At the Edge of the Sun

by Anne Stuart

  He almost dropped her when he rose from the hard ground, scooping her up in his arms. His muscles were surprisingly weak, his strength had been sapped, and he had to be very careful as he made his way into the ruined palace, to the small storeroom where he’d left the sleeping bags spread out. She stirred once when he set her down, and her hand reached out for him as she murmured something in her sleep. There were bruises on her delicate wrist, bruises from him. But she moved into his arms willingly enough, and the word she murmured was another, blessed “yes.” And together in the darkness of the deserted palace, they slept.

  She was sick of feeling this way. Sick of waking up in the morning, her body feeling peaceful, sated, well loved, damn it, and her soul in a torment of guilt and regret. Why couldn’t she just keep away from him, why did she have to keep making the same mistake over and over again?

  She had to be lying on pure rock. The sleeping bag beneath her provided very little cushioning, and her bones ached. Daylight was filtering into the dark little room, illuminating the dusty corners, illuminating the empty side of the sleeping bag. Tentatively she put out a hand. It still retained his body warmth—Randall hadn’t been gone long.

  How could she have been so stupid? And this time she couldn’t even blame him, this time she’d asked for it. Asked for him to block out the misery and the memories. And instead he’d given her more misery and memories to hide from. God, she hated her weakness. Most of all, she hated her inability to accept her weakness. Why couldn’t she just take what comfort he offered?

  But she knew she couldn’t. Every time he touched her the strands of love and possession wrapped tighter around her. She’d get over Mack Pulaski in time. Was getting over him, if she had to admit it. She thought back to him with passionate love and grief and regret. But she was letting him go.

  She’d never let go of Randall. He’d always been there to haunt her, and he always would be. Why was it that the torment of her attraction for Randall overpowered the sweet memory of her love for Mack?

  “You want to take a swim in the pool before we head out?” She hadn’t heard him come back. She had no choice but to turn, little as she wanted to. Randall had clearly availed himself of the small, clear fountain. His black hair was still wet, his fresh khaki shirt clung to his damp torso, and his blue-gray eyes were surprisingly calm. She could see scratch marks on his chest where his shirt was unbuttoned, and she blushed.

  Somewhere she found her voice. “Yes, thank you,” she said politely. “It’ll only take me a minute.”

  He nodded, tossing a pile of neatly folded clothes on the foot of the sleeping bag. “I brought you some clean clothes. Your other stuff has just about had it.”

  “Okay.” She sat there, clutching the sleeping bag around her. “Uh … Randall.”

  He’d started back out the door, but he stopped at her hesitant voice. “Yes, Maggie?”

  “When we get to Rome maybe we … we ought to change partners. You work with Holly for a bit, and I’ll help Ian.”

  “Why?” He asked the question in an irritatingly calm voice.

  “I just think it would be a good idea if we put some distance between us. We always seem to get into trouble.”

  “We always seem to get into bed,” he corrected gently.

  “In our case it’s the same thing.”

  To her astonishment he smiled then, a gentle, nonmocking little smile. “Whatever you say, Maggie,” he replied. “I’ll meet you at the Bronco.”

  She watched him disappear into the hallway, heading toward the blaze of sunlight to the left. He was whistling.

  What did he have to be so cheerful about? Maybe he was just as glad not to have to deal with her. Maybe he’d prefer Holly, with her rapidly diminishing number of suitcases. Maybe he was only being kind last night …

  Her body grew suddenly hot all over, as she remembered the details … No, he wasn’t being kind, not at all. And if he was accepting his current dismissal with an uncharacteristic amount of sang-froid, then it was no doubt only because he had something up his sleeve. She was going to have to be extra careful in the next few days. Not only was she going to have to keep a sharp eye on him, she was going to have to watch herself even more closely. Because if she hadn’t known better, hadn’t been wary enough to stop herself, she would have pulled him back into the doubtful comfort of the sleeping bag and seen just how far those scratches went.

