“You really think it was a bomb?”
“I’m sure it was.”
The doctor glanced at the nurses’ station, where a policeman stood waiting for a chance to question the woman. Two cops had grilled her already, and they hadn’t been very considerate of her condition. The doctor shook his head. “God, what’s the world coming to? Terrorist bombs going off in our corner of the world now….”
Terrorists? thought Jordan. Yes, of course it would be blamed on some shadowy villain, some ill-defined evil. Who but a terrorist would plant a bomb in a gentleman’s car? It was a miracle that only one person had been seriously hurt tonight. A half dozen other musicale guests had suffered minor injuries—glass cuts, abrasions—and the police were calling this a lucky escape.
For everyone but Delancey.
Jordan rode the lift upstairs to the surgical floor. The waiting room was aswarm with police, none of whom would tell him a thing. He hung around for a while, hoping to hear some news, any news, but all he could learn was that Delancey was still alive and on the operating table. As for whether he would live, that was a matter for God and the surgeons.
He returned to the woman’s floor. The policeman was still standing in the nurses’ station, sipping coffee and chatting up the pretty clerk. Jordan walked right past them and opened the door to Diana’s room.
Her bed was empty.
At once he felt a flicker of alarm. He crossed to the bathroom door and knocked. “Diana?” he called. There was no answer. Cautiously he opened the door and peeked inside.
She wasn’t there, either, but her hospital gown was. It lay in a heap on the linoleum.
He yanked open the closet door. The shelves were empty; the woman’s street clothes and purse had vanished.
What the hell are you thinking? he wondered. Why would she crawl out of her hospital bed, get dressed and steal away like a thief into the night?
Because she is a thief, you bloody fool.
He ran out of the room and glanced up and down the hall. No sign of her. The idiot cop was still flirting with the clerk and was oblivious to anything but the buzz of his own hormones. Jordan hurried down the hall, toward the emergency stairs. If the woman was running from the police, then she’d probably avoid the lift, which opened into the lobby. She’d go for the side exit, which led straight to the parking lot.
He pushed into the stairwell. He was on the third floor. When last he’d seen Diana, she’d looked scarcely strong enough to stand, much less run down two flights of stairs. Could she make it? Was she even now lying in a dead faint on some lower landing?
Terrified of what he might find, Jordan started down the stairs.
Her head was pounding mercilessly, the high heels were killing her, but she kept marching like a good soldier down the road. That was how she managed to keep going, left-right-left, some inner drill sergeant screaming commands in her brain. Don’t stop, don’t stop. The enemy approaches. March or die.
And so she marched, stumbling along on her high heels, her head aching so badly she could scream. Twice she heard a car approaching and had to scramble off the road to hide in the bushes. Both times the cars passed without seeing her, and she crawled back to the road and resumed her painful march. She had only a vague plan of what came next. The nearest village couldn’t be more than a few miles away. If she could just get to a train station, she could get out of Buckinghamshire. Out of England.
And then where do I go?
No, she couldn’t think that far ahead. All she knew was that she’d failed miserably, that there’d be no more chances and that she was at the very top of Van Weldon’s hit list. With new desperation she pushed on, but her feet didn’t seem to be working, and the road was weaving before her eyes. Can’t stop, she thought. Have to keep going. But shadows were puddling her vision now, creeping in from the sides. Suddenly nauseated, she dropped to her knees and lowered her head, waiting for the dizziness to pass. Crouching there in the darkness, she vaguely sensed the vibrations through the asphalt. Little by little the sound penetrated the fog clouding her brain.
It was a car, approaching from behind.
Her gaze shot back up the road and she saw the headlights gliding toward her. With a spurt of panic she stumbled to her feet, ready to dash into the bushes, but the dizziness at once assailed her. The headlights danced, blurred into a haze. She discovered she was on her knees, and that the asphalt was biting into her palms. The slam of a car door, the hurried crunch of shoes over gravel told her it was too late. She’d been spotted.
