Hot Streak

CHAPTER 32

W hat's going to happen to Egon?” Molly asked after watching Carey silently contemplate the view out his window for the last twenty minutes.

He shrugged, too troubled to respond. Another five miles of suburban sprawl passed by as he tried to organize the turmoil in his mind… the major obstacle of Molly and her expected resistance, the overwhelming rush of emotion when he thought of how close Rifat had been to his daughter, the waves of fear and pity for Egon. And then, with an intrinsic decisiveness that was based more on feeling than logic, he decided now was as good a time as any to tell Molly his plans. Carrie and Lucy were in the front seat, happily chatting with Jess, and he hated keeping Molly in the dark. Taking a breath, he turned to her, his fair hair brilliant in the morning sun, his dark eyes watchful. “I'm going after him.”

The words she'd been afraid of since Sylvie had appeared. She tried to repress the shock waves of anxiety. “Isn't that dangerous?”

“Not really.”

“It's dangerous,” she said, answering her own question. “You could be killed.”

“I won't be killed,” he said, his tone even.

“Or tortured.” Molly's voice was beginning to take on the intensity he wanted to avoid.

“Look, darling-”

“I'd appreciate it,” she said very softly, little daggers of anger underlying the gentleness, “if you didn't use that phony darling stuff with me. I'm not your ex-wife who responds to darling or bitch or apparently anything else you care to call her.”

The subject has veered off track, he thought, but he preferred her frustration be directed toward Sylvie rather than toward him. “Of course. Forgive me.”

“And don't be contrite just to avoid an argument. Dammit.” She exhaled in a great sigh, knowing how childish she sounded. But death and torture? How did she and Carey end up in this mess? “Why are we even having this conversation? I shouldn't know a man who knows terrorists-or whatever you call people who try kidnapping little girls. And don't give me any of that crap about Egon's pranks, because I wasn't born yesterday. This car has bulletproof glass; I heard Jess tell Carrie. Jesus, bulletproof glass! What the hell is happening to my life? Terrorists shouldn't be any closer than the damn newspaper headlines.”

“And they won't be,” he said in the heated silence. “You'll be safe at my father's.”

“Safe,” she breathed in almost a whisper, turning so her body was directly facing his. “What the hell does that mean?”

Carefully Carey answered, “I'd like you to stay up north until I find Egon.”

“This isn't a little jaunt to see a horse, is it?” She hadn't regained her voice, and her hands were clenched into fists.

“No.”

“What if they kill you?”

“They won't.”

“They could.”

“They can't.”

“You're not some invincible superhero.”

“I'll be careful.”

“Are you the only savior Egon has? Good God, with all their money, surely someone else can go after him. Carey, I'm not used to men trying to kill my daughter.” She took a deep, steadying breath.

He thought about lying and saying they wouldn't have killed Carrie, but he couldn't bring himself to mouth the lie. More likely than not Rifat would have killed both girls, once their usefulness was over. Sending them back could have jeopardized him in too many ways, and he'd never have taken the risk. An ex-general, Rifat dealt in abstract numbers and equations based on human lives: How many would it take to achieve his goal?

“She's safe now,” he said, avoiding all the lies and unpalatable truth.

“You keep saying that, but for how long and at what cost? And what about Lucy? Is she permanently a member of our household now, or can she ever return to her family? When will the danger be over?” Her anger cracked across the small distance separating them like a series of whiplashes.

When Rifat's dead, he thought, but said, “Soon.”

“Jesus Christ,” she exclaimed, “soon? What the hell does that mean. Soon in contrast with the current ice age in the arctic, or soon as in the life-span of a fruit fly? I have a business to run. My daughter has a life to live. I have a life to live. And maybe we don't want to live it in the fishbowl glare of publicity and terrorist threats. I hate fishbowls. I hate publicity. I don't even like to fill out anonymous questionnaires, for God's sake. I don't know if I can stand this, Carey, do you understand? I don't honestly know if I want to be the wife of a goddamn sex symbol who has people gunning for him!”

“Calm down, love.”

“I don't want to calm down. I want to scream the roof off this bloody bulletproof car. And that's another thing. Is your father set up for sudden guests arriving in bulletproof cars?”

“He knows you're coming to stay awhile, and is extremely pleased.”

“He knows we're coming to stay, but I didn't know. Awhile? How the hell long is that?”

“Jesus, Honeybear,” Carey said, exhaling softly. “Relax a minute.”

“I don't want to relax when my daughter and I are about to become hostages and my fiancй is about to go out and trade gunshots with some goddamn troop of terrorists. You know my life was peaceful before you came back into it. Prosaic and dull and peaceful!”

“I'm sorry. I wish I could explain what Egon means to me.” His relationship with Egon eluded simple explanation, though even that would be useless considering Molly's current frame of mind.

“Does he mean more than Carrie and me?” It wasn't a fair question. It was one of those bitchy questions, the kind lawyers asked in criminal trials when they wanted only one answer. But even while she logically understood, emotionally she required one, single do-or-die answer.

