He laughed, a silent, gentle little laugh. “Nothing’s better than sex, Maggie. How long has it been since you cried?”
“A lifetime,” she answered. “I’ve destroyed your suit.”
“It’s supposed to look rumpled.”
“I’ve been an idiot.”
“Yes,” he agreed.
She lay there in silence for a long while, letting her body rest against his. Never had she felt so peaceful, so trusting. She could tell him anything, and it would be all right. She closed her eyes, letting her hands catch his. “I don’t want to be in love with you,” she said.
“I know that.” His voice held no emotion but acceptance.
She paused. “But it doesn’t seem to matter whether I want to or not, does it?”
“You tell me.”
“I love you, Mack. I can’t fight it anymore. I love you, I’m in love with you, and I’m in deep trouble,” she said gloomily. “I feel like a witch who’s lost her powers.”
“Maggie, how many times do I have to tell you—you don’t have to be strong all the time? You’re allowed to feel things like everybody else.”
“I don’t want to hurt like everybody else.” There was no disguising the fear in her words.
He laughed, a gentle, warm sound that almost reassured her. “Trust me, Maggie. Just trust me.”
twenty-one
Damn Mack, she thought sleepily, burrowing deeper into the pillow. He’s put the television on again. How did he expect her to sleep with all that noise in the background? Two heated male voices, arguing away …
In English. Maggie’s eyes flew open. She was lying on the bed with the bedspread pulled over her, her brain still fuzzy with her exhausted sleep and the aftermath of her brush with death. The shadows on the wall were dark and ominous, the voices low and angry. Slowly Maggie sat up, peering through the dimly lit room.
“You’re awake,” Jeffrey Van Zandt said flatly, moving into the light. “Your bodyguard here wouldn’t let me wake you up, and we’ve been standing here for half an hour making the most unbelievable small talk. How are you, darling?”
The whole thing had taken on the quality of a nightmare, Maggie decided. There was Van Zandt, his preppy-perfect looks making him resemble a young William F. Buckley; that charming smile on his even, patrician features; his Ralph Lauren shirt faded to just the right shade; his linen trousers perfectly wrinkled; the sleeves of his well-tailored jacket shoved up his arms. It took an experienced eye to notice the bulge of a well-made shoulder holster under that jacket, and Maggie had experienced eyes.
She tossed the bedspread to one side and swung her feet to the floor. A wave of dizziness washed over her, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten for almost twenty-four hours, but not a trace of it showed in her face. “I’m just fine, Jeffrey,” she said politely. “A bit tired, but then we’ve been running halfway around the world recently. You’ve certainly led us on a merry chase.”
Van Zandt smiled, flashing all his orthodontically perfect teeth. “You’ve outdone yourself, Maggie. I never thought you’d get this far. I’m glad to see you’ve enjoyed yourself along the way.” His glance trailed down Maggie’s front, and her eyes followed his, noting that Mack had left her shirt unbuttoned.
Mack moved past Van Zandt and sat down on the bed beside her, perfectly at ease. “We’ve had our moments,” he drawled in his raspy voice. “But don’t think you’re going to get much gratitude from either of us.” His eyes met hers for a brief moment, and one hand reached out and did up her buttons. The casual sexiness of it took her breath away, momentarily distracting her attention from Van Zandt. But then his hand left her, and the moment might never have existed. Except for the lingering warmth on her skin.
Van Zandt shrugged, taking one of the chairs without asking and switching on the light. The bright glare only illuminated his bland good looks, and the nightmare deepened. “You win some, you lose some. Personally, I think Maggie looks a hell of a lot better than she has for a long time. You’ve been good for her, Mack. Much better for her than Peter Wallace.”
“Why did you kill him, Jeffrey?” Maggie went straight to the point. “And what in God’s name do you want from us?”
“I’m sorry about Peter, I really am. But he gave me no choice. I hadn’t realized Third World Causes was quite so efficient. He was able to trace the drug deal directly back to me. He made the mistake of confronting me with it, and I had no choice but to … uh, silence him,” he said delicately. “I had expected it would be very neat—the police would arrest Mack and Mancini would see that he came to a quick end in some Houston jail. I hadn’t counted on you, Maggie, I’m afraid.”
Mack sent her a warm look that took some of the nightmare quality away. “That was a mistake on your part, Van Zandt. One should never underestimate Maggie.” And he reached out and caught her hand.
Van Zandt’s lip curled, and some of the preppy charm faded. “True love is so inspiring.” He yawned. “And you just may get your chance to live happily ever after.”
“That would be nice,” Mack said gravely. “You want to tell us how? What is it you want from us, Van Zandt?”
“First of all, you can forget about Hamilton and the Company’s plans to trip me up. You’ll find that I have protection in high places, very high places indeed. If you handed me over to either one of those two gentlemen, I’d be out so fast your heads would spin. So don’t waste our time, okay, dearies?”
“Jeffrey, all we want is for you to leave us alone,” Maggie said. “Call off all your nasty little friends, and Mack will keep his mouth shut. He doesn’t give a damn if the rebels and Mancini control all the drug traffic in the western hemisphere. Just call them off, and we’ll all be happy.”
“They don’t control the drug traffic in the western hemisphere, Maggie,” Van Zandt said in a gentle voice. “A Belgian gentleman named Hercule Mersot is the head of a syndicate that runs seventy-five percent of the world’s drug traffic. Mancini answers to him, believe it or not. If the rebels want to deal drugs, they answer to him. And I, I must confess, answer to him.”