Escape Out of Darkness (23 page)

“Not as long as the two of you survive,” Van Zandt corrected her patiently. “No, I’m sorry, but the chalet has got to go, and the two of you with it. It’s unfortunate, but I don’t really have an alternative. I’ve been too softhearted as it is.”

He’d turned his back to the table, ignoring Mersot’s lifeless body, unaware of the horde of gerbils rushing through the smashed glass, swarming over their master’s corpse, scurrying
on little claws down his trouser legs to swarm across the floor. Maggie controlled her own shudder of revulsion, keeping her face calm and earnest, as the army of gerbils advanced on Van Zandt’s pants leg.

“Jeffrey, think how much we’ve meant to each other. …” She was grasping at straws, and Van Zandt’s soft giggle mocked her.

“Not a thing, Maggie. I never was your type, and I have to admit, you’re not mine. I wish this could end differently, but I know that you wouldn’t let Peter’s death go unavenged. And I’ve got to come up with at least one scapegoat when I go back and confront the Company and Mancini. I still may be able to salvage …” His voice trailed off in a strangled scream as the first wave of gerbils gained his leg. And then they were swarming over him, a sea of rodents, clawing their furry way up his body, and all the time Van Zandt kept screaming, a terrified, high-pitched scream.

Maggie just stood there, watching in fascinated horror, until Mack dived across the room and tackled her, bringing her to the floor. Just in time, as Van Zandt began shooting at the gerbils scurrying over the floor, riddling the floor, the miniature village, and the fallen body of Mersot with bullets before he ran out of ammunition.

Maggie could barely see, crushed as she was beneath Mack’s strong body. Van Zandt threw the gun at the gerbils, still screaming, and began beating at his body. And then he ran, racing around the room, beating at the clinging rodents, until he tripped over a fresh wave of them. He went stumbling, staggering, screaming toward the wall of windows. The next moment he was gone, with a crashing of heavy glass, over the balcony and down, down, down. …

Maggie lay there on the floor, Mack’s body pressing down on her. The gerbils were at eye level, scurrying around, half mad with fear and panic, and as grateful as she was to them for their rescue, she didn’t want to be their next host. “Let me up, for Christ’s sake,” she said in a strangled voice.

A second later Mack pulled her to her feet. “Had enough, Maggie May?” His voice was hollow. “This place is set to blow at five, unless Van Zandt was lying. I think we ought to get as far away as we can.”

She swallowed a sudden, shuddering breath. “Yes,” she said. “Let’s get out of here.”

“That’s probably a good idea,” Bud Willis drawled from the doorway. “Christ, you guys are a two-man demolition team.” He kicked at the gerbils, stepping into the room and surveying it with his cold empty eyes.

“What is this, a convention?” Maggie demanded, his sudden appearance putting the final straw on her rapidly eroding courage. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I’ve been on Van Zandt’s tail for the past three days. I didn’t figure I could count on the two of you to take care of him. I guess I was wrong. That Mersot?” He gestured toward the old man’s body, which in the ensuing melee had tumbled to the floor. Gerbils were still crawling over him, and Maggie turned away with a shudder.

“That’s Mersot. This place is going to blow up, Willis. Not that I really feel you deserve a warning, but I’m a nice guy,” Mack drawled. “We’re out of here, unless you have any objections.”

“No objections,” he said absently, looking around him.

“Do you want to come with us?”

He grinned, that death’s-head grin. “And interfere with the happy couple? No way. We’ll meet up again, sooner or later. In the meantime, Pulaski, watch your back.”

Mack’s hazel eyes were narrowed with dislike. “I’ll do that,” he said. He looked at Maggie, and she waited dismally for an order. An order that never came. “What’s your pleasure, Maggie?”

Relief and love swept through her. “Let’s do it, Mack,” she said. “Bye, Willis.”

“Bye, sweet lips.”

The late afternoon was sunny, bright, clear, and cool around
the chalet. Van Zandt’s body was somewhere down in the crevasse beneath the chalet, lost for all time, Maggie hoped. Even if he were found, the authorities would simply assume he was a victim of the surprising explosion of Hercule Mersot’s chalet. And if anyone was still suspicious, she had complete faith in Hamilton’s ability to quiet those doubts.

“There’s a Jeep Cherokee parked down below the gate,” Mack said, his words prosaically normal. The last few minutes of horror and death might never have happened. “Can you stand it?”

“A Jeep Cherokee?” she echoed wearily, matching his coolness. “I haven’t recovered from my last ride in one.”

“We can always walk to Venice, but it would take a hell of a long time. And I think I’ve walked enough for one day,” Mack said solemnly.

“Venice?” she said, momentarily distracted. “We’re going to Venice?”

“If you’re amenable. I figure we should give Hamilton and his buddies enough time to clear things up before we go back. And I thought you’d like Venice. You seem to have developed a taste for intrigue, and Venice is the most intrigue-ridden city in history.”

She just stood there, looking at him. “Don’t you think I might have had my fill of intrigue?”

“That’ll only last a day,” he said, his voice full of confidence. “Venice is also the most romantic city in history. Seems like a good place to spend our honeymoon. As long as there’s not a Holiday Inn on the Grand Canal.”

“Honeymoon? Wasn’t two times enough?”

Mack grinned, that dear, warm smile that he seemed to reserve just for her. “Not when I kept marrying the wrong women, dear heart. I’d love to get down on one knee and propose, Maggie May, but I think we ought to get away from the chalet before it turns into matchsticks.”

“You can get down on one knee in Venice,” she said. “I’ll
give you my answer then. Are you sure you aren’t planning to marry me just to get close to my mother?”

“Screw your mother.”

“My point exactly. I want to make sure your intentions are pure—” She was silenced quite effectively by his mouth on hers, a kiss she returned with complete enthusiasm. “You’re right,” she said when she emerged. “We’d better get out of here while we still can. Lead me to the damned Jeep.”

At 5:01 exactly there was a loud rumbling in the valley. Maggie and Mack were already out of sight of the chalet, but they heard the explosion, and their eyes met. “Do you suppose Willis made it out all right?” she asked.

“Do you care?”

She thought about it. “No.”

“Neither do I.” He leaned back in the driver’s seat and shut his eyes.

“Come on, Mack. Drive on. I want to make it to Venice by tomorrow night.”

“Maggie May, we have the rest of our lives together,” Mack said, his raw voice low and sexy. “What’s your hurry?”

“Pulaski, a lifetime isn’t long enough for you and me,” she said. “Step on it.”

And Mack stamped on the accelerator, taking off into the cool evening air with a spurt of gravel. A lifetime wasn’t enough to hold them, Maggie thought. But it was a start, and a damned good one. And with their backs turned on the fiery death and destruction that had dogged them for so long, they headed out into the sunset. And into life.

I’ve been writing since the dawn of time. A child prodigy, I made my first professional sale to Jack and Jill Magazine at the age of 7, for which I received $25 (admittedly my father worked for the publisher). Since then I’ve written gothics, regencies, romantic suspense, historical romance, series romance—anything with sex and violence, love and redemption. I misbehave frequently, but somehow have managed to amass lots of glittering prizes, like NYT, PW and USA Today bestseller status, Lifetime Achievement Award from the Romance Writers of America, and a decent smattering of Romantic times and RITA awards.

I live on a lake in Northern Vermont with my incredibly fabulous husband. My two children have flown the coop, but the three cats do their best to keep us from being lonely.

In my spare time I quilt and play around with wearable art, and the rest of the time I write write write. Apparently women of a certain age get a rush of creativity, and I’m currently enjoying it. Too many stories to write, not enough hours in the day.