Darkness Before the Dawn (Maggie Bennett 2)

She sat very still in the close confines of the rattling Fiat. “No,” she said finally, “it doesn’t.”

So where was his sense of satisfaction at making her see things as they were? Why wasn’t he pleased that he’d stripped her of her tentative illusions once more? “Good,” he forced himself to say, his voice light. “I want you to see things clearly.”

“I think I see things very clearly, Randall,” she said, her voice still and calm and very certain. For one rash moment, he wondered whether it would be worth trying. Whether he could trick her into thinking he was worth loving. But as swiftly as the thought came, he dismissed it. His illusions were long gone; such thoughts were only tempting pipe dreams.

“I’m going to take a short cut through the next field,” Leopold said from the front seat. “When I get to the bridge, I’ll slow down long enough for you both to jump out. There’s a row of abandoned houses there. The two of you hide while I try to draw Wadjowska away.”

“Will you be all right?” Maggie leaned toward the front seat, concern deep in her voice. Randall felt an unexpected surge of jealousy.

“Sure thing, miss,” he replied cheerfully. “They haven’t caught me yet, and they won’t this time, either. Hold on tight.”

He turned the wheel hard, and then they were racketing across the field at a dangerous pace. The bright lights of the pursuing car were no longer visible behind the turn in the road. Moments later, they turned back onto the rutted road, and Leopold slowed down to a crawl.

Randall saw the bridge looming up in the moonlit darkness, and without further hesitation he grabbed Maggie’s wrist and opened the door. “Good luck,” he said tersely, and jumped out, dragging Maggie with him.

They landed on their feet, but just barely. The Fiat sped up and zoomed down the road, and the two of them began a breathless run toward a cluster of buildings that looked more like shacks than houses.

The moon was bright overhead, illuminating their path, illuminating their silhouettes. The sound of the pursuing sedan roared across the field; its headlights swept over the landscape.

“Keep down,” Randall muttered, his hand still clamped like a manacle around Maggie’s wrist.

“I am, damn you,” she shot back. “I’d run a lot better if you’d let go of my wrist.”

“Forget it. I don’t want to lose you.” He stopped short, grabbed her, and shoved her down into the dirt, covering her body with his. The strong beam from the headlights illuminated the spot where they had been standing moments before.

They lay quietly, barely daring to breathe, waiting for all traces of the sedan to be gone. It seemed to take hours although it was less than a minute.

It was a warm night. A soft summer breeze floated through the trees above them and the moon shone down on their entwined, motionless figures. Some other time, some other night, Randall thought, wanting to draw her against him, wanting to tip her mouth up to his.

But that wouldn’t happen. The woman lying motionless beneath him hated him—when she wasn’t trying to turn him into some plaster saint. And he’d sworn to himself that he wasn’t going to touch her until he had to. One day at a time, like an alcoholic keeping away from the drink that he craved. If he could just get through Gemansk without her. …

The secret police were long gone but still they lay there. He wondered if she could feel his erection, wondered if the warm night breeze were responsible for the hardness of her nipples against his chest. And then he pulled away, rising in one fluid movement and holding out his hand for her.

“Let’s go,” he said, his voice even and unmoved.

She put her hand in his, and he felt her shudder as he pulled her upright. It was a shudder of pain. “Are you all right?”

“Fine,” she said flatly. “Let’s get out of this damned moonlight. Which house do you fancy?”

“House? Hovel, don’t you mean?”

“Now isn’t the time to be fastidious. As long as we don’t have to share it with rats, I’ll take anything.”

“You’ll be sharing it with me.”

She looked at him, her eyes bright in the moonlight, the rest of her face shadowed. “You’re not a rat, Randall. No matter how hard you try to convince me.”

“No, I’m an absolute prince,” he drawled.

“I wouldn’t say that, either. I haven’t decided what you are,” she added, cocking her head to one side. Her hair was silver in the moonlight, rumpled around her shadowed, beautiful face, and he wanted to bury his mouth in that hair.

“Let me know when you figure it out,” he said in his coolest voice. “We’ll take the middle hovel.”

She nodded. “I’ll do that. The middle hovel it is.”

The hut was dark, too dark to see more than the outlines of furniture. There was a narrow, sagging bed in one corner of the one-room building, and a huge closet-cupboard, a fireplace filled with trash and rubble, and a three-legged table leaning against the wall. The windows were long gone; the openings let in enough moonlight to ease Maggie’s momentary panic. She looked around her as Randall shut the door behind them.

“Home sweet home,” she said.