“No,” she said as arms closed around her body. “Please, no!”
“It’s all right—”
“No!” she screamed. Or thought she had. Her face was wedged against someone’s chest, and her cry came out no louder than a strangled whisper. She began to flail at her captor, her fists connecting with his back, his shoulders. The arms only closed in tighter.
“Stop it, Diana! I won’t hurt you. Stop it!”
Sobbing, she raised her head, and through a mist of tears and confusion she saw Jordan gazing down at her. Her fists melted as her hands reached out to clutch at his jacket. The wool felt so warm, so substantial. Like the man. They stared at each other, her face upturned to his, her body feeling numb and weightless in his arms.
All at once his mouth was on hers, and the numbness gave way to a flood of glorious sensations. With that one kiss he offered his warmth, his strength, and she drank from it, felt its nourishment revive her battered soul. She wanted more, more, and she returned his kiss with the desperate need of a woman who’s finally found, in a man’s arms, what she’d long been seeking. Not desire, not passion, but comfort. Protection. She clung to him, relinquishing all control of her fate to the only man who’d ever made her feel safe.
Neither of them heard the sound of the approaching car.
It was the distant glare of headlights that forced them to pull apart. Clea turned to look up the road and registered the twin lights burning closer. Instantly she panicked. She jerked out of Jordan’s arms and plunged headlong into the bushes.
“Wait!” called Jordan. “Diana?”
Blindly she thrashed through the branches, desperate to flee, but her legs still weren’t working right. She heard Jordan right behind her, his footsteps snapping across twigs as he ran to catch up. He snagged her arm.
“Diana—”
“They’ll see me!”
“Who?”
“Let me go!”
On the road, the car braked to a stop. They heard the door swing open. At once Clea dropped to the ground and cowered in the shadows.
“Halloa!” called a man’s voice. “Everything all right?”
Please, Jordan, Clea prayed. Cover for me! Don’t tell him I’m here….
There was a pause, then she heard Jordan call back, “Everything’s fine!”
“Saw your car had pulled off. Just wanted to check,” said the man.
“I’m, er…” Jordan gave a convincingly sheepish laugh. “Answering the call of nature.”
“Oh. Well. Carry on, then.” The car door slammed shut, and the taillights glided away down the road.
Clea, still shaking, gave a sob of relief. “Thank you,” she whispered.
For a moment he stood watching her in silence. Then he reached down and pulled her to her feet. She swayed unsteadily against him.
“Come on,” he said gently. “I’ll take you back to the hospital.”
“No.”
“Now see here, Diana. You’re in no condition to be wandering around at night.”
“I can’t go back.”
“What are you afraid of, anyway? The police?”
“Just let me go!”
“They won’t arrest you. You haven’t done anything.” He paused. Softly he asked, “Have you?”
She wrenched herself free. That one effort cost her what little strength she had left. Suddenly her head was swimming and the darkness seemed to whirl around her like black water. She didn’t remembe
r sinking to the ground, didn’t remember how she got into his arms, but suddenly she was there, and he was carrying her to the car. She was too tired to struggle, too weak to care anymore what happened to her. She was thrust into the front seat, where she sagged with her head against the door, trying not to faint, fighting the nausea that was beginning to roil her stomach again. Can’t throw up in this nice car, she thought. What a shame it would be to ruin his leather upholstery. She vaguely registered the fact that he was sitting beside her, that the car was now moving. That was enough to nudge fear back into her addled brain.
She reached for his arm, her fingers clutching at his jacket sleeve. “Please,” she begged. “Don’t take me back to the hospital.”
“Relax. I won’t force you to go back.”
She struggled to focus. Through the darkness of the car, she saw his profile, lean and tense as he stared ahead at the road.
“If you insist, I’ll take you to your hotel,” he offered. “But you need someone to look after you.”
“I can’t go there, either.”
He frowned at her. Her fear, her desperation, must have registered on her face. “All right, Diana.” He sighed. “Just tell me where you want to go.”
