Call After Midnight (11 page)

Dropping her head in her hands, she felt another wave of tears threaten to flood her eyes. She was trying so hard to keep from crying that she scarcely heard the door open and close.

But she did hear the voice calling her name. That one word was like a burst of warm sunshine. She looked up.

Nick O'Hara was standing in front of her. By some miracle he'd been transported across an ocean, and here he was, her only friend in London, looking down at her.

Or was he a friend?

Immediately she saw that something was wrong. His mouth was set in two hard lines. His eyes showed no expression. Desperately she searched for some warmth, some comforting look in his face, but what she saw was rage. Little by little she took in the other details: his wrinkled shirt, the slack tie, the British Airways sticker on his briefcase. He had just come off a plane.

He turned and pushed the door shut. The loud slam made her flinch. Then he practically threw his briefcase on the table and glowered at her.

“Lady, you are in one
helluva
mess!” he grunted.

She sniffed pitifully. “I know.”

“Is that all you can say? I
know
?”

“Are you going to get me out of here?” she asked in a small voice.

“It all depends.”

“On what?”

“On whether or not you did it.”

“Of course I didn't do it!” she cried.

He seemed taken aback by her violent outburst. For a moment he was silent. Then he crossed his arms and settled irritably on the edge of the table.

She was afraid to look at him, afraid to see the accusing look in his eyes. The man she'd thought was her friend had suddenly turned into someone she scarcely knew. So he thought she was guilty, too. What hope did she have of convincing complete strangers of her innocence when even Nick O'Hara didn't believe her? Bitterly she told herself how wrong she'd been about him. As for why he was here, the reason was now obvious. The man was just doing his job.

She clenched her hands in a hard knot on the table. She
was furious with him for seeing her in this helpless position, for betraying her trust in him as a friend.

“Why are you in London, anyway?” she muttered.

“I could ask you the same question. This time, though, I expect the truth.”

“The truth?” She looked up. “I've never lied to you! You were the one—”

“Oh, come
on
!” he roared. Agitated, he shot to his feet and began to pace the floor. “Don't give me that innocent look, Mrs. Fontaine. You must think I'm pretty damned stupid. First you insist you don't know a thing, and then you take off for London. I just finished talking to the inspector. Now I want to hear your side. You knew about Eve, didn't you?”

“I didn't know! At least, not until yesterday. And you were the one who lied, Mr. O'Hara.”

“About what?”

“About Geoffrey. You told me he was dead. Oh, you gave me all that nice evidence, you laid it out so neatly, so perfectly. And I believed you! All this time you knew, didn't you? You
must
have known.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Geoffrey's alive!”

The incredulous look on his face was too real. She stared at him, wondering if it was possible that Nick really didn't know Geoffrey was alive.

“I think you'd better explain,” he said. “And I want it all, Sarah. Right down to what you ate for breakfast. Because, as you no doubt know, you're in deep trouble. The evidence—”

“The
evidence
is all circumstantial.”

“The evidence is this: Eve Fontaine's body was found about midnight in a deserted alley a few blocks from the Lamb and Rose. I won't go into the body's condition; let's
just say someone obviously didn't like her. The barmaid in the Lamb and Rose remembered seeing Eve with a woman—an American. That was you. She also remembered that you two had an argument. Eve ran out, you followed. And that's the last anyone saw of Eve Fontaine.”

“I lost her outside the Lamb and Rose!”

“Do you have any witnesses?”

“No.”

“Too bad. The police called Eve's house in Margate and spoke with the groundskeeper. The old man remembered you, all right. He said he gave Eve your message over the phone. And he just happened to have that slip of paper with your name and hotel.”

“I gave it to him so she could call me.”

“Well, to the police you've got an obvious motive. Revenge. You found out Geoffrey Fontaine was a bigamist. You decided to get even. That's the evidence. Good, hard and undeniable.”

“It doesn't mean I killed her!”

“No?”

“You have to believe me!”

“Why should I?”

