At the Edge of the Sun (Maggie Bennett 3)

So why wasn’t it vanishing in the cold light of day? Why did she have to fight the temptation to slide her hands beneath the rumpled cotton shirt, to move her head a fraction of an inch so that her mouth could brush against his strong, tanned neck? Why t

he hell couldn’t she shove him out of her bed and onto the hard stone floor?

Stupid, stupid, stupid, she railed at herself, not moving. She knew now that even if the worst were true, even if Randall had paid Bud Willis twenty thousand dollars to kill her husband, she couldn’t return the compliment. The best she could do would be to keep as far away from him as possible. In the few short days she’d been around him he’d proven just how irresistible he could be to her. Not once had her mind forgotten the horrible probability, even as her body responded to his.

Damn, they had to find Flynn soon! She had to get away from Randall before she made a bigger fool of herself, before she became sucked up in a mindless vortex of hating and loving and wanting and hurting. She had to get away while she could still call her soul her own.

Randall shifted in his sleep, and the length of his body pressed more intimately against her. She could feel his arousal, and telling herself that it was a normal male hormonal reaction with very little to do with her didn’t do much good. He was hot and hard against her, and she was hot and damp and ready, and her palms began to sweat. Maybe she could just …

“Maggie!” Holly’s voice bellowed through the shattered building, and Randall’s eyes flew open to look directly into hers. They stared at each other, for a long vulnerable moment. And then his head moved, his mouth touched hers, lightly.

She held very still. His blue-gray eyes darkened for a moment, and then he moved, pulling her underneath him on the narrow bed, and his mouth moved over hers—wet, demanding, his tongue capturing hers as he kissed her with a sudden desperation that bordered on panic. She lifted her arms to twine them about his neck, to pull him closer, when Holly’s voice split through the sound of heavy breathing and rustling bedclothes.

“Maggie!” she yelled from just outside their bedroom door. “Wake up, for God’s sake. It’s after nine!”

He was off her before the door opened, standing with his back to the door, staring out the shuttered window, only the rise and fall of his strong back attesting to the last few moments of passion.

It took Maggie a moment longer to regain her sanity. She was just sitting up when Holly burst into the room, and if her clothes were still decently around her, her expression must have been nothing short of dazed.

Holly came to a screeching halt. “Did I interrupt something?”

“No,” Maggie said, but her voice came out husky and breathless.

“Because I can go back downstairs and argue with Ian some more. I just didn’t think there was anything going on between you two.” She started an awkward retreat.

“There isn’t,” Maggie said.

“You could have fooled me.” Holly’s artless tongue once more tripped her up.

Randall moved then, abruptly, and he cursed. A moment later he was gone from the room, without a backward glance. Maggie watched him leave with mingled relief and regret.

“Okay, Holly,” she said wearily. “I’m awake. Where the hell did you get those clothes?”

Holly grinned, doing her best model’s slouch. She was wearing ill-fitting khakis, obviously belonging to Ian. Her thick black hair was in braids, she wore no makeup at all, and her only jewelry were the diamond studs Sybil had given her years ago, studs she never took off except for modeling assignments. She looked absolutely beautiful. “Do you like them? Ian’s been ditching my suitcases every chance he gets. All I’m left with is lingerie and evening dresses. He keeps getting pissed off so I thought I’d give him the natural look.”

“Did he appreciate it?” Maggie pulled herself out of the concave bed.

“I’m afraid not. He said he couldn’t see the difference and stomped from the room in a foul temper. Somewhat like your friend Randall.”

“Possibly they suffer from the same affliction,” Maggie suggested, running her fingers through her tangled mop of hair. “Are you all set to fly to Rome?”

“I find I’m longing for civilization once more. When Ian finally deigned to tell me we were going I almost kissed him. I’ll call the hospital the moment I get there. Maybe there’ll be good news.”

Maggie managed a brief, weary smile. “Let’s hope so.”

“I hate jeeps.”

“This isn’t a jeep,” Randall pointed out with maddening correctness. It was several hours later, with the two of them heading up into the mountains of the high Lebanon, and the atmosphere was more than mildly strained. He’d pushed her too far, he knew it, but he had no intention of stopping now. “It’s a very old Bronco,” he said.

“I don’t give a damn what it is. I hate four-wheel drive armylike vehicles with flimsy roofs, lousy seats, rotten suspensions, and noisy engines. I hate jeeps, Broncos, Land Rovers, and everything like them. How come Mabib couldn’t come up with a nice Jaguar? Or a second-hand Peugeot? Even a Ford?”

“This is a Ford.”

“It’s got to be a bastard cousin,” Maggie grumbled, squinting into the bright sunlight.

“We couldn’t drive into the mountains of Lebanon in anything less than a four-wheel drive. They don’t go in much for paved roads around here, and those that were in decent shape have been bombed out of existence.”

She leaned back in the uncomfortable seat, sighing. “Do you think we’re going to find him?”