There were at least half a dozen men crowded around him. Similarly well-dressed, similarly well-groomed, an army of yuppie gangsters. And they were all staring straight at Mack and his companion.
“What the hell are we going to do?” Mack said, more to himself than to her, and she could hear the ragged edge of desperation in his raw voice. It had been one complication too many, but it gave Maggie just the chance she needed.
“They’re not going to shoot us in broad daylight,” she said. “They certainly won’t want to make a fuss.”
“No. But with that many reinforcements he’ll have no trouble getting us out of here without anyone looking twice,” he said wearily. “And I don’t think customs is going to take us back.”
“No, I doubt it,” Maggie agreed. “So there’s only one thing we can do.”
Mack just looked at her as the crowds threaded their way around them. “And what’s that?”
She grinned. “Take off your clothes.”
“Maggie, in another time or place that would be a terrific idea, but I don’t think it’s going to help matters right now.”
“Sure it is,” she said cheerfully. “Do as I say. I’m about to save your butt.” And she began to unbutton her shabby, sweat-stained shirt and talk very loudly in Danish.
It took Mack only another moment to catch on. And then he began to undo his own shirt, never looking toward their reception committee by the security gate.
“This may or may not get us out of this,” Maggie said in the fluent Danish she used with her father, “but we stand a good chance of being arrested before Mancini can get his hands on us. And if we’re arrested, we may end up being stuck in jail on sus
picion of murder, but at least you won’t be heading to Switzerland on your own, my friend.” She dropped her shirt on the floor, then reached for her bra. Thank heavens for her Scandinavian blood, which didn’t allow for false modesty, she thought, then said it aloud in Danish.
Mack, not understanding a word of this, nodded sagely and said “Jawohl.” His shirt ended on the floor, and he reached for his belt. A moment later he dropped his trousers, to stand there in his glorious turquoise Calvin Klein briefs.
“Jeg ilsker dig,” Maggie said, laughter and tenderness suddenly overwhelming her. “Jeg ilsker dig, Mack.” I love you, damn it all. How did that happen? It must have been when I wasn’t looking, she thought, and continued to babble on.
The briefs were about to follow Mack’s jeans, and Maggie’s own pants were unzipped when the airport police arrived.
“Here, now, you can’t do that,” a very Irish-looking airport cop protested, scooping up the clothes from the floor and trying to drape them around Maggie’s nude torso.
She smiled brightly at him, babbling in Danish. “I happen to love that man over there in the Jockey shorts,” she said, looking innocent. “And if you don’t arrest us, there isn’t going to be much left of him to love.”
“Jawohl,” Mack said solemnly, tugging at the waistband of his briefs as another policeman was trying to pull them up.
The Irish-looking cop, Officer Ryan, his nameplate proclaimed, was sweating at this point. “Come on, lady, don’t you speak English?”
“It’s a slow death to be trampled to death by geese,” Maggie said in Danish, remembering her Scandinavian grandmother’s favorite saying. “Arrest us, for Christ’s sake.” Mancini was still watching, waiting.
Officer Ryan was still sweating. “Come on, lady, gimme a break.”
There was no help for it. Maggie threw off the shirt he’d been trying to drape around her and stepped out of her jeans, taking her underwear with it. Ryan gulped, threw the shirt back around her, and started cursing.
“Okay, lady, you and your friend asked for it. You have the right to remain silent …”
Maggie stopped her babbling, pulled her pants back up, and caught Mack’s eyes. The stubbornness had vanished; they were warm with laughter. “Jeg ilsker dig,” she said one last time, reveling in the chance to say it, delighting that he couldn’t possibly know that the mighty had fallen.
“Ich liebe dich,” he said in his inappropriate German. And it didn’t take someone with Maggie’s gift for languages to know what he was saying to her. I love you, whether in German or in Danish, was only too easy to understand. And she could only hope it was a coincidence that made Mack say that to her. Perhaps it was the only German he knew, apart from jawohl. But somehow she doubted it.
Officer Ryan had managed to get a shirt back around her. It was Mack’s shirt, but that was a minor problem. The turquoise briefs were covered, and Ryan’s partner had brought out the handcuffs. Maggie stood there tranquilly enough as they handcuffed the two of them together, and she allowed herself a small glance at Mancini. All she saw was his narrow, beautifully tailored back as he left the airport, surrounded by his army.
She looked back at the handcuffs binding her to Mack, then up into his eyes. “Get out of this one, Mack,” she muttered under her breath. “I dare you.”
nineteen
Officer Ryan leaned against the door and glared at the unrepentant two. He’d brought them to a small, windowless room on the lower floor of the Honduro Airways building, dispatched his partner to phone in, and now he stood there glowering, his forehead still shiny with sweat.
Maggie casually began to button Mack’s shirt with her unhandcuffed hand. He’d taken their wallets, credit cards, identification and all, and his pink complexion had turned bright red when he realized his prisoners weren’t crazy foreigners at all. But he hadn’t asked a question or said a word apart from ordering them to sit quietly at the conference table in the air-conditioned little room.