At the Edge of the Sun

by Anne Stuart

  The door opened without the courtesy of a knock, and in the shifting dust motes and bright sunlight she could see a tall, narrow figure outlined there.

  “What do you want, Randall?” She didn’t bother to move, to sit up, she lay there on the bed and summoned up a weak glare.

  “Are you all right?” He moved into the room, shutting the door behind him, plunging the room back into shadows, and Maggie saw him drop his suitcase on the floor.

  “What do you want?” she repeated. “And why did you bring your bag with you?”

  “We’re sharing the room, Maggie. Mabib’s house can’t accommodate privacy—there are only three rooms with the roof still on. Mabib, his wife, and three children are in one, Holly and Ian, if he ever returns, are in the other.”

  Maggie was off the narrow bed in a flash. “Forget it. Holly and I can share a room …”

  He caught her by the door, his hand like a manacle around her arm. She had no choice but to halt, but she stared up at him, a defiant expression on her face.

  Randall sighed. “Sit down, Maggie.”

  “I don’t want to sit down, I want to—” She found herself sitting, with Randall leaning over her, doing his absolute best to intimidate her. She glared at him, ignoring her pounding heart and sweaty palms.

  “We’re in a dangerous situation, madam,” he said, his voice harsh and clipped. “While we’re in Beirut this is no longer a democracy. I’ve lived here, I know what’s going on. For the duration of our stay I’m in charge, and we’re all going to do what I say. Two women in one room is asking for trouble. Everyone around knows we’re here, and I don’t care how good you are at taking care of yourself, when it comes right down to it you aren’t as strong as Ian. He’ll do a much better job taking care of Holly than you can.”

  “If he returns,” Maggie snapped. “And if he doesn’t kill her himself.”

  “He’ll return. Don’t let your pride endanger your sister’s life, Maggie. You’re too smart for that.”

  “Do you really think I’m going to share this bed with you, Randall?”

  A small grin lit his usually sober face. “You have before.”

  “Forget it.”

  “I’m not likely to do that. However, I imagine Mabib can find you some bedding for the floor.”

  “Me?”

  “You’re the one with objections to sharing the bed, not me,” he pointed out politely. “You can have the floor.”

  “You bastard,” she began, when the door opened once more, and Holly stood there, her face pale in the shifting sunlight.

  “Maggie, Randall,” she said, and her voice was shaky. “You’d better come.”

  Randall rose swiftly, and Maggie watched the sudden, gentle concern with an odd feeling of jealousy. He’d never been that tender with her. “What is it, Holly?”

  “Mabib’s had word. Ian’s been kidnapped.”

  seven

  “Calm down,” Randall said flatly, and his prosaic voice snapped Holly out of her incipient hysteria. “Whoever has him, they’ll probably be willing to trade.”

  Mabib had appeared in the door, and his dark face was creased with worry. “It’s a group calling themselves the Children of God, Randall. Apparently your friend was fool enough to go wandering up in the hills, looking for training camps. He ran into those bandits instead. They’ve got him, and they want an exchange.”

  Randall nodded. “What terms?”

  A sour smile lit Mabib’s face. “Five million dollars and freedom for all political prisoners in Syria.”

  “What?” Holly shrieked.

  Randall appeared singularly unmoved. “Don’t worry, Holly,” he said absently, and once more Maggie felt that start of jealousy. “They’ll bargain.”

  “But five million dollars—”

  “How organized are the Children of God, Mabib?” he asked. “I’m not familiar with that particular splinter group.”

  “With reason, my friend. They’re the most pitiful of a pitiful bunch. They have no organization, no money, no plans, no power. They roam the hills outside Beirut like wild dogs, preying on anyone who falls in their way. I would think, since they haven’t killed your friend yet, that it will be a simple enough matter to get him back.”

  “Five thousand, do you think?”

  “No, no,” Mabib said. “Five hundred dollars will be more than enough.”

  “What about the political prisoners?” Maggie spoke for the first time.