“No, he doesn't,” Carey said. His hands tightly clasped, he crossed his legs to ease the stiffness in his spine and leaned back against the dark leather seat. The planes of his sculptured face were vivid in the shadows. “But he's very alone in the world,” he added, his voice soft, trying to explain and appease at the same time. “And if I can help him elude Rifat, I have to. Rifat's… methods,” he omitted the word torture, “would create an uncomfortable situation.”

“Why don't you just say torture,” Molly rebuked. “That's what you mean, isn't it?”

Carey sighed and ran a hand over his brow. “I don't want to argue with you. If I could let Egon go down the tube and live with myself afterward, I would.” He'd kicked off his sandals and was barefoot, looking very young and wholesome in his khaki shorts and T-shirt. His pale hair was highlighted by the sunshine streaming in through the back window. “Could we work out some compromise on this so we don't have a knock-down-drag-out fight over something I don't have a lot of control over?”

“Why can't Sylvie hire someone to find her brother? She could sell her damn earrings and hire a battalion.”

“No one knows him as well as I do.”

“Surely she must.”

“Not really.”

“So you were his father confessor?”

“No,” Carey said very softly, “I was his friend.”

Retreating into the opposite corner of the large backseat, Molly pulled up her legs and wrapped her arms around her knees. “Dammit, Carey, you're disrupting our whole life,” she said. “Taking us away from my work and home, bringing us in contact with killers I thought only existed in books and movies.” Her voice wasn't angry anymore, but a tightly leashed tension imbued her low tone. “It isn't fair. I'm afraid for Carrie's future, and I don't want to feel sorry for Egon.”

“But you do.” Carey's dark eyes were as tender as the quiet resonance of his voice. She looked very small in the corner of the enormous backseat, and even in a strapless sundress that should have made her look sophisticated, she looked sixteen. Maybe it was the green papier-mвchй frog earrings dangling halfway down to her shoulders, or the silky blond hair draped across the curve of her collarbone, or maybe it was her beautiful, pouty bottom lip. He couldn't resist her. Leaning across the expanse of black leather separating them, he reached over and brushed her pink lips with his fingertip. “And I love you for it.”

“We could lose everything after only finding each other again,” Molly whispered, still not looking at him. “I guess I'm feeling sorry for myself, and angry that it's happening. But you can't let him die, can you?”

He stroked her shoulder, his hand drifting slowly down her arm to cover her interlocked fingers. “I think I know where he's headed, so I've an advantage over Rifat,” he said. “And if I'm lucky, I'll beat him there.” He smiled a little then, feeling a twinge of his old, familiar luck. “I could be back here in two days.”

“And safe?”

Guardedly he said, “And safe.”

“What would you say if I asked to come along?” She turned toward him suddenly and quickly added, “Just listen first.”

He swallowed the refusal he was about to utter.

“I know you want Carrie and me to stay at your father's while you go off to find Egon. I also know there's danger involved. But don't you see, it's infinitely worse waiting for you, not knowing where you are or what's going on. After all these years of not having you, at least if I'm with you, I'm with you. And if you know where Egon's going,” her face had brightened, “we might be back before the men after him even pick up his trail.”

If he revealed to her the danger in finding Egon, she'd freak. But if it wasn't dangerous, he had no excuse for leaving her behind. “You have to think of Carrie,” he said. “She and Lucy need you.”

“Not for only two days, certainly not after she sees her horse. Carrie's been horse-mad for years. She won't mind, really. She'll push me out the door, I know, because she's always telling me I'm too protective, and she knows I'll be biting my fingernails and saying, ‘Be careful,' the entire time she's riding.” Her rush of words came to a halt. With the tiniest lift of her chin, she added, “She's strong like you. She'll be fine, so I'm coming with you.”

“Egon doesn't frequent the same spots a church group would.”

“Pul-eese… it might be different vices, but after Bart, my eyeballs are not virgin, believe me.”

He wasn't going to touch that one. Bending close, his lips brushed her cheek. “I'll bring you a present.”

Her blue eyes took on a stormy cast. “Do I look like I'm ten?”

“Yes,” he said with a grin. He'd relaxed.

“Let me reword that. Do I look stupid?”

His smile was rueful now. “No,” he murmured, “but you can't come along.”

“Oh, well, it was worth a try,” she said, a shade too readily for comfort.

“I mean it,” he said, assessing her with mild distrust.

“Of course, dear, you're right,” Molly agreed with a smile, aware futher argument was useless. And yet, fully intent on accompanying him, she felt very brave, like Wonder Woman in full regalia. Maybe proximity to Carey Fersten promoted bravery. She'd jettisoned her prudence that summer she'd spent with him before her wedding, too. “I'm sure I'd only be in the way.” Unclasping her hands, she laced them on top of her head, immediately distracting Carey from his apprehension over her abrupt capitulation. Her breasts swelled in lush provocation above the bodice of the green flower print dress.

“I don't suppose,” he murmured, his eyes narrowing against an invisible wind, “we could close off the front with the girls up there. What would they think?”

