was a lieutenant in the air force.
Something sounded behind Claire, but she did not quite hear it. Elgin was an Englishman, not a German, and if he had been born in 1922, he was only seventeen when the war began in 1939.
Elgin was an Englishman—and William Duke was in Ian Marshall’s address book.
Claire’s heart felt as if it had dropped from her body and right through the floor. Like a damned World War II rocket.
How old was William Duke? Good God, he was in his eighties. He was older than Elgin, who was in his late seventies.
Something jiggled behind her. Claire froze.
Ian had opened the door, and now he was trying to open it fully, but the safety latch wouldn’t allow him to open it more than an inch or two
.
Claire was afraid to breathe, to move.
A silence fell. He had stopped trying to pull open the door.
Shit and damn and double damn
, Claire thought, panicked.
Slowly, she turned and looked at the door, now slightly ajar. She saw nothing, and too late, she recalled that he had a gun.
And then it struck her that he might think someone else was in his room—someone like Elgin.
“Ian, it’s only me!” she cried, jumping to her feet.
His eye appeared in the crack between the door and the wall, and with it, the nose of his black gun. “God damn it,” he said, very low and succinctly. “Open the door, Claire. Now.”
Claire wet her lips. Of course she had to let him in.
“Open the door, Claire. Before I shoot the latch off.”
“You wouldn’t”
“I would. I have a silencer. Open the door.”
Claire opened the door.
Ian came in. She looked at his gun as he closed the door, her heart exploding in her chest with fear and dire predictions. The gun did not have a silencer attached to it. He had lied—again.
Not a good sign
, she thought.
He shut and double-locked the door behind her. “What the hell are you doing?”
Claire shrugged helplessly. She was trying to figure out how many seconds it would take her to unlock the door and flee.
He scanned the room and cursed. “You just don’t give up, do you, Claire?”
Tears of fright almost came. She shook her head. “No. I can’t.”
“Under other circumstances, I would admire your gumption. But right now, I’m pissed.”
“Sorry,” she whispered meekly.
He put his gun down on the desk by the laptop. He studied the screen, then glanced at the notes at his feet. He looked up—at her. “So now you know.”
She swallowed, but she was short of saliva. “I know Elgin is English. I know that you have William Duke’s name in your address book.”
And he’s English, too
, she wanted to add, but wisely, she did not.
He sighed.
Then she heard herself say, “William is one of the nicest and kindest men I know. I’ve known him my entire life. He is not a killer. He is not Elgin.”
Ian stared.
“You think it’s him!” she cried, horrified. It was impossible. Wasn’t it?
“Go home, Claire,” Ian Marshall said, sounding tired. He walked over to the closet and took out a garment bag, throwing it on the bed. Then he turned, removing his jacket, which he tossed on the chair. He unbuckled and slid off his holster. “I wasn’t kidding when I said you might be in danger.”
“But why?” Claire managed.
He was unbuttoning his pale blue shirt. “The killer may be someone you know, and that’s all I can say right now.”
Claire stared. Oh, God.
It could not be William Duke!
He stripped off the shirt, tossing it aside, and shrugged on a red polo shirt.
Claire flushed. The man was all muscle—either he had a great metabolism or he worked out. She suspected both. “I can’t go home,” she said.
He put two suits into the garment bag, and a pair of shoes. “How come I thought you’d say that?”
Claire hadn’t moved since he had come into the room. Now she wrung her hands. “Why is my uncle’s name on that pad?” she asked fearfully.
He zipped up the garment bag, and folded it over. He straightened and turned. Their
Something sounded behind Claire, but she did not quite hear it. Elgin was an Englishman, not a German, and if he had been born in 1922, he was only seventeen when the war began in 1939.
Elgin was an Englishman—and William Duke was in Ian Marshall’s address book.
Claire’s heart felt as if it had dropped from her body and right through the floor. Like a damned World War II rocket.
How old was William Duke? Good God, he was in his eighties. He was older than Elgin, who was in his late seventies.
Something jiggled behind her. Claire froze.
Ian had opened the door, and now he was trying to open it fully, but the safety latch wouldn’t allow him to open it more than an inch or two
.
Claire was afraid to breathe, to move.
A silence fell. He had stopped trying to pull open the door.
Shit and damn and double damn
, Claire thought, panicked.
Slowly, she turned and looked at the door, now slightly ajar. She saw nothing, and too late, she recalled that he had a gun.
And then it struck her that he might think someone else was in his room—someone like Elgin.
“Ian, it’s only me!” she cried, jumping to her feet.
His eye appeared in the crack between the door and the wall, and with it, the nose of his black gun. “God damn it,” he said, very low and succinctly. “Open the door, Claire. Now.”
Claire wet her lips. Of course she had to let him in.
“Open the door, Claire. Before I shoot the latch off.”
“You wouldn’t”
“I would. I have a silencer. Open the door.”
Claire opened the door.
Ian came in. She looked at his gun as he closed the door, her heart exploding in her chest with fear and dire predictions. The gun did not have a silencer attached to it. He had lied—again.
Not a good sign
, she thought.
He shut and double-locked the door behind her. “What the hell are you doing?”
Claire shrugged helplessly. She was trying to figure out how many seconds it would take her to unlock the door and flee.
He scanned the room and cursed. “You just don’t give up, do you, Claire?”
Tears of fright almost came. She shook her head. “No. I can’t.”
“Under other circumstances, I would admire your gumption. But right now, I’m pissed.”
“Sorry,” she whispered meekly.
He put his gun down on the desk by the laptop. He studied the screen, then glanced at the notes at his feet. He looked up—at her. “So now you know.”
She swallowed, but she was short of saliva. “I know Elgin is English. I know that you have William Duke’s name in your address book.”
And he’s English, too
, she wanted to add, but wisely, she did not.
He sighed.
Then she heard herself say, “William is one of the nicest and kindest men I know. I’ve known him my entire life. He is not a killer. He is not Elgin.”
Ian stared.
“You think it’s him!” she cried, horrified. It was impossible. Wasn’t it?
“Go home, Claire,” Ian Marshall said, sounding tired. He walked over to the closet and took out a garment bag, throwing it on the bed. Then he turned, removing his jacket, which he tossed on the chair. He unbuckled and slid off his holster. “I wasn’t kidding when I said you might be in danger.”
“But why?” Claire managed.
He was unbuttoning his pale blue shirt. “The killer may be someone you know, and that’s all I can say right now.”
Claire stared. Oh, God.
It could not be William Duke!
He stripped off the shirt, tossing it aside, and shrugged on a red polo shirt.
Claire flushed. The man was all muscle—either he had a great metabolism or he worked out. She suspected both. “I can’t go home,” she said.
He put two suits into the garment bag, and a pair of shoes. “How come I thought you’d say that?”
Claire hadn’t moved since he had come into the room. Now she wrung her hands. “Why is my uncle’s name on that pad?” she asked fearfully.
He zipped up the garment bag, and folded it over. He straightened and turned. Their
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