At the Edge of the Sun (Maggie Bennett 3)

“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.”