“They might think we wanted some privacy. I don't suppose they'll die of shock.”

“In that case, some privacy would be real high on my list of priorities, Ms. Darian.” His gaze traveled slowly up her slender body, lingering gently on the rise of her breasts, then languorously lifting to meet her eyes.

“Let me take care of this, Mr. Fersten,” Molly said, delight in her voice. “How long do we have before we reach your father's?”

Glancing out the window, Carey replied with a heated glance, “Three and a half hours.”

“How nice, since I feel a sudden fatigue. I think I'll tell the girls to keep down the giggles; we're going to take a nap.”

And when she did, Carrie turned around, pressed her nose against the glass divider, and said, “Sure, Mom, I know what you guys are going to do. You're going to kiss.”

Under his tan, Carey flushed to the roots of his hair.

“You're blushing,” Molly whispered.

“She's my daughter,” he whispered back. “I'm embarrassed.”

“She's only teasing. Relax.”

“Sure?”

“I'm s-o-o-o tired,” she breathed, running her fingers down his muscled arm.

“See that we're not disturbed, Jess,” he said crisply. Shutting off the intercom, he pushed the control that slid solid divider panels over the glass partition. Turning back to Molly, he murmured, “Have I told you how sexy you look when you lift your arms in that dress?”

“Like this?”

With another swift gesture, he flipped the switch controlling the window tint, and they were shut off from the outside world behind black glass. “Exactly,” he whispered, touching the soft fullness rising above her strapless top. His bronzed fingers drifted over the satiny mounds, back and forth with a delicate languor she could feel warming her blood. His hands slid down the deep vee of her cleavage, and then further still until they slipped under her breasts and lifted them free of the constraining top. “I'm so glad you decided to take a nap.” His voice was velvet, like his touch.

“A three and a half hour nap,” Molly whispered. “I hope you don't mind.”

“Oh, I don't mind, Ms. Darian,” he murmured, bending low to caress the tip of her nipple with his tongue. “I've always found long naps fortifying.”

“Like Ovaltine,” she whispered, tremors of desire racing downward from his teasing mouth and lips and tongue.

“Not exactly,” he breathed, and gave her a small bite.

She trembled, shivers of pleasure fluttering down to her toes and stirring the first small flame of passion deep inside. She'd never last three hours; she responded to him too readily, too extravagantly. Her nerve endings would be flayed in an hour, charred beyond recognition.

“Slow down, Honeybear,” Carey whispered, unzipping her dress, replying to her as if he could read her mind.

“Yes sir,” she murmured back. His hands were like heated promise on her skin, teasing and stroking as he stripped her dress away and then her panties. Her desire soared recklessly, immune to words or censure.

But his own libido repudiated delay, and he quickened with scorching haste, responding to her fiery ardor. His own pleasure was intensified by the opulent readiness under his fingertips, as though he only need touch her lightly here and softly there and kiss her thus and she was open and wet and ready for him. She was the most passionate woman he'd ever known, he thought with a flaring excitement. “You're way ahead of me, sweetheart,” he murmured, sliding his finger over the dampness between her legs, stroking the slick entrance, slipping his fingers inside her heated wetness slowly at first, and then suddenly deeply so she cried out in pleasure.

“Good,” she whispered when she'd caught her breath, and he smiled.

“Greedy.”

“You betcha,” she said, leaning back into the seat corner, her smile the equivalent of a feline purr. And her husky words were followed by her hands, sliding down his chest lazily to the buttons at his waistline. She unbuttoned and unzipped with seductive slowness. With her he was always in love for the first time, his mind clearly operating in a dimension over which he had no control. He waited for her small hands to touch his arousal, quivering with the rare magic of anticipation. Her fingers stroked the thrusting, pulsing tip, and his erection grew. When she clasped him in a slow rhythm, his eyes shut with the tide of pleasure flowing through his senses.

“Now, now… now,” she breathily ordered moments later, lifting her hips to reach him, her hands clasping his shoulders.

He took her the first time with his clothes still on because he couldn't wait any more than she. But later, when she was straddling him and moving gently above him in mellow contentment, he found time to pull his shirt off. “Nice muscles,” she said, watching the ripple down his torso as he tugged the shirt over his head with both hands.

“I've been staying in shape for my Honeybear,” he replied, his smile pure happiness.

“You don't feel weak, then?”

“I don't know,” he said with a grin, “what do you think?” And he lifted her with his hips.

She didn't speak until the stabbing pleasure subsided. “Arrogant man,” she said, though her sultry voice tempered her rebuke.

“Not me, ma'am,” he drawled in western parody. “I follow your orders right ready. But, sweet missus, when you'all get tired of taking command, it's my turn.” His grin was full of wickedness.

She lay in his arms the last half-hour, their clothes restored, the windows half-open to let the summer breezes alter the cool, air-conditioned scent of lovemaking and feverish bodies. His car was equipped with a small bar so they'd washed simply with lemon flavored Perrier-“like a camping trip”-Carey had said with a grin.

