Darkness Before the Dawn (Maggie Bennett 2)

“You know as well as anyone what happened in Gemansk,” he said. “Mullen screwed up, I flew in to get you out, and we spent a week in a squalid little apartment before we split up to make our way home. Those are the essentials.”

“But something’s missing,” Maggie said, determined not to back down this time. “You sent me out expecting me to whore for you and then you disappeared. Don’t you think you owe me an explanation after all these years?”

“Why? You didn’t whore for me, as you so sweetly put it. Wadjowska gave you the visas without soiling your innocent body.”

“How did you know that?”

Randall turned from her. “I know everything that happened in Gemansk six years ago,” he said, his voice curiously lifeless.

“That’s more than I can say. Why don’t you tell me what happened, Randall? You owe me that much.”

“I owe you nothing.”

There was real rancor there, and anger that mystified Maggie. As far as she knew, she was the wronged party, and she’d held that anger inside her for years. “Not after running out on me?” she questioned lightly.

“Damn you, I didn’t run out on you!” he snapped, stripping off his rumpled jacket and throwing it onto the couch. She could see the beginnings of a bruise on his temple, and his high cheekbones were flushed with anger. He glared at her, but Maggie refused to be intimidated.

“Didn’t you? It looked like that to me.”

“Things aren’t always what they seem. I don’t have time for this right now, Maggie. We’re due at your mother’s—”

“My mother can wait. I want to know why you abandoned me in Gemansk. I want to know what that note is talking about. I want to know what the hell happened.”

“I don’t give a damn what you want to know,” Randall said, turning his back on her and heading toward the bedroom. “It’s ancient history, and it doesn’t bear repeating.”

“It’s not ancient history to me,” she cried, racing after him.

He’d unbuttoned his shirt and was in the midst of shrugging out of it when she caught up with him. “Then that’s your problem,” he said with deliberate patience. “Do you want to watch me do a striptease or are you going to let me change in privacy?”

She’d caught hold of his arm, and now she dropped it, blushing. “Damn your nasty tongue, Randall.”

“You didn’t always hate my tongue, Maggie.”

That was her limit. She marched from the room with all her dignity, slammed the doors behind her, and threw herself down onto the sofa. The note was still crumpled in her fist, and she tossed it down onto the glass-topped table beside the flowers, grimacing at it. Score another point for Randall. He’d managed to best her again, and there was nothing she could do about it. For years she’d been convinced that something more went on in Gemansk than she’d known about. There were too many holes in the story.

In the end, she’d given up trying to guess what had happened. Maybe it had been wishful thinking on her part; maybe she’d been looking for an excuse for Randall’s callous abandonment. She’d even managed to find an excuse for his sending her to Wadjowska’s bed—a trip she’d thankfully never had to complete. Sexual barter was a standard weapon in a female operative’s arsenal. How could he have known that she wasn’t used to trading her body at the drop of a hat?

But of course he’d known. He’d known just how inexperienced she was; he’d probably known just how passionately in love with him she was. And he’d sent her out anyway.

But Miroslav Wadjowska had contented himself with a few lustful glances, a pinch, and a reluctant farewell. And Maggie had raced back to the apartment with the papers tucked into her pocket, only to find Vasili waiting for her and Randall gone.

Vasili, a seventeen-year-old Resistance fighter with the face of an angel, the soul of a poet, and the fighting instincts of a jackal, had left with her. She’d opened the packet of papers Wadjowska had given her and found that Randall’s weren’t with them; he must have planned to abandon her all along. Vasili had asked no questions; with all the tact of romantic youth, he’d flirted gently with her, coaxing a smile as they crossed the drab industrial city to the crowded train station. He’d ridden to the border with her, saying good-bye in her compartment with a surprisingly soulful kiss. He’d jumped down from the train with buoyant grace, only to be confronted by a squadron of dark-uniformed men.

If only he hadn’t run. But he had—he’d taken off on his swift long legs, drawing his enemies away from the train and away from her. As the train pulled out of the station and across the border, she’d watched him get cut down by a spray of bullets. Throughout the years, she’d never been able to rid herself of the feeling that he’d died for her. If it hadn’t been for Randall’s dereliction, Vasili would still be alive.

“Are you ready?” Randall’s voice broke through her memories, and she looked up stonily. He’d changed into another dark gray suit, and he looked perfect, as always. Even the dark bruise on his temple matched his eyes, she thought grimly.

“What are we going to do about your warning note?” she demanded, not moving.

Randall shrugged. “Not a damned thing. I have more important things to worry about than obscure threats. I want to find out what’s on those videotapes of Caleb’s. The sooner we get through this dinner of your mother’s, the better. I don’t suppose there’s any chance of our ducking it?”

“No chance at all. Besides, I intend to set a little trap—”

“Forget it, Maggie. We don’t know enough about our enemy to risk it.”

“But that’s the whole point—we could find out who’s behind this, if we’re lucky.”

“And if we’re not lucky, we could end up in your mother’s bathtub. Does your sister own a VCR?”