Hot Streak

“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