“I adore wealthy young men with soft leather backseats and discreet chauffeurs,” Molly murmured, flushed with pink touches of color on her cheeks, her blue eyes luminous with impish cheer.

“I adore sexy young moms who adore wealthy young men.” His golden hair blew a little in the window breeze, and his smile was lavish.

We agree on everything, then, she thought. And when I join you on your mission to find Egon, one slight disagreement shouldn't mar such unruffled compatibility.

Carey was humming a romantic fifties ballad from one of those technicolor spectaculars MGM used to make. Feeling very much in love, he realized he'd like to have Molly with him on his search for Egon, if it were only a matter of sleuthing down his hidey-hole. Unfortunately with Rifat in hot pursuit, the risks were considerable. And when the shooting started, he wanted to be able to react without worrying about Molly.

“Why does that sound familiar?”

“It was the theme from the late movie last night, and at the moment I wholeheartedly agree with the cloudless lyrics.”

“We have everything, don't we?”

“That's a fact.” His grin was wide and sunny. “I think my luck's changed.”

“How much do you believe in luck?”

“Not exclusively, but I won't turn it down, either. And your stopping at Ely Lake Park that Sunday was one hundred percent bona fide luck, as far as I'm concerned. I didn't even know where to begin looking for you.”

She felt the solid warmth of his shoulder beneath her head, the pleasant weight of his arm across her stomach, the pleasure in his wanting her. “Happy?”

“Damn right.” And he hugged her closer.

Bernadotte's home was large, built of pale local fieldstone and reminiscent in both its size and sprawling central courtyard plan of a medieval monastery. How appropriate for a hermit, Molly thought. And how inappropriate for his son, profligate in all things. But, coming out into the drive to meet them, Bernadotte was gracious and hospitable, not at all what she had expected. He was in fact so far removed from his normal composure that Carey was reminded of a remark his mother had once made when he mentioned his father's tranquillity. “You didn't know him when he was young, darling,” she had said with a smile. “He was a very serious, pleasure-seeking man.”

Carey saw the unutterable charm today, the attentive courtesy and captivating social loquacity he'd never before witnessed. The courtly gallantry Bernadotte showed Molly and the two young girls was unconstrained, as though he hosted parties of young ladies every day. They were instantly captivated. As Molly and Carey followed Bernadotte and the two skipping young girls into the house, Molly quietly said, “I thought you said your father was reclusive.”

“He always has been,” Carey slowly replied, astonished by the sight of the trio before him, his father bending toward the chattering girls, responding to them in ways that made them squeal with laughter.

“He seems wonderful,” Molly said, watching her daughter's face glow with smiling delight, understanding where Carey had acquired his effortless charm.

“I told you he was anxious to meet you.”

“You also told me he never had company, except your mother.”

“Well, you're family now.”

“Does he know that?”

“It sure looks like it to me,” Carey replied with a grin. “I've never seen him so delighted in my life.” Taking Molly's hand in his, he began walking again, his dark gaze on the extraordinary sight of his tall, white-haired father entertaining two nine-year-olds.

“In that case, I can relax. We passed muster.”

“Darling, no one has to pass muster.” But in a curious way, Carey, too, felt relieved. Knowing his father's eccentric attitude toward company, Carey hadn't been altogether certain of the degree of warmth his father would exhibit. Apparently Bernadotte was as enchanted as he with his daughter and future wife. Since he had been deliberately reticent over the phone, Carey used their first quiet moment together to explain the situation to his father.

The housekeeper, Mrs. Bailey, suggested she show Molly and the girls their rooms, and Carey took the opportunity to speak with his father. They all agreed to meet at the pool for lunch.

A few moments later, Carey and his father sat over iced tea in the library. Both men relaxed in the soft comfort of worn leather chairs. Carey had kicked off his sandals the minute he sat down; the glazed tile fronting the terrace door felt cool on his feet.

“She's a beautiful woman,” Bernadotte said, thinking how perfect they looked together, golden beauty and youth. But more important he'd noticed how happy his son appeared, how he looked at Molly with a curious kinetic devotion, both volatile and ardent, like a fledgling young boy in love. This was dramatically different from the tolerant indulgence with which he'd viewed women over the years.

“The same one I spent my last summer with-before going out to U.S.C.”

“I thought she bore a remarkable resemblance to the photo you kept on your desk that summer.”

“And Carrie's my daughter.” There was a world of pride in his voice.

Without a modicum of surprise, Bernadotte casually said, “I thought so. She's very much your daughter-her face, her movements, and horse-mad, like you were at nine.”

“Perhaps it's genetic,” Carey said with the doting smile of a father.

“Perhaps,” Bernadotte replied softly, his smile nostalgic as he recalled his own youthful equestrian training under his father's tutelage. His father was patient and kindly to a young child, instilling in his son his own passion for riding. Something Bernadotte had, in turn, taught to Carey. And now his granddaughter had inherited their love of horses. “She has your hands. She'll be good.” It was as if he read Carey's mind.