“Because no one else does.” Without warning, all the fear and weariness seemed to sweep through her in one overpowering wave. Lowering her head, she repeated softly, “No one else does….”

Nick watched her with a disturbing mix of emotions. She looked so drained, so terrified, as she huddled against the table. Her robe sagged open, and he caught a glimpse of her flimsy blue nightgown. A long strand of reddish-brown hair fell across her face, across that smooth, pale cheek. It was the first time he'd seen her hair loose, and it reminded him once again of that fantasy he'd tried so hard to suppress. But the image came back to him now,
warm and compelling. He forced it out of his mind, trying instead to concentrate on why he was here. A woman had been murdered, and Sarah was in very bad trouble. Yet all he could think about was how she would feel in his arms.

Suddenly all his anger toward her evaporated. He'd hurt her, and now he felt like a monster. Gently he touched her head. “Sarah. Sarah, it'll be all right,” he murmured. “You'll be all right.” He crouched down and clumsily laid her face against his shoulder. Her hair felt so soft, so silky; the warm, feminine scent of her skin was intoxicating. He knew the emotions coursing through him now were dangerous, but he couldn't control them. He wanted to take her from this room, to keep her safe and warm and protected. He was most definitely not being objective.

Reluctantly he pulled away. “Sarah, talk to me. Tell me why you think your husband's alive.”

She took a deep breath and looked at him. Her eyes were like a fawn's, soft and moist. He knew then how much courage it had taken for her to meet his gaze. To keep the tears at bay. He'd been wrong about Sarah. She wasn't broken at all. She had reserves of strength that he'd never suspected.

“He called me,” she said. “Two days ago, in Washington—the afternoon of the funeral—”

“Wait. He
called
you?”

“He told me to come to him. It ended so quickly—he never told me where he was—”

“Was it long-distance?”

“I'm sure of it.”

“That's why you jumped on a plane? But why to London?”

“It—it was just a feeling. This was his home. This is where he should have been.”

“And when did you find out about Eve?”

“After I got here. The hotel clerk showed me an address on Geoffrey's registration card. It was Eve's cottage in Margate.”

He absorbed this torrent of new facts with a feeling of growing confusion. Pulling up a chair, he sat down and focused intently on her face.

“You've just thrown me a wild card,” he said. “That call from Geoffrey—it's so crazy, I'm beginning to think you must be telling the truth.”

“I
am
telling the truth! When are you going to believe me?”

“All right. I'll give you the benefit of the doubt. For now.”

He was beginning to believe her. That was all she needed, that tiny kernel of trust. It meant more to her at this moment than anything else in the world.
This is crazy,
she thought. After all she'd been through this morning, only now were the tears beginning to fall. She shook her head and laughed sheepishly. “What is it about you, Mr. O'Hara?” she asked. “I always seem to be crying when you're around.”

“It's okay,” he said. “Crying, I mean. Women are always doing that to me. I guess it comes with the job.”

She looked up and found him smiling. What a startling transformation, from stranger to friend. Somehow she'd forgotten how attractive he was. Not just physically. There was a new gentleness, an intimacy in his voice, as though he really cared. Did he? Or was she reading too much into all of this? Certainly she could recognize her own response, could feel the blood rising in her face.

He seemed hesitant, almost clumsy, as he leaned toward her. She shivered. Immediately he pulled off his jacket and draped it around her shoulders. It smelled like him; it felt so warm and safe, like a blanket. She pulled it close and a
calmness came over her, a feeling that nothing could harm her while Nick O'Hara's jacket was around her shoulders.

“As soon as our man from the consulate shows up, we'll get you out of here,” he said.

“But aren't you handling this?”

“Afraid not. This isn't my territory.”

“But then, why are you here?”

Before he could answer, the door flew open.

“Nick O'Hara,”
said a short fireplug of a man. “What the hell are
you
doing here?”

Nick turned to face the man in the doorway. “Hello, Potter,” he said after a distinctly uncomfortable pause. “It's been a long time.”

