At the Edge of the Sun (17 page)

“What happened?” he demanded gruffly, sitting on the bed beside her.

“Happened?”

“I found you passed out on the floor of my room, bleeding to death, snow filling the room, my suitcase strewn from one end of the room to the other …” His voice was tight with anger and something else. “So what happened?”

“I heard a noise in your room and I thought it was you. It wasn’t.”

“And?”

“It was a very pretty teenage girl rummaging through your suitcase. She took one look at me and dived for the window. I went after her but she managed to cut me before escaping.”

“It’s not that bad a wound. Little more than a scratch, as a matter of fact,” he said.

She looked down at her neatly bandaged forearm. “It hurts like hell.”

“I’m sure it does. Do you want me to kiss it and make it better?” he said in something that was almost a drawl from the coldly proper Randall Carter.

Maggie looked up at him. She had two choices. She could make the wise decision and give him a clipped, cool dismissal. Or she could lie back in the bed she’d once shared with Mack, lie back with the cold and the wind and the darkness all around and hold out her arms to him. For a
cold man he was capable of a great deal of fiery warmth. For a dark man he managed to chase away the shadows that tormented her. Slowly she leaned back against the pillows that cushioned her body, and her mouth opened to suggest he do just that, when the telephone beside her bed shrilled into life.

So much for seductive lassitude, she thought, breathing a sigh of gratitude as she grabbed the telephone off the hook.
“Pronto,”
she said, and knew that even Randall could hear the relief in her voice.

“Maggie?” It was Holly’s voice, and yet it wasn’t. Her usually light tones were thickened with tears and something else. Something Maggie recognized as pain. “Maggie, they’ve got me. They’re … they’re hurting me. Maggie …” Her voice was cut off and the muffled female voice that took her place sent chills down Maggie’s spine.

“You wish to see your sister again, Miss Bennett?” The voice was charming, with a delicate Italian accent.

“Yes.”

A small, soft laugh on the other end. “Then you and your friend will be pleased to come to the Calle del Porco tomorrow afternoon. There is a little glassware shop called the Banquetto, and we’ll be waiting for you. That is, if I didn’t cut you too deeply.”

“We’ll come now!” Maggie said desperately.

“It will do you no good. We won’t be there. Tomorrow at three, Miss Bennett. Your sister will be safe until then, if you do as I say.”

“Now, damn you!”

“I give the orders. Just be glad Flynn isn’t here, Miss Bennett, or your sister wouldn’t survive the night.
Ciao.”
And the phone clicked into silence.

She raised desperate eyes to Randall. “They’ve got Holly.”

“So I gathered.” He was damnably calm, sitting there.

“They’ve hurt her,” she said. “They’re going to hurt her some more.”

“Probably.”

“Don’t just sit there,” Maggie shrieked. “We have to rescue her!”

“How? They’ve made arrangements for us to meet them, haven’t they?”

She hated the reason in his voice. “At the Calle del Porco tomorrow afternoon. It’s a little glass shop. But we can’t wait, Randall. They might kill her.”

“Maggie, you know as well as I do that they won’t be there now, or she wouldn’t have given you the address. And I don’t think they’ll kill her. She wouldn’t be any good as a bargaining chip if she were dead. It’s Flynn who kills for the fun of it—most of the other terrorists put their cause ahead of their personal hobbies.”

“Hobbies?” Maggie echoed in disgust. “You’re talking about my sister’s torture and murder like it’s collecting stamps or something.”

“I don’t think Flynn’s in Italy any longer. In which case your sister is safe, at least until they get what they want from us.”

“So what are you intending to do?” she demanded.

“There’s nothing we can do except wait. You know that as well as I do, Maggie.”

She tried one last time. “You didn’t hear her, Randall. She was crying. She was terrified, and she was hurt. I can’t just ignore that.”

“Holly’s a lot tougher than you want to admit. Your whole family is tougher than you realize. She’ll be all right.”

“Can you promise me that?” she demanded.

He rose, crossing to his door, and she waited for him to open it. He did no such thing—instead he slid the chain over it, went to the hall doorway, and did the same. “There are no guarantees in this life, Maggie.”

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

He was kicking off his shoes, shrugging out of his charcoal-gray jacket and unfastening his tie. “I’m getting ready for bed.”

“Not in here you aren’t.”