“I was about to ask if you would help Leon with her first lessons.”

“Carrie and I have already agreed on five o'clock, after the heat of the day has passed.” He lifted his brow in indulgent amusement. “She's insistent, just like you.”

“Do you mind?”

“Of course not, can't abide tractable people. I would have known she was yours blindfolded. She has the same decisive way of making a question a foregone conclusion. And the inflections in her speech… I wouldn't have thought it possible to inherit those patterns, but-” He raised his tall crystal tea glass. “Thank you for a delightful granddaughter. I had, quite frankly, given up hope.”

“You knew my feelings on Agent Orange.”

“Yes… apparently you didn't know of her existence?”

“No.” And then Carey filled his father in on the bizarre set of circumstances which had transpired, making Molly and Bart unaware of Carrie's paternity.

“You're a very lucky man,” his father said at the conclusion of Carey's explanation.

“I know, and it makes this search for Egon doubly frustrating. Going off and leaving Molly and Carrie behind is difficult… unsettling.” He looked across the small distance separating them, thinking how little his father had changed over the years, knowing he'd done the right thing bringing them here. “It's the hardest choice I've ever had to make, but I can't leave Egon out in the cold. You know what Rifat's like.” In short, brusque sentences, Carey described his fear at seeing Ceci at the press conference, and his subsequent dash to the Merchandise Mart to find Carrie and Lucy safe only because of their own resourcefulness.

“They'll be safe here,” Bernadotte assured him. “The surveillance cameras are quite effective, as is the monitoring equipment.” Bernadotte preferred his privacy, and had developed a highly sophisticated electronic barrier around his estate as more of a hobby than a necessity.

“Do you have any idea where Egon might be?”

“My guess is he's making for his retreat in Jamaica. Since his villa is a mile up the mountain beyond the main road, Egon has this peculiar notion he's entirely hidden. Like a child covering his eyes who says, ‘You can't see me.' I've never been able to convince him otherwise, and frankly never had the heart to disillusion him further. And perhaps the major attraction is the availability of drugs there. He'll be strung out-on fear and heroin. Not a difficult person to follow, I'm afraid. Rifat should be hot on his heels, but I may be able to beat him there by a few hours and meet Egon at the airport, a flight or so ahead of Rifat's men. I'm taking a chance by going directly to Jamaica, but Rifat will have to pick up his trail. I should be ahead of him, and if I'm lucky, Egon and I should be back here late tomorrow night, or early the following morning.”

Bernadotte absorbed all the detail, offering no unwanted advice. “What explanation have you given Carrie?”

“None so far. We're here to see her new birthday horse.”

“And Molly is amenable to your leaving and going after Egon? Surely Sylvie must have caused an irritable ripple or two.” Bernadotte had never lacked for female company until he'd married Carey's mother, and he understood the subtleties of jealousy. And although he'd politely avoided Sylvie during her marriage to his son, he knew that Sylvie was difficult, thoroughly selfish, and rude.

“Between Sylvie and Molly's ex it was a toss-up on boorish behavior, but I think Molly's reconciled to my going. Reconciled-but reticent. I'm counting on you to take her mind off my absence. You'll enjoy her. She's outspoken, like Mother.”

“Ah… so I have a reluctant-”

“Fiancйe,” Carey finished. “We're to be married as soon as she says the word.”

“And when do you anticipate that?” Although Bernadotte's question was mildly put, the novelty of Carey pursuing rather than being pursued amused him. He decided Molly was very bright.

“She dislikes all the publicity surrounding my life.”

“Truly?” His brows rose in skepticism. In his experience, women sought the spotlight.

Carey sighed. “Sincerely.”

“An interesting conundrum for you, no doubt,” Bernadotte replied softly and, in a thoughtful aside, asked, “How does your daughter feel about publicity?”

Carey grinned. “It's in the genes. She adores the photographers, wants a date with Chachi from Happy Days, and is wondering when she can have a role in my next movie.”

“Ah, a sweet child,” Bernadotte cheerfully observed. “And can you give it all up after all these years-the limelight and display?”

“Because of all the years, I can, without a backward glance. You, more than anyone, should understand my feelings. You'd led a life of some… irregularity before building this home.”

“I envy you,” his father said very quietly. His own dream had been the same-to live peacefully with Kirsti. But various egomaniacs had intervened, and their armies had criss-crossed his ancestral lands, taking away his patrimony and his darling wife. “My very best wishes for your happiness,” he gruffly said, his sense of loss a dull ache of poignant regret. He'd never considered himself a romantic in his youth, but as he'd aged he'd begun to realize how fortunate one was to have experienced a deep, abiding love. So few in this world encountered their perfect lover or felt the startling intensity of passion so profound its memory never diminished. He and Kirsti had been fortunate.

There was a certain tranquillity to age, he reflected, that mellowed the inequities of life. With fondness, he looked at his son and wished him happiness.

“Thank you, Papa. And if all goes well, I'll be back with Egon, Rifat will be checked, and hopefully, I can get on with my life.”

