At the Edge of the Sun (Maggie Bennett 3)

He nodded, tossing a pile of neatly folded clothes on the foot of the sleeping bag. “I brought you some clean clothes. Your other stuff has just about had it.”

“Okay.” She sat there, clutching the sleeping bag around her. “Uh … Randall.”

He’d started back out the door, but he stopped at her hesitant voice. “Yes, Maggie?”

“When we get to Rome maybe we … we ought to change partners. You work with Holly for a bit, and I’ll help Ian.”

“Why?” He asked the question in an irritatingly calm voice.

“I just think it would be a good idea if we put some distance between us. We always seem to get into trouble.”

“We always seem to get into bed,” he corrected gently.

“In our case it’s the same thing.”

To her astonishment he smiled then, a gentle, nonmocking little smile. “Whatever you say, Maggie,” he replied. “I’ll meet you at the Bronco.”

She watched him disappear into the hallway, heading toward the blaze of sunlight to the left. He was whistling.

What did he have to be so cheerful about? Maybe he was just as glad not to have to deal with her. Maybe he’d prefer Holly, with her rapidly diminishing number of suitcases. Maybe he was only being kind last night …

Her body grew suddenly hot all over, as she remembered the details … No, he wasn’t being kind, not at all. And if he was accepting his current dismissal with an uncharacteristic amount of sang-froid, then it was no doubt only because he had something up his sleeve. She was going to have to be extra careful in the next few days. Not only was she going to have to keep a sharp eye on him, she was going to have to watch herself even more closely. Because if she hadn’t known better, hadn’t been wary enough to stop herself, she would have pulled him back into the doubtful comfort of the sleeping bag and seen just how far those scratches went.

With a weary sigh she dismissed that thought from her defiant brain and rose on unsteady feet, more than ready for a dose of cold water for her suddenly overheated body.

eleven

Slowly Holly replaced the ornate telephone back in its gilt cradle. It was a cold, rainy December in Rome, and even the lavish surroundings of the Ultima Hotel couldn’t brighten the gloom that had clamped down around her heart. Sybil’s coma had deepened, and she wasn’t expected to last the night.

She stretched her long, slender body out on one of the king-size beds, staring up at the ceiling with dry eyes. Her world was shifting, dissolving beneath her, and there was nowhere she could turn. Sybil was dying, and there was nothing she could do about it.

Nothing, that is, until she remembered the reason she was there, thousands of miles away from her mother’s deathbed. Revenge, sweet, bloody revenge beckoned.

She looked over at the other bed, at Ian’s battered leather suitcase lying half open. They were sharing a room again, over Holly’s halfhearted objections, but of course he hadn’t made a move in her direction. The moment they’d checked in Ian had changed his clothes and taken off with no more than a muttered excuse about the British Embassy, not returning until after dinner. By that time Holly was so livid at being abandoned that she maintained a fuming silence that lasted well into the next day. A silence that didn’t seem to bother Ian in the slightest. One cryptic phone call after breakfast and he took off again, without even the trumped-up excuse of the night before. It didn’t matter—she was past believing anything he chose to tell her, but right now she didn’t care. It was just as well he wasn’t around to ask awkward questions.

He had a knife in his suitcase. Holly had seen it several times, and it took her only a moment to find the hidden pocket where it rested. It was a nasty piece, very sharp, and the leather holder had an ominous brown stain near the top. For a moment she considered putting it back, then changed her mind. She couldn’t walk into the lion’s den unarmed. And that was exactly where she was going.

Once more she had an advantage. Once Sybil accepted the fact that Holly had seen Flynn she’d become embarrassingly loquacious, secure in the knowledge that of all her daughters, Holly was the least likely to judge her. She and Flynn intended to travel, she’d said. Only the best places. The Cielo in Rome, the Danieli in Venice, the Crillon in Paris. Darling Tim liked the finer things in life, and Sybil was more than willing to provide them. They’d go incognito, of course. While Sybil rather liked the fuss her worldwide reputation inspired, Tim was a possessive person and didn’t want to share her. If they were going to run away together to Italy they’d use phony names.

Extensive traveling had made Holly more than comfortable with the vagaries of the Italian telephone system. It took no more than three tries to get through to the Signor Palmo at the Cielo, to receive the regretful information that no, Mr. Flynn was not registered. There were a number of British and American males who’d checked in in the last twenty-four hours who might fit that description, from Dr. Mantel and Mr. Browning to Mr. MacDonald to …

“Mr. Browning?” Holly interrupted. “Mr. Robert Browning?”

“Yes, indeed, Miss Bennett. He checked into the ambassador suite late last night. Would you care to have your call put through?”

“No,” she said hastily, adrenaline shooting through her. “I think I might come and surprise him. What floor is the ambassador suite on?”

“The penthouse. May we say, Miss Bennett, that we’re all praying for your mother’s recovery? She’s been an honored patron here for many years. A grea

t lady, a very great lady.”

Sudden tears filled Holly’s eyes. “Thank you, signor. You are very kind. And please, don’t say a word to Mr. Browning. I want my arrival to be quite unexpected.”

“I understand,” said Signor Palmo, clearly scenting a romance. “My lips are sealed.”

“I knew I could count on you.”

Once more Holly replaced the phone. There were clear advantages to being a Bennett. Signor Palmo would hardly have been as helpful to any curious tourist. And she was able to use the well-known name to make immediate appointments to have her hair done, a manicure, and a facial—everything to pamper her much-abused body into a state of smooth perfection. Her own hotel even had a decent boutique. In less than two hours she was primed and ready, exquisitely beautiful and dressed to kill. Literally.