Her voice had risen, and the emotion she felt was so strong, she could scarcely speak. Furious that Rowland McGuire, of all people, should see her like this, she began to push past him.

“Just get out of my way, Rowland. I have nothing else to say to you. Let me out of this room.”

“No,” he said in a perfectly level voice. “I won’t do that. I’m not even sure I could do that.”

“What?” Gini said, and then she stopped. Suddenly she began to see Rowland McGuire, really see him. It was as if a camera changed focus, from long shot to close-up. One minute he was faceless, blurred, just a tall shape between her and the door; the next, she could see the man himself. He was wearing an overcoat, one of his usual old tweed suits, a white shirt with the top button undone, and a green tie with the knot loose. Earlier, manhandling her into the elevator, he had seemed dourly amused; he did not seem amused now, or angry, or resentful of the fact that she had just slapped his face.

She could see the mark her palm had left across his cheekbone, a red weal that emphasized his pallor and the set determination in his face. He was regarding her with absolute seriousness, his green eyes resting unwaveringly on her face. His hands were by his sides; he appeared simultaneously relaxed and intent. She glanced down, weighing her chances of pushing past him, then looked up, met that intent green stare—and sensed the danger at once.

They were standing very close to each other, their eyes locked. At that moment, when she was least expecting it, out of antagonism, haste, and furious anger, she felt something arc between them that was none of these things, a sexual message so sharp she gave an involuntary intake of breath.

She felt it pulse through her own mind, she saw it reflect the same instant in his face. She saw a deeper concentration come into his eyes, and then a surprise—as if he had expected this, foreseen this, as little as she had. In the same moment, again with unspoken accord, they each stepped back.

Gini looked at the door, which was shut but unlocked. Rowland McGuire had moved to one side, so to leave would have been simple. She took a step toward the door, then hesitated. Rowland put a hand on her arm, then instantly withdrew it. Gini realized her anger had gone. There was still noise, turmoil, in her head, but it was of a different kind.

“How did you know I was coming here?” she asked in a quieter voice.

“I called your hotel in Amsterdam. They told me you’d left for Paris. I called about fifteen minutes after you left.” His eyes never left her face. “I called from my car, on the way to the airport. I was already on my way here. Someone had to cover this. I had fired you. I was the only other person with the necessary background. I was going to apologize. Ask you to join me here. I wanted—” He hesitated. “The hotel told me you’d had difficulty obtaining a room in Paris. I guessed you’d have tried to contact Lindsay, so I called here. It wasn’t difficult to track you down. I knew which flight you’d taken. So, I got here. Found the room. Made some calls. Waited.”