“Surely,” his father said, his finger tracing a path up the condensation on the tea glass, “you're not that naive.”

Carey looked out through the open French windows under the low-pitched eaves to the sunwashed poolside, busy with servants preparing the luncheon table. He knew as well as his father did the brutal nature of the man he was opposing. “One step at a time,” he said very slowly. “I have to get Egon out of danger. Rifat's been on several government hit lists for many years now-unsuccessfully. I don't know if I can do what they've failed to do.”

“He won't leave you alone,” his father quietly reminded him, “if you thwart him.”

Carrie and Lucy had appeared in their bathing suits, watermelon pink and lime green accents against the lapis-tiled pool and were beginning to splash their feet in the sparkling water. An incongruous sense of unreality overcame Carey as he gazed at his daughter peacefully playing in the summer sun. He shouldn't be discussing Rifat's assassination with his father; he had no vested interest in Rifat's particular brand of banditry; all he wanted was a tranquil life with his wife and daughter.

“Wars are different now, but they're still wars, aren't they?” he said. “Only smaller and more frequent. I'm in this war purely by an accident of marriage.” He leaned his head back against the worn leather and shut his eyes. “Shit.”

“It might be possible to put together a team. I could check with Geoffrey or Rupert.”

Carey's first response was to say, “Sure, check with your old network in MI6. Hire someone to knock Rifat off. Hire a dozen mercenaries and maybe one might manage what Rifat's numerous enemies to date have not managed.” But he wasn't comfortable yet with coldly plotting an assassination. He still clung to a naive optimism that once Egon was safe, Rifat would withdraw. Opening his eyes, he pulled himself upright and said, “I'd like to wait. Do you mind?”

“I prefer you not put yourself in undue danger.”

“At this stage, if Jess and I take off say in an hour or two, we should be in Jamaica in good time-ahead of Rifat's men. Egon just left Nice yesterday, and if I know him he stayed in Madrid or Barcelona and caught a flight this afternoon. I might even beat him to Le Retour if he gets corrupted in Montego Bay.” And he rose suddenly as he caught sight of Molly approaching the girls at poolside. “Molly's here. If I leave rather abruptly, make my excuses to her, will you, Papa? I'm counting on you to soothe any ruffled feathers.”

Bernadotte set his glass aside and stood. The two tall men exchanged silent glances in the quiet room. “I'll do the best I can. But one last word of caution from an old man. I understand you must help Egon, but promise me no extraordinary heroics. He's not worth your life.”

Carey smiled faintly, his dark eyes under his heavy brows intensified by the shadows in the room. He nodded his head. “Don't worry, I have too much to live for.” He turned back toward the poolside scene and softly added, “I'm coming back to them.”

Luncheon was cheerful, the adults all congenial, the children vivacious and full of questions. The menu was elaborate, both grown-up and childish fare offered in magnificent variety. Bernadotte insisted on champagne in honor of his future daughter-in-law and granddaughter. A buffet table was arranged at a poolside gazebo, complete with a lavish bouquet of roses and lilies. There was black and red caviar. Blinis were served hot in a napkin-lined basket with dill butter. Fresh figs filled with prosciutto and garnished with a caper dressing were beautifully cut in water lily shapes. Poached salmon, presented whole on an enormous silver fish plate, had been flown in fresh when Bernadotte heard Carey was bringing company home. A Greek lemon soup looked and tasted cool and delicious on the warm summer day, while tabbouli salad scented the air with mint. Chilled grape tarts looked like jewels on a silver tray. Molly thought the entire buffet table should have been photographed for a House and Garden cover. It was delightfully different from Chucky Cheese. But the girls' tastes had been catered to, as well, with peanut butter and jelly sandwiches cut into bunny shapes, small pizzas decorated with happy faces, hand-cut French fries, watermelon slices, and chocolate ice cream arranged in a large crystal bowl of crushed ice. They were enchanted.

An hour later, when Carey suggested everyone take a short nap before riding lessons, the children agreed. They were both so excited about riding-had already fed Carrie's new horse carrots and apples, and had checked out the riding ring with Leon-they were being on their best behavior so as not to jeopardize their lessons.

“I should have thought of a horse for a bribe before,” Molly said, her grin teasing. “Usually when you say nap, you can count on a lengthy argument.”

“Just watch me, babe,” Carey teased back, “and I'll show you a thing or two about handling little girls… it's a lot like-”

“Don't you dare say it.”

His look was innocent. “I was going to say it's a lot like being nice to their moms.” But his grin was pure wolf.

“You're way too smooth, Carey Fersten.”

“And you're so sweetly green, Ms. Darian, you could sell yourself for salad.”

“A pleasant change for you, then,” she replied.

“Amen,” he said, and meant it with all his heart. Which made his next words doubly hard to say. They were almost to their room on the opposite side of the pool, and he touched her arm gently to stop her. “I have to check with Leon,” he said. “I'd forgotten to see if we have boots for Lucy. I'll be right back.” He felt a sinking sense of loss already, and he hadn't even left yet.

