At the Edge of the Sun (Maggie Bennett 3)
“All the Bennetts seem supernaturally strong,” he grumbled.
“That’s right. You botched it with the mother. She’s still alive, isn’t she?”
“Last I heard,” Flynn agreed. “Once this blows over I’ll be going back to California to finish what I started. I hate it when things aren’t complete.”
“You’re a tidy man, Flynn. What about the other one?”
“Ian Andrews? He’s gone to ground somewhere. If Maddelena doesn’t take care of him I have plans.” Flynn’s charming grin split his face. “Wonderful plans,” he crooned.
“I’m sure you do,” said the man in the wheelchair. “You always were an inventive bastard. Quite a man in my own style.”
Flynn looked down at the shriveled figure in the wheelchair, undecided whether to be insulted or flattered. He figured either was a waste of time, and he shrugged. “Is my room ready?”
“It always is, my boy. It always is.”
It was dark, and cold, and wet, Holly thought miserably. The floor beneath her, the wall behind her, were hard, damp stone. Ropes were cutting into her ankles, into her wrists, and whatever they’d stuffed in her mouth tasted foul. She was still dizzy from the drug they’d used when they’d abducted her from her luxury suite at the Danieli after Randall had left, but not dizzy enough. She sat there, huddled in pain and misery, and tried to pretend she wasn’t scared to death.
Better her than Maggie. Maggie wouldn’t have been able to bear the dark. But Maggie’s struggles would have loosened the ropes, instead of having them dig and bind into her skin. And Maggie wasn’t afraid of pain or dying, whereas she was a shivering, sniveling wreck.
She’d never seen eyes so soulless as the beautiful brown ones in Maddelena’s pretty young face. The contrast between her innocent youth and the death in her eyes made it all the more horrifying, and Holly knew there was no way she was going to be able to walk away from this mess. Where the hell was Ian when she needed him?
God, it was so cold. She tried to inch back into the corner, in a vain effort to get out of the draft, when she heard voices in the other room. Maddelena’s, and someone else’s. And with a sudden, overwhelming sense of horror, she knew she had the answer to her question. Where was Ian when she needed him? In the next room, in collusion with her kidnappers.
fourteen
It was the longest day Maggie had ever spent in her entire life. She woke late, curled up in Randall’s arms. Her first thoughts were a dizzying combination of dread and pleasure before she remembered where she was, before she remembered what had happened the day before.
She pulled away from him, and he let her go, watching her out of fathomless eyes. The travel alarm by the bed said an unbelievable eleven-fifteen. Only four hours to go.
She climbed out of bed, grimacing at her rumpled clothes. “Are you going to trust me out of your sight long enough to take a shower?” Her voice was low and bitter.
“We could always shower together,” he offered.
“It’ll be a cold day in hell.”
“I didn’t think you’d like the idea,” he said, undaunted. “I might remind you that you said the same thing about our ever making love again.”
“Damn you, Randall …”
“Stop damning me, Maggie,” he said wearily, his patience at an end. “And stop fighting me. We have bigger problems than each other.”
It was exactly what she had decided the night before. So much for good intentions, she thought with a trace of guilt. “You’re right,” she agreed. “But I still want to shower alone.”
“Go ahead. Do you want me to have them put through a call to L.A. to see how your mother’s doing?”
“Not now. They’ll ask about Holly, and I don’t lie to my f
amily.”
“No,” Randall said. “Only to yourself.”
She didn’t have to ask him what he meant and she didn’t bother arguing. One look at him and she wanted to climb back in bed, and she hated herself for it.
She turned her back on him, gathering fresh clothes and heading for the door. His voice stopped her, with a prosaic enough question. “What do you want from room service?”
“Nothing.”
“Maggie …”