  With a weary sigh she dismissed that thought from her defiant brain and rose on unsteady feet, more than ready for a dose of cold water for her suddenly overheated body.

  eleven

  Slowly Holly replaced the ornate telephone back in its gilt cradle. It was a cold, rainy December in Rome, and even the lavish surroundings of the Ultima Hotel couldn’t brighten the gloom that had clamped down around her heart. Sybil’s coma had deepened, and she wasn’t expected to last the night.

  She stretched her long, slender body out on one of the king-size beds, staring up at the ceiling with dry eyes. Her world was shifting, dissolving beneath her, and there was nowhere she could turn. Sybil was dying, and there was nothing she could do about it.

  Nothing, that is, until she remembered the reason she was there, thousands of miles away from her mother’s deathbed. Revenge, sweet, bloody revenge beckoned.

  She looked over at the other bed, at Ian’s battered leather suitcase lying half open. They were sharing a room again, over Holly’s halfhearted objections, but of course he hadn’t made a move in her direction. The moment they’d checked in Ian had changed his clothes and taken off with no more than a muttered excuse about the British Embassy, not returning until after dinner. By that time Holly was so livid at being abandoned that she maintained a fuming silence that lasted well into the next day. A silence that didn’t seem to bother Ian in the slightest. One cryptic phone call after breakfast and he took off again, without even the trumped-up excuse of the night before. It didn’t matter—she was past believing anything he chose to tell her, but right now she didn’t care. It was just as well he wasn’t around to ask awkward questions.

  He had a knife in his suitcase. Holly had seen it several times, and it took her only a moment to find the hidden pocket where it rested. It was a nasty piece, very sharp, and the leather holder had an ominous brown stain near the top. For a moment she considered putting it back, then changed her mind. She couldn’t walk into the lion’s den unarmed. And that was exactly where she was going.

  Once more she had an advantage. Once Sybil accepted the fact that Holly had seen Flynn she’d become embarrassingly loquacious, secure in the knowledge that of all her daughters, Holly was the least likely to judge her. She and Flynn intended to travel, she’d said. Only the best places. The Cielo in Rome, the Danieli in Venice, the Crillon in Paris. Darling Tim liked the finer things in life, and Sybil was more than willing to provide them. They’d go incognito, of course. While Sybil rather liked the fuss her worldwide reputation inspired, Tim was a possessive person and didn’t want to share her. If they were going to run away together to Italy they’d use phony names.

  Extensive traveling had made Holly more than comfortable with the vagaries of the Italian telephone system. It took no more than three tries to get through to the Signor Palmo at the Cielo, to receive the regretful information that no, Mr. Flynn was not registered. There were a number of British and American males who’d checked in in the last twenty-four hours who might fit that description, from Dr. Mantel and Mr. Browning to Mr. MacDonald to …

  “Mr. Browning?” Holly interrupted. “Mr. Robert Browning?”

  “Yes, indeed, Miss Bennett. He checked into the ambassador suite late last night. Would you care to have your call put through?”

  “No,” she said hastily, adrenaline shooting through her. “I think I might come and surprise him. What floor is the ambassador suite on?”

  “The penthouse. May we say, Miss Bennett, that we’re all praying for your mother’s recovery? She’s been an honored patron here for many years. A grea
t lady, a very great lady.”

  Sudden tears filled Holly’s eyes. “Thank you, signor. You are very kind. And please, don’t say a word to Mr. Browning. I want my arrival to be quite unexpected.”

  “I understand,” said Signor Palmo, clearly scenting a romance. “My lips are sealed.”

  “I knew I could count on you.”

  Once more Holly replaced the phone. There were clear advantages to being a Bennett. Signor Palmo would hardly have been as helpful to any curious tourist. And she was able to use the well-known name to make immediate appointments to have her hair done, a manicure, and a facial—everything to pamper her much-abused body into a state of smooth perfection. Her own hotel even had a decent boutique. In less than two hours she was primed and ready, exquisitely beautiful and dressed to kill. Literally.