The face Molly turned up to him was smiling. “You won't be long?”

“A few minutes,” he lied and, bending low, touched her lips in a light brushing kiss. He straightened and smiled. “Keep my spot warm.” It was meant to be a casual remark, but he couldn't leave without touching her again. Taking her face gently in his hands, he bent and kissed her once more, a soft, lingering good-bye kiss. He had found her and lost her and found her again, and leaving her was the hardest choice he'd ever made. Damn. Why couldn't Egon be normal? Why did his drug habit fuck up everything he did? Why couldn't his family own a textile factory, so he could go to hell without bringing in the world's most dangerous terrorist as a partner on his ride to destruction? Yeah, sure. And as long as we're dreaming, let's end world poverty, too. In the meantime, Fersten, put on your spurs and ride, or Egon's going to disappear one bloody piece at a time. “I love you, Honeybear,” he murmured as his mouth lifted from hers. “Always.”

“Hurry back,” Molly whispered.

And his startled expression was immediately masked with a smile. “I'll be back before you doze off.”

But Molly had read his reaction properly; she knew he was leaving to go after Egon.

Immediately after Carey walked away, she entered their room, set her note to her daughter prominently in the center of the bed, and left to follow Carey. She knew her daughter well enough to know she would be the first to say, “Go, Mom.”

Anticipating his swift departure, she'd changed before lunch into comfortable slacks and a cotton sweater. With a jacket clutched in one hand, she watched Carey stride toward the stables. He must have some last minute instructions for Leon; she didn't believe the ruse of Lucy's boots for one minute.

Bernadotte's home was situated on a gentle rise overlooking a rolling panorama of hills and pastures and forest. The stables were closest to the house at the back, separated by a broad stretch of green lawn and a beautifully raked gravel turnaround for loading horse trailers. Directly east of the stables, beyond three fenced pastures, were the hangars for the planes. A hedged drive bordered the pastures, leading to the large airstrip cleared from the forest, and Molly made swiftly for the security of the hedge shadows. With Carey taking a detour to the stables, she'd have the advantage of arriving at the plane before him. And if by chance she'd misinterpreted and he did return to the house, she could simply say she'd gone out looking for him.

Would it be possible for her to board the plane undetected? How many people would be around the hangars and plane? Would she have to threaten Carey somehow to have him take her along? Was she overreacting? she wondered, struck by a niggling sensation suggesting she was overplaying the Nancy Drew clues. Then the jet engines roared into operation.

One gold star for Nancy Drew.

And one for a young woman who'd never done anything more exciting than fight her way through Frank Murphy's annual sale of designer dresses. She felt an exhilarating sense of adventure.

A new determination crept in past her initial fear for Carey that had impelled her to follow. Now the small impetus of reading the clues properly invigorated her, and she approached the entrance to the airstrip with a sleuth's caution and excitement.

There was no approach short of brazening it out that would get her across the broad expanse of lawn between the hedge and the hangar. She stepped out of the shadows onto the freshly mowed grass and walked briskly toward the strip where the large jet had taxied. Reaching the hangar, she stood still, gauging whether she'd been noticed. From where she stood with her back against the wall, she could see the ramp of steps had been wheeled up to the plane. Was Jess inside, or was he in the hangar? Were others accompanying Carey and Jess, or were they going alone? If she walked across the vast open tarmac to the plane, she'd be in perfect view… but her choices were limited. In broad daylight, any surreptitious approach was out of the question.

Just as she began stepping around the corner of the hangar, she caught sight of Carey coming across the pasture from the stables. Sliding around the corner out of sight, she held her breath and tried to concoct some plausible story should someone see her pressed against the wall. Damn! If she didn't manage to get on that plane, she was going to be left plastered to this wall when the plane took off. Taking a quick peek around the corner, she saw Carey no more than twenty yards from the hangar. Think, think! she commanded her flustered brain. Her options were rapidly dwindling to zero. Carey was between her and the plane without so much as a bush for concealment.

Wonder Woman or Superman would come in handy right now. Then she could dispense with the plane altogether. She could simply follow Carey through the sky like a human bird. Reluctantly discarding that plan, she was debating the possibility of dissolving into buckets of tears and pleading to be taken along when she heard Jess shout, “Come in here for a minute, Carey. I'm having some hassle with Duluth on filing the flight plan.”

And Carey turned abruptly from his direct route to the plane.

“Thank you, God,” Molly whispered into the blue sunny sky, “you're back from vacation. Just kidding,” she quickly added, unwilling to tempt heavenly retribution.

As Carey entered the hangar, she didn't think. She didn't weigh the odds. She didn't consider the chance that Carey or Jess might look out the window.

She sprinted.

Down the west side of the hangar, onto the warm tarmac.

The thirty yards between herself and the plane stretched like a shimmering mirage in the desert. It helped when you didn't have time to think. It helped when the blood was pumping so loudly in your ears, no other sounds intruded. But what helped most was the martinet on the phone giving Jess trouble over his flight plan.

