncomfortable seat that Slovak Airlines considered first class and had shut her eyes rather than have to make conversation with Randall. She’d drifted off for an hour or two as they soared above the clouds, only to wake up with her hand clutching Randall’s immaculate shirt-sleeve. She’d released him immediately, pulling back, and he’d said nothing; he’d merely brushed at the creased linen with an absent hand.