“Not long enough.” Potter stalked into the room, his critical gaze examining Sarah from head to toe. He tossed his damp hat deliberately on Nick's briefcase. “So you're Sarah Fontaine.”

She shot a puzzled glance at Nick.

“Sarah, this is Mr. Roy Potter,” Nick said tightly. “The embassy's—er, what is it they call you these days? Political officer?”

“Third secretary,” snapped Potter.

“Charming euphemism. So where's Dan Lieberman? I thought he was coming.”

“I'm afraid our consul couldn't make it. I'm here instead.” Potter gave Sarah a perfunctory handshake. “I hope you've been treated well, Mrs. Fontaine. Sorry you had to go through all this. But I think we'll have it cleared up in no time.”

“Cleared up?” Nick asked suspiciously. “How?”

Potter turned grudgingly back to Nick. “Maybe you should leave, O'Hara. Get on with your—uh, vacation, is it?”

“No. I think I'll stick around.”

“This is official business. And if I've heard right, you're no longer with us, are you?”

“I don't understand,” said Sarah, frowning. “What do you mean he's no longer with you?”

“What he means,” Nick said calmly, “is that I've been placed on indefinite leave of absence. News gets around fast, I see.”

“It does when it's a matter of national security.”

Nick snorted. “I didn't know I was so dangerous.”

“Let's just say your name's on a most unflattering list, O'Hara. If I were you, I'd make sure I kept my nose clean. That is, if you expect to keep your job.”

“Look, let's get down to business. Sarah's case, remember?”

Potter looked at Sarah. “I've discussed it with Inspector Appleby. He tells me the evidence against you isn't as solid as he'd like. He's willing to release you—provided I take responsibility for your conduct.”

Sarah was astonished. “You mean I'm free?”

“That's right.”

“And there's nothing—I'm not—”

“The charges have been dropped.” He extended his hand. “Congratulations, Mrs. Fontaine. You're a free woman.”

She leaped up and grabbed his pudgy hand. “Mr. Potter, thank you! Thank you so much!”

“No problem. Just stay out of trouble, okay?”

“Oh, I will. I will!” She looked joyously at Nick, expecting to see a smile on his face. But he wasn't smiling. Instead he looked completely baffled. And suspicious. Something was bothering him, and she felt instantly uneasy. She turned to Potter. “Is there anything else? Anything I should know?”

“No, Mrs. Fontaine. You can leave right now. In fact, I'll drive you back to the Savoy myself.”

“Don't bother,” said Nick. “I'll take her back.”

Sarah drew closer to Nick. “Thank you, Mr. Potter,” she said, “but I'll go with Mr. O'Hara. We're—we're sort of old friends.”

Potter frowned. “Friends?”

“He's been so helpful since Geoffrey died.”

Scowling, Potter turned and swept his hat off the table. “Okay. Good luck, Mrs. Fontaine.” He glanced at Nick. “Say, O'Hara, I'll be sending a report to Mr. Van Dam in Washington. I'm sure he'll be interested to hear you're in London. Will you be returning Stateside soon?”

“I might,” said Nick. “Then again, I might not.”

Potter headed for the door, then turned one last time and gave Nick a long, hard look. “You know, you've had a decent career with the foreign service. Don't screw it up now. If I were you, I'd watch my step.”

Nick dipped his head. “I always do.”

* * *

“W
HAT DOES THAT
mean—indefinite leave of absence?” Sarah asked as Nick drove her back to the hotel.

He smiled humorlessly. “Let's just say it's not a promotion.”

“Have you been fired?”

“In a word—yes.”

“But why?”

He didn't answer. Pausing at the next stoplight, he leaned back and sighed. It was a sound of utter weariness and defeat.

“Nick?” she asked quietly. “Was it because of me?”

He nodded. “You were part of it. Because of you, it seems my patriotism's been called into question. Eight years of good, solid work don't mean a thing to them. But
don't let it bother you. I guess, on a subconscious level, I've been working my way out of the job for some time. You were just the last straw.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Don't be. Getting canned might be the best thing that ever happened to me.”