“I’m sleeping nowhere else. It’s not that I’m overcome with lust, dear heart,” he said, tossing his white silk shirt onto the chair beside his jacket. “But if I let you out of my sight you’ll be combing Venice looking for Holly and just get yourself in trouble. You’ll wait till tomorrow if I have to handcuff you to me for the night.” He slid his calfskin belt from his trousers, tossing it on top of the shirt, and then proceeded to unfasten his pants. He had buttons instead of a zipper, she realized with an abstracted fascination. And then he stripped off his pants, leaving abbreviated silk boxer shorts chastely in place, and climbed into bed beside her.

She didn’t even bother to fight. If she’d hit him he’d have to touch her, and if he touched her they’d make love. At least he was lying beside her without making any moves.

“Please let me look for her,” she said, her voice small and pleading.

“No, Maggie.” There was real regret in his voice, but it wasn’t enough.

“I’ll never forgive you, Randall. My sister’s blood will be on your head.

“Add it to my list of sins,” he said in a clipped voice. “Put it up there along with my putting out a contract on Pulaski.”

“Did you?”

“I’ve told you before I’m not going to answer that. Make up your own mind,” he said. “Turn off the light.”

It was the final straw. The light beside her bed was as weak as the one in Randall’s room, but it kept the pitch blackness of the night at bay. “I’m afraid of the dark,” she said.

“Maggie,” he said in a weary voice, “I don’t give a rat’s ass. Turn off the goddamned light or I’ll climb over you to do it myself. And I might not feel like climbing back.”

She reached up and turned off the light. It wasn’t completely dark—the lights from the Grand Canal filtered back along the side canal, and there were lights from the other
buildings around them. But it was dark enough, and cold enough, and in her mind Maggie could hear Holly’s voice, weak with tears and pain. Her arm throbbed, her body ached, and she wanted to scream with rage and fear. She bit her lip hard and lay there fully clothed, and shivered.

It may have been minutes, it may have been hours. Strong hands reached out and caught her arms, pulling her reluctant body against his. She fought for a moment, ignoring the searing pain in her arm, but he quickly stilled her halfhearted defenses, wrapping his arms around her and cradling her against the warmth of his body. “I’m just trying to get you warm, Maggie,” he whispered in her ear. “Lie still.”

She opened her mouth to tell him to let go of her, to get his goddamned hands off her. But she shut it again. Even if she really wanted to be released he wouldn’t do it. And she didn’t want him to. She needed warmth. And there were times when she thought Randall was closer to her than anyone else. They’d been through so much together that they were bound, whether they liked it or not.

A sigh left her lips, a noisy one that filled the room, and the tension drained out of her body as she settled back against him. She needed her energy for fighting Holly’s kidnappers, for fighting Tim Flynn. For now Randall was her ally, her only friend in a world full of dangerous enemies. For now that would have to do.

Timothy Seamus Flynn looked down at the man in the wheelchair, eyed the tubes and machinery that were keeping him alive, looked down and smiled. “I’ve missed you, mate,” he said.

The man returned his smile, a skeletal upcurving of his lips beneath the portable respirator. “We’re glad to have you back, Flynn. I didn’t think you’d be coming alone.”

“Maeve died,” he said sadly, his wonderful blue eyes filling with ready tears. “She was caught in a crossfire—she never stood a chance.” And as he remembered her desperate
struggles that had pleased him so much a weary sigh left him. “There are too few like Maeve O’Connor.”

The man in the wheelchair nodded, speculation in his colorless eyes. “Too few,” he agreed solemnly. “What about the Americans who’ve been chasing you?”

“They’ll be taken care of in Venice,” he said. “No problem—Maddelena owes me a favor.”

“I wouldn’t count on it. You’ll find both Randall Carter and Maggie Bennett a lot harder to kill.”

“All the Bennetts seem supernaturally strong,” he grumbled.

“That’s right. You botched it with the mother. She’s still alive, isn’t she?”

“Last I heard,” Flynn agreed. “Once this blows over I’ll be going back to California to finish what I started. I hate it when things aren’t complete.”

“You’re a tidy man, Flynn. What about the other one?”

“Ian Andrews? He’s gone to ground somewhere. If Maddelena doesn’t take care of him I have plans.” Flynn’s charming grin split his face. “Wonderful plans,” he crooned.

“I’m sure you do,” said the man in the wheelchair. “You always were an inventive bastard. Quite a man in my own style.”

