At the Edge of the Sun (Maggie Bennett 3)

The question was softly spoken, but unwillingly Holly remembered the man sh

e’d seen across the expanse of her mother’s swimming pool, remembered her instinctive distrust and fear and once more she relived the guilt that had haunted her ever since. She should have gone with her instincts, she should have known there was something terribly wrong. Sybil had looked like hell, haunted, worn out, a faint tremor to her hands and dark circles under her eyes that even the world’s finest makeup couldn’t hide. If only Holly had done something about it, instead of shrugging and withdrawing, leaving her mother to make her own bed. She couldn’t rid herself of the feeling that it was her fault that bed might be turning into a coffin.

Randall was watching her out of those cool eyes, waiting for her answer. “No, I don’t think we’re overestimating Flynn,” she said finally. “Not at all.”

And with a small nod of satisfaction Randall turned his attention away from her, back to the London traffic. It was uncharacteristically snarled for nearing ten o’clock on a winter’s evening, and Champignons was halfway across town. He seemed perfectly content to wait, his face expressionless, and Holly found herself wondering if he ever showed any emotion apart from that brooding, possessive look he cast at Maggie whenever she wasn’t looking.

Hiking up her flowing pants legs, Holly swung around on the seat to stare at him. “You want to tell me what’s going on between you and my sister?”

He didn’t waste a glance in her direction. “No.”

“But there is something, isn’t there?” she continued, undaunted.

“Ask her.”

Holly sighed. “Maggie’s not talking. She never was one to share her troubles—she’s always been the strong one. Everyone in the family turns to her for help, not the other way around.”

An emotion did darken his face for a moment, but it flitted by so fast she couldn’t read it. “Then you should stop turning to her. Take care of your own problems,” he said rudely.

Holly shrugged. “I do my best. Maybe you should take her back to New York and leave Andrews to me.”

Randall laughed, a short, abrupt bark of amusement. “Trust me, Holly. The only way I’d manage to take Maggie anywhere was if she was out cold and in a straitjacket. And she’d still put up a hell of a struggle.” He set the car in neutral and leaned back. “We’re going to be here for a while,” he said calmly, casting a backward glance at the cars boxing them in. “There’s an accident up ahead.”

“What time were we supposed to be there?”

“We had reservations for dinner at ten. At this rate it’ll be closer to eleven when we get there.”

“I’ll starve to death,” Holly wailed.

“I sincerely doubt it. You’re a survivor,” Randall said. And Holly could only hope he was right.

That night, Timothy Seamus Flynn smiled his charming smile at the newsdealer on the street corner in Dublin. It was too early for the bomb to have gone off, much less have it reach the papers. He’d have to be patient, wait till tomorrow to hear all the glorious details.

There was one thing to be said for the Americans—their television news was wonderfully speedy. If it were L.A. the bombing would be all over the TV within the hour it exploded. As it was, the BBC would have shut down, and nothing else would be on after eleven tonight. It had been too long since he’d been in Ireland, and his time there usually didn’t encompass television watching.

It would be a grand sight, he thought with a pleased sigh, tossing a quid toward the grizzled old man and picking up the Times. Smoke and flames and screams filling the chilly night air. Next time he’d stay, no matter who he was supposed to meet in Dublin, no matter what arrangements had been made. They could damned well wait for him. A man with his talents didn’t grow on trees, he thought. There was no need for him to forgo the pleasures of this life for the sake of a schedule.

Faith, it would be glorious, he thought with a wistful smile. And the newsdealer, wiping a grimy arm across his runny nose, smiled back.

* * *

“Your sister doesn’t have an ounce of sense,” Ian Andrews announced grimly. “Whatever possessed you to bring her along? You look to me like a woman with a good head on her shoulders—didn’t you know better than to let such a silly creature tag along?”

Maggie turned from the window overlooking the brightly lit streets of London and gave Andrews a fleeting smile. “Holly’s got more sense than you think,” she replied mildly enough.

“That wouldn’t be difficult—a grasshopper has more sense than I credit your sister with.”

“Why?” Maggie asked.

Ian looked startled. “Why what?”

“Why don’t you think Holly has any sense? You’ve only just met her. What makes you assume she’s merely ornamental? And if she was as lacking in brains as you suspect, what would it matter? What have you got against pretty women?”

Ian opened his mouth, then shut it again, and his temper encompassed Maggie as well as her absent sister. “I don’t approve of the time or money spent on personal adornment,” he grumbled sourly.

“God, what a Calvinist,” Maggie said, turning back to the window. There was a light snow falling, and in the distance she could see Big Ben lit up against the dark sky. Almost eleven o’clock. At least an hour before they returned.

“Did you see how many suitcases your sister brought with her?” Ian demanded.