At the Edge of the Sun (Maggie Bennett 3)

“What makes you think we’d want you to do anything for us?” Randall replied, and his stormy eyes had grown colder as they moved between O’Banion and a temporarily entranced Maggie.

O’Banion laughed. “This is a small country and a small town. American tourists, no matter how well they blend in, would only be coming to see me. Especially when they have the dangerous look about them that you two do.”

Maggie was flattered. “I look dangerous?”

“That you do, lady,” O’Banion assured her. “If it weren’t those gorgeous eyes of yours it would be that splendid mouth just made for—”

“We were looking for you,” Randall interrupted. “A friend of a friend sent us.”

“Why’d you stop him, Randall?” Maggie objected. “It was just getting interesting.”

“Your mouth is made for gagging,” he replied shortly.

“Randall, is it?” O’Banion had picked right up on the name, and Maggie could have bit her tongue. Randall was right—she should have been gagged. “Would you be Randall Carter, then?”

Randall nodded. “You were expecting us?”

O’Banion looked mysterious. “I’d had word,” he said. “You’re wanting to find Flynn.”

“Exactly. Can you help us?”

O’Banion shrugged his lean shoulders. “Could be. We can’t talk here—he has too many friends around here. Can you meet me?”

“Name the place and time.”

“There’s a pub in Kerrydown called the Swan’s Liver. A lot of the British soldiers hang out there, along with people less picky in their politics.” His self-deprecating grin took the sting out of the words. “Run along there and I’ll meet you around midnight.”

“And how do we know we can trust you?” Randall inquired in the most charming of voices. “Why should you want to help us find Flynn?”

“Tim Flynn’s forgotten his people,” O’Banion replied, a note of grimness in his voice. “He made a lot of money in the States, and he’s already gambled half of it away. He’s not even in Ireland—last I heard he was heading for the Middle East. If we see a penny of his latest earnings then I’m Saint Patrick himself.” O’Banion laughed his hearty laugh. “Besides, it’s scum like himself that give the IRA a bad name. There are a great many of us who are working for a peaceful settlement of the troubles. The best thing that could happen to Tim Flynn is if someone puts a stop to his bloody career. I’ll be counting it a favor if you could do that.”

Maggie knew Randall well enough to see the distrust beneath his polite words. “We’ll be there.”

“Both of you, I’m hoping,” O’Banion said, turning the full force of his dazzling smile in Maggie’s direction.

And like a besotted fool, she smiled back.

“I don’t trust him.”

Maggie glared at her companion. “You just don’t trust anyone with charm.”

“Maggie, you may not recognize it, but I’m accounted to have a certain amount of charm myself,” Randall drawled. “You just happen to be immune to it.”

“And maybe you’re immune to O’Banion’s.”

“Maybe. But I don’t like this wild goose chase all over the hills of County Down. Why couldn’t we meet someplace else? I don’t think walking into a pub full of occupying forces is the safest thing to do.”

“O’Banion wouldn’t have suggested we meet there if it was dangerous,” Maggie insisted.

“Wouldn’t he? I’m not convinced of that.”

Maggie sighed, a long-suffering exhalation of breath. “If you’re not certain then why don’t we head back to the hotel rather than wander all over the Irish countryside in the dead of night? My feet are killing me, I’m half frozen, and I want a large glass of Irish whiskey to wash away that disgusting warm beer.”

“You can go back if you want, Maggie. The car’s still parked by the trees back there.”

“And leave you to take care of everything? No way, Randall. I’m sticking to you like glue.”

He looked down at her. “Promises, promises,” he muttered under his breath.