“The train station.”
He shook his head. “You’re in no condition to travel.”
“I can do it.”
“You can scarcely stand up on your own two feet!”
“I have no choice!” she cried. Then, with a desperate sob, she whispered, “I have no choice.”
He studied her in silence. “You’re not getting on the train,” he said at last. “I won’t allow it.”
“Won’t allow it?” Sudden rage made her raise her head in defiance. “You have no right. You don’t have any idea what I’m facing—”
“Listen to me! I’m taking you to a safe place. You have to trust me on this.” He looked at her, a gaze so direct it defied her not to believe him. How simple it would be to hand over her fate to this man, and hope for the best. She wanted to trust him. She did trust him. Which meant it was all over for her, because no one who made a mistake that stupid would live long enough to regret it.
I don’t have a choice, she thought as another wave of dizziness sent her head lolling to her knees. She might as well wave the white flag. Her future was now out of her hands.
And firmly in the grasp of Jordan Tavistock.
“How is she doing?” asked Richard.
Drained and exhausted, Jordan joined Richard in the library and poured himself a generous shot of brandy. “Obviously scared out of her wits,” he said. “But otherwise she seems all right. Beryl’s putting her to bed now. Maybe we’ll get more out of her in the morning.” He drained the brandy in a few gulps, then proceeded to pour himself a well-deserved second shot. He could feel Richard’s doubtful gaze on him as he took another sip and sank into the easy chair by the fireplace. Sobriety was normally one of Jordan’s virtues. It was unlike him to guzzle a triple brandy in one sitting.
It was certainly not like him to drag home stray females.
Yet that’s exactly what he had upstairs at this moment, bundled away in the guest bedroom. Thank God Beryl hadn’t bombarded him right off with questions. His sister was good that way; in a crisis she simply did what needed to be done. For the moment the bruised little waif would be well taken care of.
Questions, however, were sure to follow, and Jordan didn’t know how to answer them because he himself didn’t have the answers. He didn’t even know why he’d brought Diana home. All he knew was that she was terrified, and that he couldn’t turn his back on her. For some insane reason he felt responsible for the woman.
Even more insane, he wanted to feel responsible for her.
He leaned back and rubbed his face with both hands. “What a night,” he groaned.
“You’ve been a very busy fellow,” Richard observed. “Car bombs. Runaway females. Why didn’t you tell us all this was cooking?”
“I had no idea bombs would be going off! I thought all I was dealing with was a cat burglar. Or is it burglaress?” He gave his head a shake to clear away the pleasant fog of brandy. “Theft is one thing. But she never mentioned anything about mad bombers.”
Richard moved closer. “My question is,” he said quietly, “who was the intended victim?”
“What?” Jordan looked up. He had great respect for his future brother-in-law. Years of working in the intelligence business had taught Richard that one should never accept evidence at face value. One had to examine around it, under it, looking for the twists and turns that might lead to completely different conclusions. Richard was doing that now.
“The bomb was planted in Guy Delancey’s car,” said Richard. “It could have been a random attack. It could have been aimed specifically at Delancey. Or…”
Jordan frowned at Richard. He saw that they were both considering the same possibility. “Or the target wasn’t Delancey at all,” Jordan finished softly.
“She was supposed to be riding in the car with him,” said Richard. “She would have been killed, as well.”
“There’s no doubt Diana’s terrified. But she hasn’t told me what she’s afraid of.”
“What do you know about the woman?”
Jordan shook his head. “All I know is her name is Diana Lamb. Other than that I can’t tell you much. I’m not even sure what her real hair color is! One day she’s blond, then the next day she transforms into a redhead.”
“What about the fingerprints? The ones you got off her glass?”
“I had Uncle Hugh’s friend run them through the Scotland Yard computer. No match. Not a surprise, really. Since I’m sure she’s a Yank.”
“You have been busy, haven’t you? Why the hell didn’t you let me in on this earlier? I could’ve sent the fingerprints off to American authorities by now.”