“I'll talk to him,” Carey snapped after the third explanation. And as Carey brusquely said, “Listen carefully. This is very simple…” Molly bolted up the steps into the dim interior of the jet.

She'd never been inside a private jet before. Scanning the arrangement of furniture to her left, the small lounge area closest to the door, and the hallway to her right, she cautiously turned right and took two tentative steps. Was anyone on the plane… perhaps in the galley? Was there a cargo area she could hide in? Hurry, hurry, an insistent voice reminded her. Another several steps and she saw the efficient chrome galley tucked away on her right. The door directly across the aisle was the bathroom, she discovered, after carefully easing the door open. One door remained. Taking a deep breath, praying no one was on the other side, she opened it. A compact bedroom with just enough space for a built-in bed and closet was decorated in black and poppy-red chintz.

A quick survey indicated one could not hide under the bed or in the closet, unless you were Houdini or an Indian mystic well versed in the more complex yoga positions. Her agitated mind was moving into overdrive in its insistent screaming, hurry, hurry, and a swift glance out the small curtained window froze her momentarily. Jess and Carey were walking toward the plane.

Pulling the bedroom door shut, she fled back down the hall to the bathroom and slipped inside only moments before she heard Carey's voice.

“She wasn't very happy, but I didn't have any choice.”

“It's for the best. Women always get in the way.”

“Not always, Jess,” Carey said, innuendo soft in his voice.

“Okay, but you know what I mean. Egon is going to be trouble. Hey… what the hell is the head light on for?” he asked, his voice suddenly changing.

Oh Christ, Molly forgot the damn light went on when the door locked. Her heart seemed to stop for endless moments as she heard Jess tugging at the door and muttering.

“Let it go, Jess,” Carey said. “We can pry it open later. Let's take off. With Rifat after Egon, every damn minute counts. And pray for tail winds. I'm hoping like hell to beat Egon to Le Retour.”

The sound of receding footsteps was Molly's cue to begin breathing again, and she inhaled carefully, making the least possible noise. She caught sight of herself in the mirror over the sink. She was ashen. So much for bravery and boldness; she'd probably drop dead at the sound of gunshots. But three normal breaths later, she realized she'd muddled through another crisis. What would Wonder Woman do next?

Almost an hour into the flight-definitely too late to turn back-someone approached her hiding place and began prying the door open. Rather than wreck the door, she unlatched the lock. The soft click of the lever brought instant silence.

Before she had time to decipher the sudden silence, the door shot open and she was facing the business end of a silencer affixed to a 9mm Beretta. Then she looked up into Carey's angry face.

“I should have known,” he growled, “when you first raised your arms in the backseat of the limo.”

“But your celebrated hormones,” Molly purred, “were guiding your brains as usual, weren't they?”

“So far I've managed,” he curtly retorted.

“One can only hope Rifat doesn't throw some nubile young starlet into your path this side of Egon,” she acidly replied.

“And all that smiling agreeableness,” he said, furious his plans were jeopardized by her presence. “I should have known better. When you're that agreeable, I'd better watch my back.”

“Don't fault me on hypocrisy, darling. ‘I'm going to check on Lucy's boots,'” she mimicked.

“It was necessary.” The anger in his voice was so controlled, it only carried the short distance between them.

Her face took on an expression of scorn. “Your deception is necessary, and mine is not? How convenient.”

His hand dropped away from the door. Turning abruptly, he walked away and strode forward to the cockpit. At the moment he was too angry to trust his reactions. Molly's presence was going to bloody well fuck up everything… and he needed some time to unjam the overwrought circuits in his mind that were screaming abort! Abort!

It was too late to turn back if he hoped to beat Egon to Le Retour. Maybe Jess could stay with Molly on the plane, but Carey needed his help with Egon. Hell!

Molly watched him stalk away, enter the cockpit, and slam the door shut. Moving toward the couch and chairs arranged comfortably near some small tables, she sat down and waited to see if the plane would turn around. She'd only seen Carey that angry once before, and that was the night she left him in his apartment at Mrs. Larsen's to go off and marry Bart. His voice today had the same taut control, as though the softness of his tone could conceal his terrible rage.

But she wasn't eighteen any longer, nor daunted by his wrath. Why were his lies necessary, and hers merely disagreeable? Cautioning herself to remain calm and logical, she discarded her impulse to feel ill-treated. They both felt justified in their action. Now that she'd accomplished the first stage of this unusual expedition beyond the confines of her normal life, she intended to see she became an asset, not a hindrance. How best to deal with her angry lover?

She thought the old maxim “You get more flies with sugar than vinegar” held merit. Twenty minutes later when Carey emerged from the forward cabin, his scowl still in place, she said, “We're both adults, supposedly mature. I'm sorry. Could we talk about this?” And her smile was the very best soothing, dazzling look she could conjure.

“You're an impetuous bitch,” Carey said in a deep growl, looking tall and menacing in the low-ceilinged cabin. “But I love you.” And when he smiled, her face flushed warm from the glow.