  Randall’s blue-gray eyes touched her pale face briefly. “I imagine asking for political prisoners is merely a face-saving device.”

  “Indeed, yes, miss,” Mabib assured her. “They’re bandits, nothing more. By asking for political prisoners they’re trying to ally themselves with the PLO in case anyone comes after them. Once they know they’re getting money they’ll drop all other demands.”

  “But five hundred dollars?” Maggie said.

  “We could bargain them down even lower, but I’m afraid they’d take it out on your friend before returning him,” Mabib said with a shrug. “You have enough cash on you?”

  “I do,” Holly said, a glint of steel in her aquamarine eyes.

  “That’s not necessary, Holly …” Randall began.

  “Yes, it is,” Maggie interrupted him. “If I know my sister, and I do. Right, Holly?”

  “Right, Maggie. I’m down to three suitcases, thanks to him and his high-and-mighty attitude. I want to be the one to bail him out of the mess he’s gotten himself into.”

  “He won’t thank you for it,” Randall warned.

  Holly grinned. “I sincerely hope not. I want it to drive him absolutely crazy.”

  Randall shook his head. “There are times, Holly, when you frighten me even more than your sister.”

  “Really?” Holly looked genuinely pleased. “Thanks.”

  Randall and Mabib were gone a long time. Mabib’s wife spoke no English, merely smiled shyly as she cooked something arcane and delicious smelling in the bombed-out courtyard of the building. Her children, equally shy and equally pretty, played among the shattered mosaics. Maggie gave up trying to communicate, accepting two dishes of the fragrant supper and carrying it back to her room. The room Randall was fool enough to think he’d share.

  Holly was waiting for her, pacing the narrow area, her high-heeled silver sandals tapping on the stone floor. She was dressed, appropriately enough, in rose chiffon harem pants, her midnight hair a cloud around her beautiful face, and she accepted the dish with a grimace before sinking down on the dusty stone floor.

  “I don’t suppose you know what this is?” she asked, poking at it with the large spoon Mabib’s wife had provided.

  “Haven’t the foggiest. Eat it anyway. Who knows when we’ll be fed again.” Maggie sat cross-legged on the narrow bed, watching her sister through the shifting shadows. Night was falling, darkness closing in around them, as Mabib’s house didn’t have electricity. She shivered.

  “Why is it taking them so long?” Holly asked anxiously.

  “I gather these things require careful handling. Don’t worry, Holly. They’ll bring Ian back.”

  “I’m not worried about Ian.”

  “Aren’t you?” Maggie forced herself to take another bite. It was some sort of stew with a meat she didn’t care to identify, but it was warm and tasty, not to mention filling. “You could have fooled me.”

  “Ian Andrews is a pain in the butt.”

  “Yes,” Maggie agreed.

  “He keeps ditching my luggage every chance he gets.”

  “Yes.”

  “We’d be better off without him.”

  “Possibly,” Maggie murmured, feeling quite clever. “So what are you worried about?”

  “Sometimes, Maggie, you can be extremely irritating,” Holly snapped.

  She grinned, unrepentant. “There’s nothing unusual with being attracted to a man who’s all wrong for you. Plenty of women do it all the time.”

  “Including you?”

&nb
sp; She wanted to deny it, wanted to deny that she’d ever been attracted to the cold-blooded, murdering bastard who didn’t even know how to love. But she seldom lied, and if she’d tried Holly would have seen right through it. “Including me,” she said, putting the half-finished stew down on the floor next to the bed.

  There was an uncomfortable silence in the tiny room, broken only by the sound of Holly’s spoon scraping the now-empty bowl. “How do you think Sybil’s doing?” she asked, her voice small and forlorn.

  Maggie shook her head. “I wish I knew. I called from Heathrow and there was still no change. Maybe that’s the best thing. Maybe her body has to just … rest … recuperate before her mind can face the world again.”

  “I wouldn’t have called a coma R and R.”

  “So I’m grasping at straws. She’ll pull through, Holly. She’s got to. We’re going to bring her Tim Flynn’s head on a platter, and she has to be there to appreciate it,” Maggie said fiercely.

