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was remote, removed, unfeeling as her eyes slid over him with a curious mixture of longing and despair. Ithad been four months since she’d left him in Chicago, four months that had changed the course of her life. He still looked the same—tall, lean, impeccably dressed; his thin, sensuous mouth a cynical line in his narrow, aristocratic face; his blue-gray eyes masked and unreadable. Those eyes met hers for a long moment, and then she looked away, anywhere rather than face his gaze that had always seen and known too much.
    “Are you going to shoot me, Maggie?” His voice was mocking.
    She considered it for a moment. Considered, then rejected the idea. Later, she promised herself grimly. Later. She lifted her head again, meeting his gaze with all her hard-won calm, and walked into the living room of their suite, with Ian Andrews following docilely enough. “Not right now, Randall,” she said. “What are you doing here? And what do you mean by saying
we’re
going to find Tim Flynn?”
    His eyes followed the downward path of her gun, and his shoulders relaxed an infinitesimal amount. So he wasn’t as unmoved as he pretended, she, thought coolly. Good.
    “What do you think I meant? I followed you to London to offer my humble services.”
    “Forget it,” she snapped, moving toward the window and looking out at the busy winter street below. She still held her gun, albeit loosely enough.
    “Not to mention an interesting lead,” he continued, unmoved by her rejection.
    “You can take your interesting lead and shove it,” she said. “We don’t need your help. The three of us will handle it just fine.”
    “The three of us?” Holly shrieked, having followed all this with interest. “Who’s number three?”
    “I believe I am,” Ian Andrews replied, and there was a thread of reluctant amusement in his voice.
    “Not on your life,” Holly snapped, glaring at him. “I want to hear Randall’s lead. He’ll probably be more help than any number of broken-down British soldiers.”
    “Broken down?” Andrews echoed, his momentary humor vanishing. “Listen to me, you painted puppet—”
    “I don’t want Randall’s help!” Maggie said between her teeth.
    “And I don’t want Andrews’s!” Holly shot back, the two sisters squaring off.
    “Why don’t we sit down and discuss this reasonably?” Randall suggested in a calm voice.
    “I don’t want you in my hotel suite.”
    He raised an elegant eyebrow. “Whyever not, Maggie? We’ve certainly shared more than that in our time, and while we didn’t part on the best of terms in Chicago, I hadn’t realized our relationship had degenerated to the level of childish squabbling.”
    “I don’t want you in my hotel suite,” she repeated stubbornly, knowing she sounded as childish as he suggested and unable to help herself. “I want you to leave.”
    “What are you afraid of, Maggie?” he said. “You have plenty of protection.”
    “I’m not afraid of anything,” she said in an icy voice. “Especially not you.”
    “Then let’s discuss this reasonably.”
    “I don’t want—”
    “Well, I do,” Holly interrupted. “And it’s my suite too. Come on, Maggie. You may be superwoman, but I’m a mere mortal. I need all the help I can get.”
    Maggie opened her mouth to protest once more, then shut it again in sudden defeat. At that moment she couldn’t fight the three of them. She’d bide her time, dump the lot of them, and head after Tim Flynn herself. But for now there was nothing she could do but muster every ounce of self-control she possessed.
    She looked like hell, Randall thought, sipping the straight Scotch Holly had thoughtfully provided him and watching Maggie as she paced the living room of the suite. She must have lost ten pounds, there were dark circles under her eyes,and she was too damned pale. And that cropped thatch of wheat-blond hair made her look like a refugee from a concentration camp. What the hell had she been doing to herself