onto the county road, which led into the pitch-black of the countryside.
Pitt had to focus every bit of his concentration on the curves ahead. The old sealed-beam headlights did not illuminate the road as far ahead as the more modern halogen units, and he had to use his sixth sense to prepare for the next bend. Pitt loved corners, ignoring the brakes, throwing the car into a controlled skid, then maneuvering into setting up for a straight line until the next curve.
The Allard was in its element now. The heavier Cadillac was stiffly sprung for a road car, but its suspension was no match for the lighter sports car, which was built for racing. Pitt had a love affair with the Allard. He had an exceptional sense of the car’s balance and gloried in its simplicity and big, pounding engine. A taut grin stretched his lips as he threw the car into the curves, driving like a demon without touching the brakes, downshifting only on the hairpin turns. The driver of the Cadillac fought on relentlessly but rapidly lost ground with every turn.
Yellow warning lights were flashing on barricades ahead. A ditch opened up beside the road where a pipeline was in the midst of being laid. Pitt was relieved to see that the road carried through and was not blocked completely. The road turned to dirt and gravel for a hundred meters, but he never took his foot off the accelerator. He reveled at the huge cloud of dust he left in his wake, knowing it would slow their pursuer.
After another two minutes of her exciting breakneck ride, Maeve pointed ahead and slightly to her right. “I see headlights,” she said.
“The main highway,” Pitt acknowledged. “Here is where we lose them for good.”
Traffic was clear at the intersection, no cars approaching from either direction for nearly half a kilometer. Pitt burned rubber in a hard turn to the left, away from the city.
“Aren’t you going the wrong way?” Maeve cried above the screeching tires.
“Watch and learn,” Pitt said as he snapped the wheel back, gently braked and eased the Allard around in a U turn and drove in the opposite direction. He crossed the junction with the county road before the lights of the Cadillac were in view and picked up speed as he drove toward the glow of the capital city.
“What was that all about?” asked Maeve.
“It’s called a red herring,” he said conversationally. “If the hounds are as smart as I think they are, they’ll follow my tire marks in the opposite direction.”
She squeezed his arm and snuggled against him. “What do you do for your finale?”
“Now that I’ve dazzled you with my virtuosity, I’m going to arouse you with my charm.”
She gave him a sly look. “What makes you think I haven’t been frightened out of any desire for intimacy?”
“I can climb into your mind and see otherwise.”
Maeve laughed. “How can you possibly read my thoughts?”
Pitt shrugged cavalierly and said, “It’s a gift. I have Gypsy blood running in my veins.”
“You, a Gypsy?”
“According to the family tree, my paternal ancestors, who migrated from Spain to England in the seventeenth century, were Gypsies.”
“And now you read palms and tell fortunes.”
“Actually, my talents run in other directions, like when the moon is full.”
She looked at him warily but took the bait. “What happens when the moon is full?”
He turned and said with the barest hint of a grin, “That’s when I go out and steal chickens.”
Maeve stared warily into the blackness as Pitt drove along a darkened dirt road on the edge of Washington’s International Airport. He approached what looked like an ancient, deserted aircraft hangar. There was no other building nearby. Her uneasiness swelled and she instinctively crouched down in the seat as Pitt pulled the Allard to a stop under dim, yellowed lights on a tall pole.
“Where are you taking me?” she demanded.
He looked down at her as if bemused. “Why, my place, of course.”
Her face took on an expression of womanly distaste. “You live in this old shed?”
“What you see is a historic building, built in 1936 as a maintenance hangar for an early airline long since demised.”
He pulled a small remote transmitter from his coat pocket and punched in a code. A second later a door lifted, revealing what seemed to Maeve a yawning cavern, pitch-black and full of evil. For effect, Pitt turned off the headlights, drove into the darkness, sent a signal to close the door and then sat there.
“Well, what do you think?” he teased in the darkness.
“I’m ready to scream for help,” Maeve said with growing confusion.
“Sorry.” Pitt punched in another code and the interior of the hangar burst into bright light from rows of fluorescent lamps strategically set around the hangar’s arched ceiling.
Maeve’s jaw dropped in awe as she found herself looking at priceless examples of mechanical art. She could not believe the glittering collection of classic automobiles, the aircraft and early American railroad car. She recognized a pair of Rolls-Royces and a big convertible Daimler, but she was unfamiliar with the American Packards, Pierce Arrows, Stutzes, Cords and the other European cars on display, including a Hispano-Suiza, Bugatti, Isotta Fraschini, Talbot Lago and a Delahaye. The two aircraft that hung from the ceiling were an old Ford Tri-motor and a Messerschmitt 262 World War II fighter aircraft. The array was breathtaking. The only exhibit that seemed out of place was a rectangular pedestal supporting an outboard motor attached to an antique cast-iron bathtub.
“Is this all yours?” she gasped.
“It was either this or a wife and kids,” he joked.
She turned and tilted her head coquettishly. “You’re not too old to marry and have children. You just haven’t found the right woman.”
“I suppose that’s true.”
“Unlucky in love?”
“The Pitt curse.”
She gestured to a dark blue Pierce Arrow travel trailer. “Is that where you live?”
He laughed and pointed up. “My apartment is up those circular iron stairs, or if you’re lazy, you can take the freight elevator.”
“I can use the exercise,” she said softly.
He showed her up the ornate wrought-iron spiral staircase. The door opened into a living room-study filled with shelves stacked with books about the sea and glass encased models of ships Pitt had discovered and surveyed while working for NUMA. A door on one side of the room led into a large bedroom decorated like the captain’s cabin of an old sailing ship complete with a huge wheel as a backboard for the bed. The opposite end of the living room opened into a kitchen and dining area. To Maeve, the apartment positively reeked of masculinity.
“So this is where Huckleberry Finn moved after leaving his houseboat on the river,” she said, kicking off her shoes, settling onto a leather couch and curling up her legs on the cushions.
“I’m on water most of the year as it is. These rooms don’t see me as often as I’d like.” He removed his coat and untied his bow tie. “Can I offer you a drink?”
“A brandy might be nice.”
“Come to think of it, I carried you away from the party before you had a chance to eat. Let me whip you up something.”
“The brandy will-do just fine. I can gorge tomorrow.”
He poured Maeve a Remy Martin and sat down on the couch beside her. She wanted him desperately, wanted to press herself into his arms, to just touch him, but inside herself she was seething with turmoil. A sudden wave of guilt swept over her as she visualized her children suffering under the brutal hand of Jack Ferguson. She could not push aside the enormity of it. Her chest felt tight, and the rest of her body, numb and weak. She ached for Sean and Michael, who were to her still babies. To allow herself to fall into a sensual adventure was little short of a crime. She wanted to scream with despair. She set the brandy on the coffee table and abruptly began to weep uncontrollably.
Pitt held her tightly. “Your children?” he asked.
She nodded between sobs. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to mislead you.”
Strangely, female emotions had never been a big mystery with Pitt as with most men, and he was never
