Could he read the love in her eyes? Randall seemed omniscient at times—there was every likelihood that he knew exactly what was going on in her brain. “Thank you,” she said, her voice soft and low and loving.
An achingly brief smile curved his mouth. “Merry Christmas,” he said, and leaning down, brushed his lips against hers, slowly, sensuously, lovingly. And she accepted it, accepted him, took his sensuality and his love and opened her mouth beneath his.
“Ahem.” Holly was standing there, tapping her foot with mock impatience, a mischievous sparkle in her eyes as Maggie finally surfaced. “We’re going to miss the service.”
Randall smiled down at Maggie, and there was an equally bemused look in his blue-gray eyes. “Oh, we can’t do that.”
“Goodness, no,” Maggie murmured. “We wouldn’t want to do that.” Still in a daze, she put her arm through Randall’s strong one and followed him out into the Venetian night.
It was a two-and-a-half-hour service, and Maggie didn’t mind in the slightest. She could have gone on indefinitely, sitting there in the magnificent vastness of St. Mark’s with Randall’s body pressed up against hers in the crowded sanctuary. For a brief time everything was perfect. Tomorrow, or the next day, perhaps, she’d try to figure out what and where Cul de Sac was. Later they could make plans, try to trace where Ian had gone, figure out how to trap Flynn before he found out Sybil had survived his knife work.
But for now she was content to sit there, letting the liquid Italian and sonorous Latin roll over her, thinking about her thirty-four years of Christmases, thinking about almost two thousand years of Christmases. For tonight and tomorrow she wasn’t going to think about death or terrorism or Timothy Seamus Flynn. She was going to think of peace and happiness. All is calm, all is bright.
A light snow was falling on the Piazza San Marco when they left the church. It melted as soon as it hit the ground, the dozing pigeons, the furled umbrellas from the outdoor cafes. “A white Christmas,” Holly said with a sigh. The wind ruffled her long black hair, brushing it against her pale, flawless complexion. “Where the hell is Ian?”
They chose to walk back to their hotel. It was a brisk night, but the gentle snow, the fitful half moon, and the fresh clean smell of the sea surrounding the ancient city added to the magic in the air. The three of them didn’t talk; they didn’t need to. They were perfectly attuned to each other, to the joy and relief at Sybil’s recovery, the tinge of melancholy of missing Ian who’d managed to save their lives that afternoon. The ancient city was as serene as befitted her old name, La Serenissima, and its calm touched the three of them.
The Palazzo Carboni was a blaze of lights and noise when they finally reached the tiny square. “Are we going to skip Signor Tonetti’s glass of lambrusco?” Randall asked, his voice even.
“I think so,” Maggie replied. “I want to go to bed.”
“Do you?” he said. “We can arrange that.” Neither of them were talking about sleep.
“Would you rather have my room?” Holly questioned. “It’s bigger than yours, and I’m afraid I’ll be spending the night alone.”
“I like my room,” Maggie said. “We’ll stay there.
” Randall said nothing.
But as luck would have it Signor Tonetti was in the wide hallway that served as a lobby, and his seamed face lit up as he caught sight of Maggie. He rushed over, enveloping her in a hug that smelled of lilac water and lambrusco, welcoming her in a spate of Italian that was incomprehensible.
Finally he released her, regaining his composure, though there were sentimental tears in his spaniel-like dark eyes. “What a pleasure it is to see you again, signora. I could not believe it when my wife told me you were back. I had thought never to see you again.”
She could feel Randall beside her, standing motionless, and a sudden sense of foreboding swept over her. She wanted to run, wanted to drag him away from the garrulous old man before all hell broke loose, wanted to keep that warm and happy feeling of requited love for just one night.
But it was already too late. “We were heartbroken to hear about the signor, your husband, and his murder. I told my wife, I said ‘Zara, never have I seen two people more in love than those two. What a cruel joke of life, to separate them so soon.’ We wept for you, Zara and I, and we weep with joy at your return.”
“Thank you, Signor Tonetti,” she said hastily, trying to pull away. “You’re very kind. Perhaps tomorrow or the next day we could talk …”
“Tragedy!” Signor Tonetti proclaimed in thrilling accents. “A great tragedy of life! And so brave you are, to return to a place filled with memories. With every glance you must remember the joy you had here.”
She could feel it building, the sheer, white-hot rage of the man beside her. She didn’t dare look at him, she just stood there, trying to free herself from Signor Tonetti’s embrace, desperate to escape before the old man ruined everything.
“And to think, you were even able to stay in the same room, the same bed where you spent your honeymoon. It is so sad, it is like Puccini. My heart breaks, looking at you.”
Too late, she thought numbly. Much, much too late. She felt Randall’s icy cold hands on her arm, removing her from Tonetti’s clutch. She heard him speak, even, polite words, bidding them all a good evening and a merry Christmas, leading her away from the Tonettis, from a worried-looking Holly, down the dark, empty corridors to the room she’d once shared with Mack. And she could feel his hands shake.
The room was dark, with only the fitful glow of the half moon illuminating the shadowed corners. Snow was still falling outside their window, disappearing into the murky waters of the canal, feathering the gondolas that were tied up to their striped mooring poles. No one wanted to go for a gondola ride on a cold night like this, a Christmas Eve made for families and warm fires and loved ones. Maggie wrapped her arms around her narrow body to keep the shivering at bay.
He released her the moment they were inside, and she realized with surprise that her arms were numb where he’d held her. She heard the rasp of the lock, the rattle of the chain, but she still didn’t dare look at him. She stood there, waiting.
He could have done it, she thought, feeling his presence as he stalked around her. He could have killed Mack himself, or he could have hired Bud Willis at twice the price. The rage he was in right now was one that could easily lead to murder. He wanted to kill her, she knew that. He was so angry that he wanted to strangle her and drop her in the canal. She knew that he’d killed before in the line of duty, and she also knew he was entirely capable of killing again if he had to. But would he kill her?
He’d walked over to the bed, and the small glow of the bedside lamp pierced the darkness as he flicked it on. It would make an odd sort of sense, Maggie thought as she stood there, unmoving, waiting. They were so tied up in love and hate, distrust and passion. Surrounded as they were by pain and death, it was bound to spill over on them sooner or later. And if Randall killed her he wouldn’t have to deal with the problem of whether he loved her or hated her. Because she knew that it was loving her that he couldn’t stand. He hated to need anyone, to want anyone and he needed and wanted Maggie.
She didn’t want to die. She wanted to lie in Randall’s arms and make love to him. She wanted to cry and be soothed. She wanted to be protected and nurtured and made to feel as only Randall could make her.
She forced herself to look at him, forced herself to meet the fiery rage she knew she’d find in his face. And her last little bit of courage vanished in the face of that murderous fury.