  Holly shuddered. “I almost believe you mean it.”

  “Well, a platter might be a little messy. I could use a bowling bag.”

  “Maggie, don’t!”

  Maggie looked up at her sister in the dim light. “I’m going to kill him, Holly. I’m not going to read him his rights or knock him on the head. I’m going to kill him in cold blood.”

  “If Ian doesn’t do it first.”

  Maggie nodded. “There’s always that possibility. I don’t really care, as long as he’s dead.”

  “You never used to be so bloodthirsty. Was it Mack’s death that made you so vengeful?”

  Holly’s thoughtless words brought back a shaft of pain. For a moment Maggie shut her eyes, remembering. And with that memory came the possibility, the probability of Randall’s guilt, and a knot formed in her stomach once more. “Yes,” she said grimly. “It was.”

  “How long do you think it will take them to get back?” Holly asked again.

  “God only knows. I think I’ll try to get some sleep. You may as well too. According to Randall you’re going to have to share your room with Ian when he gets back, and I wouldn’t think that would lead to a decent night’s sleep.”

  “I know,” Holly said in her gloomiest tone of voice, her eyes bright. “It’s a tough job, but someone’s got to do it. I wouldn’t think you’d enjoy sharing a bed with Randall.”

  “I’m not going to.”

  “But how … never mind. You’re right, a nap would be a good idea. They … they don’t have any lights in this place, do they?” Holly’s question was innocent enough, but Maggie could feel her eyes watching her.

  “No, they don’t. But that’s my problem, not yours. Don’t worry about Ian, Holly. Thorns in one’s sides don’t tend to go away. They fester.”

  “On that cheerful note I think I’ll head to my room. At least we have two beds in it.”

  “Maybe I’ll share yours and leave Randall in solitary splendor,” Maggie said.

  “You’re welcome to try. At least it would keep Ian’s lustful passions at bay.”

  “Ian has lustful passions?” Maggie echoed.

  “Not yet. But hope springs eternal.” She eyed her sister. “I’ll tell you what. We’re supposed to share our rooms with the big strong men for protection, right? And the big strong men are nowhere to be seen. So it makes sense for us to stay together. This room’s more secure than mine—we’ll take turns keeping watch. You sack out first.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” There was no mistaking the relief in Maggie’s voice. “You sleep first.”

  “I’m not tired, and you can barely keep your eyes open. Don’t worry, Maggie. I won’t let the boogie man get you.”

  “Fat chance you’ll have against Randall,” she murmured sleepily, stretching out on the narrow bed.

  “Is he the boogie man?”

  “If he isn’t, I don’t know who is,” she said, closing her eyes in the shadowy room.

  She didn’t know how much later it was when she awakened. All she knew was it was dark, and she was alone.

  The darkness closed around her, mingled with her own self-disgust. There was nothing she could do. She knew she should get up, try to find Holly in the pitch blackness, but her limbs were frozen. She could do nothing but lie there and wait. Sooner or later Randall would return, sooner or later the sun would rise. Until then all she could do was lie in that bed and grit her teeth so that the screams wouldn’t leave her throat.

  The bed was narrow, sagging, and wretchedly uncomfortable. The thin blanket provided no warmth at all, and Maggie lay there, still fully dressed, shivering, her wet palms clutching the sides of the mattress, lay there as the black night covered her, smothered her, stole her breath and life away. She lay there, hot tears pouring down her chilled face, lay there helplessly and did the one thing she could never forgive herself for. She prayed for Randall to come.

  Where the hell was he? He was always around when you wanted him gone. Where was he now that she needed him?

  She rolled over, burying her face in the mattress that smelled of sweat and plaster, her fists clutching the iron bed frame. She didn’t hear the door open, didn’t hear the stealthy footsteps cross the floor, until it was too late. A hand snaked around her, covering her mouth, as a body pressed her against the sagging bed. She tried to scream, but a hand pressed against her throat, shutting off the sound, and another, deeper blackness began to descend.

