She heard his words with a sickening feeling in the center of her stomach. It didn’t surprise her that he knew—Randall knew everything. He was a very thorough man, and Bud Willis took particular pleasure in his knowledge of her phobia. She wasn’t really surprised that Randall would use that knowledge to terrify her, either.
What surprised her was the look of pain that clouded his eyes as he threatened her with the one thing she wasn’t sure she could withstand.
“I’ll be here when you get back,” she said, her voice low.
He looked at her, measured her response, and then he gave her a short nod. Without another word, he left the room, closing the flimsy door behind him and leaving Maggie to stare after him. Confusion, rage, and determination swamped her as she huddled in the middle of the bed.
What do I want from her? Randall asked himself as he moved down the three flights of stairs in the depressing Gemansk Grande Hotel. A good question, but one that he didn’t have an answer to.
He wanted to see the shadow of fear lifted from those remarkable aquamarine eyes. He wanted her smiling up at him the way she had six years ago with the trust and love that for some masochistic reason he’d destroyed.
He could have told her what had happened. He could have found her in New York and tried to explain. But he’d rebelled against that, had been unwilling to make excuses for himself when she should have taken him on trust, should have known that the decision he’d made had been inevitable. When he’d finally laughed at his own egocentricity and demanded complete faith while offering nothing in return, and when he’d finally accepted the fact that his need for her overshadowed his ego and his overweening pride, it had been too late. She’d been married to her first husband, a useless little wimp. He’d known it wouldn’t last, and he’d bided his time. He waited and waited and waited, and finally his time had come. He had her alone, and yet like some goddamned fool he kept driving her away.
Leopold was waiting in the Fiat, and he whistled as the Gemansk variant of a pretty girl walked by. Once more, Randall felt a clean sweep of relief that Vasili hadn’t died. Enough people were on his conscience already; it was a blessed joy to offload at least one soul.
Leopold looked up and waved at him, his broad mouth creased in a friendly grin. Randall stepped out into the Gemansk sunlight. What did he want from Maggie? What he didn’t deserve and would never own.
Just her body and heart and soul.
Maggie peered out the grimy window into the industrial daylight of Gemansk. The tiny white Fiat roared off into traffic, out of sight.
It was all ridiculously simple. Red Glove Films was listed in the thin, tissuelike phone directory. Maggie stripped off her crumpled suit and high heels and replaced them with an anonymous pair of jeans, an oversize shirt, and her Nikes. She could blend in with anyone, and her clothes wouldn’t interfere if she had to run for it.
She’d be back in the room before Randall returned, and if he didn’t like the fact that his unwanted partner had bested him, that was too damned bad. She’d gotten too used to relying on herself the last few years—she wasn’t about to start being passive now, particularly with Randall. If she wasn’t very careful, he would swallow her up, leaving her empty and hollow and hopelessly dependent.
No, she was going to make a move herself. And then she’d wait for him with the name of the intermediaries between Red Glove Films and Stoneham Studios, and she’d snap her fingers at his disapproval.
That thought made a broad grin light her face as she let herself out of the hotel room. The delightful fantasy kept her cheerful as she walked straight into the arms of the secret police.
fourteen
There were times, Maggie thought, when her own idiocy and gullibility amazed her. As if life could be so simple, she mocked herself, searching for a comfortable position in the dark sedan that was carrying her through the city. No comfortable position seemed possible with her wrists handcuffed behind her back. She leaned back against the seat and shut her eyes for a brief moment, ignoring the dark figure beside her.
How could she have been so stupid? The taxi that pulled up in front of her when she left the dubious security of the Gemansk Grande was just a little too convenient, the driver a little too military, his assurance that he knew how to get to the offices of Red Glove Films just a little too pat. They’d traveled three blocks when he’d pulled over and two men had joined them in the taxi, one in the front, one beside her. The man in the front wore a uniform and carried formidable weapons, the man beside her was in plainclothes.
There’d been a brief, nasty battle, one that had ended with the handcuffs on her wrists and a large welt on her captor’s face. And then she was shoved into a corner as the taxi took off down the street.
She listened to the man beside her regain his temper and his breathing, and she spared a brief glance for his profile. There was a wide red welt against his pale, pasty skin, and his small dark eyes looked like raisins in a suet pudding. He took a deep, calming breath and turned to meet her gaze. His wide, almost casual grin was oddly, horrifically familiar in the dank interior of the taxi.
“So rude, Miss Bennett,” he chided. “When all we wanted to do was give you a proper welcome on your return to Gemansk. You left too abruptly six years ago—and we were delighted you saw fit to visit us once more.”
Maggie just stared at him, at the face she knew but had forgotten along the way. “I believe you have the advantage of me,” she said politely. “In more ways than one. Have we met?”
The man beside her laughed in surprise and admiration. “You Americans. Always so brave. My name is Miroslav Wadjowska. I am second commandant of what you call the secret police. Welcome to Gemansk.”
Maggie inclined her head regally. “You’ve been promoted since last we met, Mr. Wadjowska. Six years ago you were a visa clerk.”
He smiled. “Six years ago I was third commandant of the secret police. You and your friend underestimated us—we knew what you were doing back then.”
“Then why did you let us escape?”
A shadow crossed Miroslav’s face. “A mistake, I’ll grant you.”
“Just one? Randall and I got out separately,” she said.
His face darkened further. “Two mistakes. My men were so intent on catching that little traitor Vasili Baskinski that they let you cross the border and escape our reach.”
“And Randall?”