At the Edge of the Sun (Maggie Bennett 3)

She and Randall had spent hours talking, wrapped up in the threadbare linen sheets and heavy blankets, wrapped in each other’s arms. She talked to him about growing up in Hollywood, about chasing after her feckless mother and trying to raise her younger sisters. And she finally talked, in soul-wrenching details, of Deke Robinson’s raping her when she was barely sixteen years old—a rape that had left her terrified of the dark and afraid of men. Until Randall and Gemansk, six years ago.

And he’d talked about growing up in Cambridge with his robber baron grandfather. His mother’s overwhelming philanthropic works left little time for her own family, and his father had his university dream world, where Shakespeare somehow seemed more real than his children. And Randall had grown up thinking love was taking care of the distant masses, mankind, and all its woes, that love was a Shakespeare sonnet, constant, seeking not to alter but to worship, unquestioningly. Love wasn’t need and want and anger and passion—such emotions weren’t reserved for the Carters of Cambridge.

He told her how long he loved her, long before he even knew it, long before he even recognized that love existed. They made love over and over and over again, and yet still he held something back.

She knew it without asking, knew by the shadow that still lingered in his blue-gray eyes, the tightness that thinned his mouth when he thought she wasn’t looking. She knew, and she felt the clutching tendrils of fear weaving around her heart. She knew, and was too frightened to ask what it was. She just clung to him all the more tightly, dreading the future.

She yanked her suitcase off the bed, looking around the room one last time. She’d spent her first honeymoon in this room, lying in Mack’s arms. She’d spent her second honeymoon, this time without benefit of marriage, in the same bed, becoming so tied up with Randall, physically, emotionally, spiritually, that there was no way she was ever going to be free. She looked around her and knew, no matter what happened, that she would never come back here again. A part of her life was over, a part full of doubts, regret, and passion. Stepping out into the hall, she shut the door behind her without a backward glance.

When it came to arranging transportation, Randall was an expert. The small, sleek Learjet waiting at the private airport just outside of Mestre was new and shiny, and if the pilot looked more like a member of the Red Brigade and less like Peter Graves, Maggie’s perfect idea of a pilot, well, who was she to complain? She had little doubt he really was a terrorist, given Randall’s usual efficiency.

“You want to tell us your plan of action?” Ian demanded not long after they took off into the southern skies. “I presume you do have a plan?”

“Did you check out your passport?” Randall was stretched out in one of the elegant reclining seats, his expression shuttered, giving nothing away.

“It says I’m James Welcome, age thirty-three, from New Zealand.”

“And that’s who you are,” Randall said. “James Welcome died in an airport bombing in Brussels last fall. The suitcase he was carrying exploded before he could leave it with the innocent passengers. Interpol kept his death a secret, just in case someone might be able to use his identity. He happened to have the same general physical description as you have. Do you think you can manage a New Zealand accent?”

“Australian is as close as I can come.”

“It’ll do. Holly’s your girl friend. She’s a violence groupie—likes excitement. All she has to do is giggle a lot.”

“Great.” Holly groaned. “How about letting me be the terrorist and Ian be the groupie?”

“Ian’s used to working undercover,” Randall replied. “Besides, we couldn’t come up with a match for you. There aren’t that many staggeringly tall and beautiful terrorists roaming around.”

“Sexist pig,” Holly said genially. “What about you and Maggie?”

Maggie looked up from her seat beside the window. “You think a groupie is boring? I get to be a nurse, for God’s sake. I’m just lucky he didn’t decide to make me a secretary.”

“A nurse?” Ian echoed.

“And I’m a plastic surgeon. Cul de Sac has the best equipped hospital in the entire continent of Africa. They do the most advanced cosmetic surgery there, for obvious reasons. Maggie and I are simply taking over from an American doctor and his mistress.”

“And where are they?”

“They’ve been … er … persuaded to remain in the States while we make use of their identities. So we all have an entree, and if we just watch what we’re doing, we?

?ll be fine. We’re landing on the private airstrip in a couple of hours, and then we’ll be on our own. Between the four of us we should be able to find Flynn.”

“What if he finds us first?” Holly demanded. “He knows what we all look like.”

“We’ll just have to find him before he finds us,” Randall said.

“And before we’re scheduled for surgery,” Maggie added.

“Oh, no,” Holly murmured, shuddering.

“Don’t worry.” An uncharacteristic smile lit Randall’s dark face. “I can look efficient in an operating room. I used to watch M*A*S*H all the time.”

It was the last semijesting remark anyone made. The tension inside the pressurized cabin was so thick, Maggie thought she might choke on it. The galley was stocked with ice, Dom Perignon, and every kind of liquor imaginable, but none of them dared take anything. They just sat there, drinking coffee and diet cola, watching the thick, puffy clouds as they drew nearer and nearer to Armageddon.

Maggie stretched her long legs out in front of her, willing her muscles to relax. Ian and Holly weren’t talking, but at least they were sitting together, and beneath their silent tension there was clearly a bond. He still didn’t know that Flynn had murdered his cousin Maeve—Randall insisted it would only distract him. Sooner or later they’d tell him; for now ignorance was their best bet. Every now and then Holly would put out one slim hand, touching Ian’s arm and he’d smile at her distractedly, sweetly, and Maggie was jealous …

There were no sweet smiles for her. No closeness, no touching, no silent bond. Randall had withdrawn into himself, leaving her miles away, and he sat by the opposite window, alone, staring out into the limitless sky, grimness haunting his mouth and eyes.

He’d chosen a seat off by himself, but that didn’t stop Maggie. She rose, making her way steadily across the cabin, and sank to the carpeted floor beside him. He looked up then, but his expression was unreadable.