The Prime Minister's Secret Agent(84)

How had she described him to Charlie? Tall, dark, and damaged, she remembered. His eyes were still a dark and unreadable brown, his hair curly, his tie slightly askew, and his shoulders hunched from tension. But he was still John.

“Also, to give you a message from Mr. Churchill.”

Maggie pulled out the extracted bullet from her coat pocket and held it out for him to see in the moonlight. “Those earrings will go nicely with my ‘Berlin souvenir.’ I’m thinking of having it made into a necklace.”

“Glad you finally had it taken out,” John said as he gave her the earrings. Their fingers touched, then Maggie pocketed the earrings.

“So, this is business?” she asked briskly.

“Special delivery from Number Ten.” He took an envelope from his breast pocket. “By courier.”

Maggie opened the envelope, slipping out the thick card. She caught a whiff of cigar smoke.


I need Hope.

Come back to London.

This is an order.

Please.

WSC



Maggie put it in her coat pocket, with the bullet and the earrings, without comment.

“What he didn’t put into writing,” John continued, “is that he’s going to be traveling to Washington, to meet with President Roosevelt.”

Maggie shrugged, trying not to show how touched she was. “Good for the P.M. He has what he’s wanted for so long.”

“And he wants you to go with him. With us.”

“So—you’re going to America, too.” A flicker of a smile played on Maggie’s lips. John in Washington, out of his element. Oh, I would love to see that.

“Yes, and David, as well.”

“And why does Mr. Churchill want me?”

“Well, ostensibly, he needs a secretary—”

Maggie threw up her hands. “Oh, for heaven’s sake …”

“He has a number of reasons, including your being an agent, and your being an American ‘diplomatic adviser,’ too, but really … He wants you back. All of us do.”

“You want me back?”

“Yes. Yes, I do. I’m sorry for my behavior in London over the last summer, Maggie. I’m very sorry. Because I was in love with you—and I’m still in love with you. And I will spend every day of my life making it up to you. I love you. Please come back to London with me.”

“I’m going to say this once, very slowly, and make it quite clear,” Maggie began. She looked him straight in the eye. “I’m not pouting, and I’m not being coy. I thought you died. And I mourned your death. And because I eventually moved on, with another man, you decided to punish me. You, John Sterling, are a narrow-minded self-centered fool.”

Maggie was on a roll now, angry words tumbling over each other in her haste to get them out. “What’s the biggest predictor of future behavior? Past behavior. If I let you back into my life I am sure you would hurt me again. So, please—go away.”

“Maggie—”

Maggie held up a hand. “You may have come back today with all kinds of good intentions and pledges and promises, but I’m not interested.”

John swallowed hard and was silent for a moment. “I thought if we could talk—well, I’m here and I’m ready to listen.”

Maggie took one step up and got out her key. “Go to hell.”

“Already been there, thanks.” John shook his head. “Well, regardless, I have explicit orders to bring you back to London with me.”

Maggie traversed the remaining stairs, and used her key to open her door. “I’m not going anywhere with you—and you can quote me to Mr. Churchill.” She stepped over the threshold and turned. “And you—you can just … stick it up your jumper!”

And then she slammed the door.


“Well, you’re quite the mucky pup.” The woman’s voice was deep and throaty. She was bundled in an overcoat and scarf from head to toe, walking slowly but resolutely up the path to the gardener’s cottage with the aid of a cane.

“Sarah!” John smiled. “David said you were here. So glad to see you up and around.”

They embraced. “I’m alive,” Sarah said. “But you—you had us all terrified, what with that we-thought-you-were-dead prank,” she said as she pulled away. “Naughty, naughty boy,” she added, wagging her finger at him.

John gave a wry smile. “Well, it wasn’t exactly a barrel of monkeys from my perspective, either.”

“I know. You poor thing.” She glanced up at the closed door. “Maggie not ready to make nice?”

“No would be an understatement.”

“Well, I know just the thing—we’ll get you a room in town, you can wash up, and then we can have dinner together and catch up on old times.”