Silver Linings

Jeep on the service road and walked out to board the plane.
    That was one of the problems with the casual way things were run out here in the islands, Mattie thought bitterly. This sort of thing would never have happened back home in Seattle. Unauthorized vehicles were simply not allowed out on airport runways back in the States.
    The young pilot glanced only briefly at his unwilling passenger. He nodded once at Goody as the gunman latched the door.
    “What took you so long?”
    “She took her own sweet time. Christ, let's just get this thing off the ground. The Colonel will be getting impatient.”
    Mattie fastened her seat belt, closed her eyes, and wondered where Hugh was.

    They reached Purgatory an hour later. Mattie was once again marched across an active runway and thrust into a waiting vehicle. No one said a word. She was surrounded by three armed men now, Goody, the pilot, and the driver of the car. All wore military-style clothing and all were surprisingly young. Mattie estimated their ages at between nineteen and twenty-three or twenty-four at the most.
    Her stress level, already sky high, went up another couple of notches when she recognized their destination. Paul Cormier's white island mansion looked as beautiful this time as it had when she had first seen it.
    Mattie got out of the car at the point of a gun and walked up the steps to the wide veranda. The door was opened by a young man who looked as if he ordered his clothes from Soldier of Fortune magazine. He had a gun strapped to his thigh.
    “This way, Miss Sharpe.”
    The first thing she noticed was that someone had cleaned Paul Cormier's blood off the white marble. For some reason that made her angry. It was as though some part of her felt the evidence of murder should not be erased until justice was done.
    The anger gave her strength. She walked swiftly down the white marble hall to the wide white room that fronted the house. The view of the sapphire-blue ocean through the bank of open French windows was dazzling. She concentrated on it rather than on the man who was rising from a white leather couch to greet her.
    “Miss Sharpe. Allow me to introduce myself. I am known now as Colonel McCormick, but I believe you are no doubt aware by now of my previous name, Jack Rainbird.”
    Mattie turned slowly to look at him, as if she found him a nuisance when all she really wanted to do was admire the view. She let her glance slide critically over him from head to foot.
    Jack Rainbird was an astonishingly handsome man by any standards. He appeared to be in his early forties, as Hugh had said, but he had the strong, bird-of-prey features that would not even begin to soften for many years. His eyes were a clear, light, honest blue. His blond hair, graying at the temples, had been precision cut with a razor to lie close to his head. His body was trim and there was a crisp military set to his head and shoulders. He was wearing perfectly pressed khakis. His belt buckle shone and his boots had been polished to a high gloss.
    All in all, Mattie thought, Rainbird had the classic heroic look historically associated with a leader of men. That was, of course, undoubtedly one of the many things that made him so dangerous. The other thing was his undeniable sexual charm. Hugh had been right. The man had it in spades. He exuded it like an aura.
    Mattie felt the first uneasy twinge of a throat-closing claustrophobia.
    “This is Paul Cormier's house,” she said boldly, more to counteract her own tension than anything else. “You have no business here.”
    A smile flickered briefly around Rainbird's finely crafted mouth. “What can I say? Best accommodations on the island, and I like having the best. Besides, our friend Mr. Cormier no longer has any need of his lovely island home.”
    “You killed him.”
    “Do you always jump to conclusions, Miss Sharpe? That is generally considered a dangerous thing to do.”
    “You killed him. Or had him killed.”
    “Obviously your mind is already made up. I imagine I owe that to Abbott. He, naturally, would have a somewhat biased view of events.”
    “Why?”
    Rainbird gave her a look that was half amused, half surprised. “Why, because he hates my guts, of course.” He walked across the beautiful room to a white liquor cabinet. “May I offer you a drink, Miss Sharpe?”
    “No, thank you.”
    “I was afraid you might be difficult about all this.” Rainbird splashed whiskey into a crystal glass. “You've been