Darkness Before the Dawn (Maggie Bennett 2)

“I wouldn’t think of disturbing them,” Randall said. “I already got the tapes from him this evening.”

“Efficient as ever,” she said. “Where are they? Do you have them on you?”

“Maggie, Maggie, do you think I’d do such a silly thing and ruin the line of my jacket?” Randall mocked.

“Silly question,” she muttered. “Of course you wouldn’t. So where are they?”

“Caleb cornered me the moment he arrived, and I locked them in the car. Apparently he thought about everything you so artlessly disclosed tonight and decided it was time to make a move. It seems that move was on your hapless sister.”

“Not so hapless,” Maggie said, remembering the dazed look on Kate’s face as she wrapped her arms around Caleb’s neck. “So we’ll have the apartment to ourselves. Just you and me and the Potato People.” Her voice was disgruntled, and she could feel Randall’s eyes watching her.

“Just you and me and the Potato People,” he agreed. “The possibilities are endless.”

She laughed then, unable to help herself. “Damn, Randall, I’ll be glad when this is all cleared up.”

She must have been imagining the look she thought she saw in his eyes. Randall didn’t look that way at anybody—not with warmth and longing and tenderness. Those emotions weren’t part of his makeup. “So will I,” he said, in the cool and distant tone of voice she was more used to. “So will I.”

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“I don’t know if I can stand much more of this,” Maggie warned. She rolled onto her back and glared up at Randall. “I don’t think I’ll ever eat potatoes again.”

Randall spared a glance from the twin televisions and The Revenge of the Potato People, Part Two to look down his elegant nose at Maggie. It was three in the morning, but his only concession to the lateness of the hour was to prop his elegantly shod feet on Kate’s coffee table. His tie was still perfectly knotted, his shirt was buttoned, his hair unrumpled.

Maggie, on the other hand, had dispensed with the too-small black dress the moment they’d arrived back at the apartment. She’d searched through all her clothes for what was most likely to irritate Randall and had triumphantly come up with a disreputable pair of cutoffs. Although they unfortunately showed miles of her long, tanned legs, they were still faded, patched, and worn enough to be anathema to the impeccable Randall. She was wearing one of Mack’s old denim shirts on top, its shirttails shredded, wearing it because it was the oldest thing she owned, wearing it as some sort of talisman against the powers of darkness. The powers of Randall.

She wiggled her bare toes and looked up at Randall in the darkened room. He’d said nothing at her complaint, merely let his eyes trail over her. She sat up, crossing her legs in front of her. “Aren’t you getting sick of this? I’d think French art films would be more your style, not sci-fi epics.”

“This is hardly an epic, Maggie,” he pointed out. “This is a wretched excuse for wasting film, and I’m just as tired of it as you are. I might remind you that we’re not watching it for fun, despite all the popcorn you’ve been rolling around in. We’re watching it for information.”

Maggie grinned. She’d insisted on making a tub of popcorn before Randall started the damned movies, and she’d proceeded to spill it all over Kate’s beige carpet as she stretched out on the floor to suffer through three viewings of the Potato People. Caleb had six videotapes. The first four were identical and innocent, as far as they could tell. They were on the last lap, and Maggie was ready to give up hope of ever finding anything out.

“Aren’t you uncomfortable sitting up there like an undertaker?” she questioned idly, reaching behind her for the glass of wine she’d only managed to spill once, and that time on purpose. “Don’t you ever relax?”

“No,” he said repressively. “Pay more attention to the movie and less attention to my wardrobe, Maggie. We’re getting to the good part.”

“The good part?” she echoed in disbelief. “There is no such thing.”

“Well, the less horrible part,” he temporized. “When the potatoes eat the Empire State Building.”

“Randall, the special effects aren’t even that good. You can tell that Empire State Building is three feet tall.”

“Maggie, stuff your mouth with more popcorn or go to bed,” he said. “I’m trying to pay attention.”

Maggie turned to stare at the twin televisions. Big, puffy potatoes were rolling down a miniature Fifth Avenue, heading directly toward the Empire State Building. It had been mildly entertaining the first time around, but by the third it had definitely lost all its merit. Not even Maggie’s third glass of wine helped. She turned her back on it, scampering to her feet and crossing the darkened room to the sofa. Randall sat unmoving, looking up at her.

She’d had too much wine and not enough sleep. She knew that. She was playing with fire and was about to get burned—she knew that, too. But even with Mack’s shirt wrapped around her, she couldn’t resist.

“Randall,” she said, her voice teasing. “You’re such a stuffed shirt. Can’t you at least loosen your tie? Or would your head fall off?”

“Leave me alone, Maggie,” he said, his voice a warning—a warning she chose to ignore.

She squatted down beside him. Her bare knees almost touched him, but still he didn’t move. For some reason, the memory of Caleb and Kate wrapped in each other’s arms still haunted her. She imagined them right now in the king-size bed in Caleb’s apartment; The Revenge of the Potato People would be miles from their thoughts—if they were even thinking at that point. “Come on, Randall,” she said, a mischievous smile playing about her mouth, dancing in her eyes. “Prove that you’re human like the rest of us.”

“I’m human, Maggie. Don’t goad me.” The potatoes squashed the Empire State Building and neither of them noticed.

“Then loosen up.” She reached out to unfasten his tie, but his hand shot out and caught her wrist, stopping her before she could touch him. He was hurting her. Maggie didn’t say a word. She only stared at him, her eyes wide and waiting. They could both feel her pulse pounding through her slender wrist.