Maeve was people watching out of sheer boredom when she became vaguely aware of a man striding purposefully in her direction. At first she paid him little notice, thinking he was only another stranger who wanted to dance with her. In another time, another place, she might have been flattered by the attention, but her mind was twenty thousand kilometers away. Only when the intruder approached her table, placed his hands on the blue tablecloth and leaned toward her did she recognize him. Maeve’s face lit with inexpressible joy.
“Oh, Dirk, I thought I’d never see you again,” she gasped breathlessly.
“I came to beg your forgiveness for not saying goodbye when A1 and I abruptly left the Ice Hunter.”
She was both surprised and pleased at his behavior. She thought he held no affection for her. Now it was written in his eyes. “You couldn’t have known how much I needed you,” she said, her voice barely audible above the music.
He came around the table and sat beside her. “I know now,” he said solemnly.
Her face turned to avoid his gaze. “You could not begin to understand the scrape I’m in.”
Pitt took Maeve’s hand in his. It was the first time he had deliberately touched her. “I had a nice little chat with Boudicca,” he said with a slight sardonic grin. “She told me everything.”
Her poise and grace seemed to crumble. “You? Boudicca? How is that possible?”
He stood and gently pulled her from her chair. “Why don’t we dance, and I’ll tell you all about it later.”
As if by magic, here he was, holding her tightly, pressing her close as she responded and burrowed into his body. He closed his eyes momentarily as he inhaled the aroma of her perfume. The scent of his masculine aftershave, no cologne for Pitt, spread through her like ripples on a mountain lake. They danced cheek to cheek as the orchestra played Henry Mancini’s “Moon River.”
Maeve softly began singing the words. “Moon River, wider than a mile. I’m crossing you in style someday.” Suddenly, she stiffened and pushed him back slightly. “You know about my sons?”
“What are their names?”
“Sean and Michael.”
“Your father is holding Sean and Michael hostage on Gladiator Island so he can extort from you information on any breakthroughs by NUMA on the slaughter at sea.”
Maeve stared up at him in confusion, but before she could ask any further questions, he pulled her close again. After a few moments he could feel her body sag as she began to cry softly. “I feel so ashamed. I don’t know where to turn.”
“Think only of the moment,” he said tenderly. “The rest will work itself out.”
Her relief and pleasure at being with him pushed aside her immediate problems, and she began murmuring the lyrics of “Moon River” again. “We’re after the same rainbow’s end, waitin’ round the bend, my huckleberry friend, Moon River and me.” The music faded and came to an end. She leaned back against his arm, which was around her waist, and smiled through the tears. “That’s you.”
He gave her a sideways look. “Who?”
“My huckleberry friend, Dirk Pitt. You’re the perfect incarnation of Huckleberry Finn, always rafting down the river in search of something, you don’t know what, around the next bend.”
“I guess you could say that old Huck and I have a few things in common.”
They kept moving around the dance floor, still holding each other as the band took a break and the other couples drifted back to their tables. Neither was the least bit self-conscious at the amused stares. Maeve started to say, “I want to get out of here,” but her mind lost control of her tongue and it came out, “I want you.”
As soon as she spoke the words a wave of embarrassment swept over her. Blood flushed her neck and face, darkening the healthy tan of her complexion. What must the poor man think of me? she wondered, mortified.
He smiled broadly. “Say good night to the Van Fleets. I’ll get my car and meet you outside the club. I hope you dressed warm.”
The Van Fleets exchanged knowing looks when she said she was leaving with Pitt. With her heart pounding madly, she hurried across the ballroom, checked out her coat and ran through the doors to the steps outside. She spotted him standing by a low red car, tipping the valet parking attendant. The car looked like it belonged on a racetrack. Except for the twin bucket seats, there was no upholstery. The small curved racing windscreen offered the barest protection from the airstream. There were no bumpers, and the front wheels were covered by what Maeve thought were motorcycle fenders. The spare tire was hung on the right side of the body between the fender and the door.
“Do you actually drive this thing?” she asked.
“I do,” he answered solemnly.
“What do you call it?”
“A J2X Allard,” Pitt answered, holding open a tiny aluminum door.
“It looks old.”
“Built in England in 1952, at least twenty-five years before you were born. Installed with big American V-8 engines, Allards cleaned up at the sports car races until the Mercedes 300 SL coupes came along.”
Maeve slipped into the Spartan cockpit, her legs stretched out nearly parallel to the ground. She noticed that the dashboard did not sport a speedometer, only four engine gauges and tachometer. “Will it get us where we’re going?” she asked with trepidation.
“Not in drawing room comfort, but she comes close to the speed of sound,” he said, laughing.
“It doesn’t even have a top.”
“I never drive it when it rains.” He handed her a silk scarf. “For your hair. It gets pretty breezy sitting in the open. And don’t forget to fasten your seat belt. The passenger door has an annoying habit of flying open on a sharp left turn.”
Pitt eased his long frame behind the wheel, as Maeve knotted the ends of the scarf under her chin. He turned the ignition-starter key, depressed the clutch and shifted into first gear. There was no ear-shattering roar of exhaust, or scream of protesting tires. He eased out into the country club’s driveway as quietly and smoothly as if he were driving in a funeral procession.
“How do you pass NUMA information to your father?” he asked in casual conversation.
She was silent for a few moments, unable to meet his eyes. Finally, she said, “One of Father’s aides comes by my house, dressed as a pizza delivery boy.”
“Not brilliant, but clever,” Pitt said, eyeing a late model Cadillac STS sedan parked by the side of the drive, just inside the main gate of the country club. Three dark figures were sitting in it, two in front, one in the rear seat. He watched in the rearview mirror as the Cadillac’s headlights blinked on and it began following the Allard, keeping a respectable distance. “Are you under surveillance?”
“I was told I’d be closely watched, but I have yet to catch anyone at it.”
“You’re not very observant. We have a car following us now.”
She clutched his arm tightly. “This looks like a fast car. Why don’t you simply speed away from them?”
“Speed away from them?” he echoed. He glanced at her, seeing the excitement flashing in her eyes. “That’s a Cadillac STS behind us, with a three-hundred-plus-horsepower engine that will hurl it upwards of 260 kilometers an hour. This old girl also has a Cadillac engine, with dual four-throat carburetors and an Iskenderian three-quarter cam.”
“Which means nothing to me,” she said flippantly.
“I’m making a point,” he continued. “This was a very fast car forty-eight years ago. It’s still fast, but it won’t go over 210 kilometers an hour, and that’s with a tailwind. The bottom line is that he’s got us outclassed in horsepower and top speed.”
“You must be able to do something to lose them.”
“There is, but I’m not sure you’re going to like it.”