  “So you’re back.” Holly sat up in bed, facing a rumpled and furious Ian Andrews without a trace of her almost-dizzy relief showing. The silk nightgown had tiny straps that had slipped down her arms, but she made no effort to pull them up again, nor to cover herself with the threadbare blanket. She knew perfectly well they were back—she’d heard their voices in the bombed-out courtyard of Mabib’s house and high-tailed it out of Maggie’s room in time to arrange herself as artfully as possible in her sexiest nightgown. It had been a close thing—she was still breathing heavily from her exertions.

  “I’m back,” Ian said grimly, tossing the electric lantern down on the twin bed. “Sorry to disappoint you.”

  “Oh, I’m not disappointed,” she said in an airy tone of voice. “I wouldn’t have paid five hundred dollars of my hard-earned money to retrieve you. That’s almost half an hour of modeling work. I figured you were worth it.”

  “What?”

  She smiled her most enchanting smile, wishing she had dimples to further infuriate him. “Didn’t Randall tell you? I paid your ransom.”

  “No, he didn’t tell me. And he didn’t tell me how much. Or should I say, how little?”

  “Now, don’t be offended, Ian. They were asking for five million. They were just willing to bargain when they realized what cut-rate merchandise they’d captured.”

  “I’m not in the mood for this,” Ian warned, stripping off his khaki jacket. There were streaks of dried blood on it, and some impressive scrapes and bruises on his face. Apparently he hadn’t been captured without a struggle, and for a moment Holly softened. She was about to slide from the bed, offer to bind his wounds, and even, if he managed to smile that devastating smile just one more time, provide a little more in the way of comfort, when Ian eyed her open suitcase.

  “What’s that?”

  “What’s what?” she echoed, momentarily nonplussed.

  “This?” He held up a piece of neon plastic.

  “My hair dryer. And that’s my curling iron, and my eyelash curler, and my—What the hell are you doing?”

  Ian had dropped the fuchsia plastic blow dryer on the floor and stomped on it with his size-eleven boot. The plastic shattered with a muffled crunch. He took the matching curling iron and broke it in half like a pretzel rod, grabbed the eyelash curler and crushed it in one large fist. And then he reached for her suitcase full of silks and satins, strode to the shuttered window, and threw it out in the streets.

  Holly just sat there, staring, as an estimated ten thousand dollars’ worth of designer clothes took the plunge. Then she leaned
back against the plaster wall with deceptive calm. “Make you feel any better?” she inquired. “Or would you like to toss me after my suitcase?”

  “Don’t tempt me.” He sneered.

  “Would you mind telling me what I’m supposed to wear?”

  “I don’t give a damn. I’m just not going to lug another damned purple suitcase around the trouble spots of the world.”

  “It’s not my fault you got kidnapped, Ian.”

  “The hell it isn’t. They were warned. I was set up, damn it. They were told to look for someone with a tall lady with a dozen lavender suitcases.”

  “I only have three … correction, two.”

  “It doesn’t matter. No one else flew into Beirut airport in the last week with purple suitcases. They got me before I’d gone half a mile, thanks to you.”

  “Listen, it’s not my fault I’m distinctive—”

  “Shut up, Holly,” he said, his voice low and furious as he kicked off his shoes. “Just close that pretty mouth of yours and keep it closed, or I’ll find ways to do it for you.”

  She considered him for a moment. Normally she wouldn’t have backed down, but he’d been through a hell of a lot. He pulled off his shirt, and she could see a large welt purpling his torso. She also noticed what an extremely nice torso it was, broad and muscled and tanned, with just the right amount of hair tapering into his pants. Pants he was in the midst of taking off.

  She flipped over, turning her back on him. “Pleasant dreams, Ian.”

  “Don’t count on it.”

  * * *

  “It’s me,” Randall’s whisper broke through her panic, and with more self-possession than she would have credited herself with she managed to gain a semblance of calm. She relaxed her muscles, slowed her breathing beneath his suffocating hand, and waited for him to release her.