Flynn looked down at the shriveled figure in the wheelchair, undecided whether to be insulted or flattered. He figured either was a waste of time, and he shrugged. “Is my room ready?”

“It always is, my boy. It always is.”

It was dark, and cold, and wet, Holly thought miserably. The floor beneath her, the wall behind her, were hard, damp stone. Ropes were cutting into her ankles, into her wrists, and whatever they’d stuffed in her mouth tasted foul. She was still dizzy from the drug they’d used when they’d abducted her from her luxury suite at the Danieli after Randall had left, but not dizzy enough. She sat there, huddled in
pain and misery, and tried to pretend she wasn’t scared to death.

Better her than Maggie. Maggie wouldn’t have been able to bear the dark. But Maggie’s struggles would have loosened the ropes, instead of having them dig and bind into her skin. And Maggie wasn’t afraid of pain or dying, whereas she was a shivering, sniveling wreck.

She’d never seen eyes so soulless as the beautiful brown ones in Maddelena’s pretty young face. The contrast between her innocent youth and the death in her eyes made it all the more horrifying, and Holly knew there was no way she was going to be able to walk away from this mess. Where the hell was Ian when she needed him?

God, it was so cold. She tried to inch back into the corner, in a vain effort to get out of the draft, when she heard voices in the other room. Maddelena’s, and someone else’s. And with a sudden, overwhelming sense of horror, she knew she had the answer to her question. Where was Ian when she needed him? In the next room, in collusion with her kidnappers.

It was the longest day Maggie had ever spent in her entire life. She woke late, curled up in Randall’s arms. Her first thoughts were a dizzying combination of dread and pleasure before she remembered where she was, before she remembered what had happened the day before.

She pulled away from him, and he let her go, watching her out of fathomless eyes. The travel alarm by the bed said an unbelievable eleven-fifteen. Only four hours to go.

She climbed out of bed, grimacing at her rumpled clothes. “Are you going to trust me out of your sight long enough to take a shower?” Her voice was low and bitter.

“We could always shower together,” he offered.

“It’ll be a cold day in hell.”

“I didn’t think you’d like the idea,” he said, undaunted. “I might remind you that you said the same thing about our ever making love again.”

“Damn you, Randall …”

“Stop damning me, Maggie,” he said wearily, his patience at an end. “And stop fighting me. We have bigger problems than each other.”

It was exactly what she had decided the night before. So much for good intentions, she thought with a trace of guilt. “You’re right,” she agreed. “But I still want to shower alone.”

“Go ahead. Do you want me to have them put through a call to L.A. to see how your mother’s doing?”

“Not now. They’ll ask about Holly, and I don’t lie to my family.”

“No,” Randall said. “Only to yourself.”

She didn’t have to ask him what he meant and she didn’t bother arguing. One look at him and she wanted to climb back in bed, and she hated herself for it.

She turned her back on him, gathering fresh clothes and heading for the door. His voice stopped her, with a prosaic enough question. “What do you want from room service?”

“Nothing.”

“Maggie …”

She was smart enough to hear the warning in his voice. “Coffee,” she said meekly, swallowing her temper and heading for the bathroom.

She managed to eat half a sweet roll with Randall threatening mayhem, to drink three cups of sweet black coffee that only made her more nervous. Together they pooled their weapons—her Colt 380, his dark and serviceable Beretta, the ubiquitous Uzis. The border guards hadn’t bothered to check the aging Bronco for weapons, and Ian’s illicit arsenal would come in handy. Maggie stared down at the weapons with unconcealed distaste. She’d worked hard at making her hands and feet deadly weapons, but they wouldn’t be much good against machine guns. And Maddelena looked the type to be into hardware.

Then there was nothing to do but wait. Their plan was simple—Maggie would head into the front of the shop, Randall would sneak around back. It wasn’t much of a plan, but with so little information available it was the best they could do. Maggie promised herself that if they hurt Holly she wouldn’t hesitate to use the hated Uzi.

The snow had melted in the bright Venetian sunshine, and the Piazza San Marco was crowded with tourists even during the chilly winter. For a while Maggie tried to distract herself by deciding whether there were more pigeons or tourists, and then gave up. Either way, there were too damned many of them. Without a word she walked with Randall, across the great square, putting her arm through his without a murmur of protest, as they watched the great
clock of St. Mark’s pass the hours with excruciating slowness.