“I wasn’t at liberty to say a thing. I’d promised Veronica, you see.”
Richard laughed. “And a gentleman always keeps his promises.”
“Well, yes. Except under certain circumstances. Such as car bombs.” Jordan stared at his empty brandy snifter and considered pouring another. No, better not. Just look at what drink had done to Guy Delancey. Drink and women—the sole purpose of Delancey’s life. And now he lay deprived of both.
Jordan set down the glass. “Motive,” he said. “That’s what I don’t know. Why would someone kill Diana?”
“Or Delancey.”
“That,” said Jordan, “isn’t too difficult to answer. God only knows how many women he’s gone through in the past year. Add to that a few angry husbands, and you’ve probably got a slew of people who’d love to knock him off.”
“Including your friend Veronica and her husband.”
That possibility made Jordan pause. “I hardly think either one of them would ever—”
“Nevertheless, we have to consider them. Everyone’s a suspect.”
The sound of footsteps made both men turn. Beryl walked into the library and frowned at her brother and her fiancé. “Who’s a suspect?” she demanded.
“Richard wants to include anyone who’s had an affair with Guy Delancey,” said Jordan.
Beryl laughed. “It’d be easier to start off with who hasn’t had an affair with the man.” She caught Richard’s inquiring glance and she snapped, “No, I never have.”
“Did I say anything?” asked Richard.
“I saw the look in your eye.”
“On that note,” cut in Jordan, rising to his feet, “I think I’ll make my escape. Good night all.”
“Jordan!” called Beryl. “What about Diana?”
“What about her?”
“Aren’t you going to tell me what’s going on?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because,” he said wearily, “I haven’t the faintest idea.” He walked out of the library. He knew he owed Beryl an explanation, but he was too exhausted to repeat the story a second time. Richard would fill her in o
n the details.
Jordan climbed the stairs and started up the hall toward his bedroom. Halfway there, he stopped. Some compulsion made him turn around and walk, instead, to the bedroom where Diana was staying. He lingered outside the closed door, debating whether he should walk away.
He couldn’t help himself; he tapped on the door. “Diana?” he called.
There was no answer. Quietly he entered the room.
A corner lamp had been left on, and the glow spilled softly over the bed, illuminating its sleeping occupant. She lay curled up on her side, her arms wrapped protectively around her chest, her hair rippling in red-gold waves across the pillow. The linen nightgown she wore was Beryl’s, and a few sizes too big; the billowing sleeves almost engulfed her hands. He knew he should leave, but he found himself sinking into the chair beside the bed. There he watched her sleep and thought how very small she looked, how defenseless she truly was.
“My little thief,” he murmured.
A sigh suddenly escaped her throat and she stirred awake. She looked at him with unfocused eyes, then slowly seemed to comprehend where she was.
“I’m sorry,” he said, and rose from the chair. “I didn’t mean to wake you. Go back to sleep.” He turned to leave.
“Jordan?”
He glanced back at her. She seemed to be lost in a sea of white sheets and goose-down pillows and puffy nightgown linen, and he had the ridiculous urge to pull her out of there before she drowned.
“I…have to tell you something,” she whispered.
“It can wait till tomorrow.”
“No, I have to tell you now. It’s not fair of me, pulling you into this. When you could get hurt.”
Frowning, he moved back to the bed. “The bomb. In the car. Was it meant for Guy?”
“I don’t know.” She blinked, and he saw the sparkle of tears on her lashes. “Maybe. Or maybe it was meant for me. I can’t be sure. That—that’s what makes this so confusing. Not knowing if I’m the one who was supposed to die. I keep thinking…” She looked at him, her eyes full of torment. “I keep thinking it’s my fault, what happened to Guy. He never really did anything wrong. I mean, not seriously wrong. He just got caught up in a bit of greed. But he didn’t deserve…” She swallowed and looked down at the sheets. “He didn’t deserve to die,” she whispered.