  Movies were running through her head—Sybil’s old classics. The Barretts of Wimpole Street had been her biggest hit, with Sybil as Elizabeth Barrett and Deke Robinson doing his best work playing Robert Browning. Robert Browning, who carried Elizabeth Barrett off to Italy. The current Robert Browning had left Sybil behind, taking only her jewels and quite probably her life. It hadn’t required great deductive reasoning on Holly’s part—Sybil had coyly, nauseatingly referred to Tim Flynn as the Robert Browning in her life.

  But Sybil’s best movie had been Judith. She’d come within an inch of winning an Oscar for that one, playing the biblical heroine who’d seduced the enemy general and then calmly proceeded to cut off his head while he slept. Holly didn’t know whether she’d actually manage to decapitate Flynn, but the idea brought a slight feeling of warmth to her cold heart. However she did it, she was going to kill Tim Flynn.

  She almost made a clean getaway. Ian Andrews was stalking down the hallway, clearly in a foul mood, as she headed for the elevators and her appointment with death. He looked up when he heard her approach, and his scowl deepened.

  “What the bloody hell are you all dolled up for?” he demanded, his green eyes running over her expensive silk suit, the spike high heels that made her an inch taller than he, her perfectly coiffed black hair.

  She must have inherited some of her parents’ acting ability. She managed a serene smile, ignoring the dampness of her slender palms, and shrugged. “What else? I’m going shopping.”

  “Shopping?” He shouted the word. “You silly, shallow, selfish woman! Have you even bothered to check on your mother? Have you tried to find out anything, anything at all, or have you just been sitting there polishing your nails?”

  Her nails were freshly manicured, a fitting, deep blood red, and they curled against her damp palms. “I presumed you were taking care of things,” she lied.

  “I couldn’t find out a bloody thing. If Flynn’s entered the country in the last twenty-four hours he came in under a phony name.”

  Holly shrugged again, shutting down her twinge of guilt at not confiding in him. “Maybe he’s still in Lebanon. Maybe Maggie and Randall have got him tied up somewhere. Maybe he’s already dead.” And maybe he’s sitting in a luxury suite a few short blocks away, unaware that his downfall is about to arrive in the shape of an elegant young woman. Against her will, a small, sour smile lit her face at the thought.

  Ian stared at her, not missing the smile, not missing much at all. “Maybe,” he said finally. “Why don’t you come back in the room and I’ll tell you what I discovered?”

  “You said you didn’t find out a thing.” If she went back into that hotel room she’d have a hard time getting out again. Besides, he might notice the knife was missing, and then there’d be no way she’d be able to complete her mission. Ian would insist on accompanying her, and that was the last thing she wanted. If he didn’t scare Flynn away he’d be the one to kill him. And at that moment Holly wasn’t going to give that privilege away to anyone.

  “We can figure out what to do next,” he said.

  “I’m sure you can take care of that all by yourself,” she said lightly. “You wouldn’t listen to my suggestions anyway. Don’t worry, Ian. I promise only to buy enough to fill six suitcases.” With a little wave of her hand she continued down the hallway.

  She could feel his eyes on her, boring into her back. She hadn’t fooled him. No matter how good she was at lying, she hadn’t fooled Ian Andrews. But it would take him awhile to do something about it. And once she was gone he’d have a hell of a time tracking her down.

  The elevator doors whooshed shut behind her, and for a brief moment she allowed her stiff shoulders to relax. And then she straightened them again. Escaping Ian’s eagle eyes was the least of her worries. Tim Flynn was going to require more than a little acting ability. She clenched her hands around her leather purse and wished that Ian had stopped her.

  It was all absurdly easy. Signor Palmo met her in the lobby, clearly on the lookout for her distinctive figure. He plied her with espresso and biscuits before ushering her into the executive elevator that led directly to the penthouse, and nodded and leered when she requested as much privacy as the Cielo could afford for her meeting with Mr. Browning. The Cielo could afford a great deal of privacy, and the other penthouse suite was unoccupied. No one would interrupt, Signor Palmo said, with a romantic little sigh. Mr. Browning was a very handsome man, with eyes as blue as the sky and a smile that could light up the darkest room. He would be a worthy match for the belissima Holly Bennett.

