The Iron Bar 397 XVIII. She looked from Anna, who was far too nice-looking to be travelling about alone, to that reassuring pile of luggage, and wrinkled her brows thoughtfully. Quite right. She's my mealticket. I needed a man the worst kind of way—a man I could keep for at least six months. Superimposed was the agitating thought of what would follow the death of this unwelcome guest: confusion, poking authorities, British and American red tape. Perhaps for the first time he realized that Anna was by no means an ordinary person.
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