  She waited until the elevator descended to the lobby again, waited in the marble-floored, deserted penthouse hallway, and the last of her nerves vanished as if by magic. Now that the moment was at hand she was very calm, determined. Reaching up, she pressed the bell on the ornate door of the ambassador suite.

  He was a very handsome man. He opened the door in shirt sleeves, his reddish hair rumpled, his beautiful blue eyes sleepy and friendly. He’d checked her out through the peephole, she’d known that, and known that she’d passed muster. She took no pride in her beauty. It was a tool she worked with, and it served her well in this case. Timothy Seamus Flynn’s handsome face creased in a sleepy, welcoming grin, and Holly’s serene smile answered it.

  “Hi, I’m sorry to bother you.” She pitched her voice low and sexy with just a trace of a flawless Italian accent. “My name is Annamaria Castellano.”

  “Yes?” His voice was low, musical, and beguiling. It was no wonder Sybil had succumbed.

  This was the hard part. Holly smiled, batting her eyes. She could only thank God that Ian hadn’t tossed her small package of tinted contact lenses out the window in Beirut along with everything else. She looked at Tim Flynn out of eyes as green as Ian’s, not the distinctive aquamarine that would have given her away immediately. She shrugged prettily. “I’m afraid I cannot tell you why I’m here, signor,” she said. “I was sent to make sure you were comfortable, that your needs were seen to.”

  He still didn’t move away from the door, but his lazy smile broadened. “Who sent you?”

  “A man named Bud Willis.”

  It was a shot in the dark, but the best she could come up with. It worked. Flynn’s grin vanished for a split second, then returned, even wider, and he opened the door, ushering her in. “Very hospitable of the man, considering he’s a ghost.”

  She was prepared for that, having listened to Maggie and Randall’s arguments over breakfast the day before. “That’s a moot point.”

  “Is it?” He shut the door silently behind her, locking it, and Holly clutched her leather purse a little more tightly. The knife was resting in there, the knife and five thousand lire. Enough for a taxi back to the Ultima once the bloody deed was done.

  “Can I get you a drink, Annamaria?” His voice caressed her name.

  “That would be nice.” Her voice shook slightly. He reminded her of a cobra, coiled and ready to strike. Her plans had been stupid, half formed, not taking into account the reality of the man. She’d thought to seduce him, screw him into a stupor, and then cut his throat. There was no other way she’d get the chance, but right now the very thought of touc
hing him made her physically ill. Maybe she could get him drunk.

  She moved toward the window, looking out toward the distinctive shape of the Vatican, still clutching her purse. There was a small noise, and she jumped, back against Flynn’s hot body.

  His hands had caught her upper arms, kneading slightly. “Why don’t you get more comfortable, Annamaria?” he crooned, the Irish lilt a travesty of charm. “Take off those shoes. I don’t like it when a woman is taller than I am. And you are here to please me, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.” It came out in a nervous thread of sound, and he laughed.

  “Do I frighten you, Annamaria? I’m just a traveling businessman, alone in Rome. I need company, and you’ll do an excellent job of providing it. Won’t you?” His hand snaked around in front of her and cupped her breast, squeezing, just hard enough to hurt.

  She swallowed, slipping out of her spike heels, the movement pulling her away from his encroaching hand. “You don’t frighten me, signor. I’m not in holy orders. I know what’s expected of me. I know how to please a man.” She should turn and press herself against him. She should kiss that smiling mouth. She remained where she was.

  “Ah, Annamaria, I’m sure that you do,” he whispered. “But I have special tastes.”

  She couldn’t control the slight nervous twitch as his body pressed against her upright back. “I will do my best to satisfy them,” she said.

  “You’ll do just fine,” he purred. “Why is your heart pounding like that, signorina? Are you excited?” He slid his hand down her arm, across her stomach and lower, his fingers gripping her with cruel force.