by Anne Stuart
“Not in here you aren’t.”
“I’m sleeping nowhere else. It’s not that I’m overcome with lust, dear heart,” he said, tossing his white silk shirt onto the chair beside his jacket. “But if I let you out of my sight you’ll be combing Venice looking for Holly and just get yourself in trouble. You’ll wait till tomorrow if I have to handcuff you to me for the night.” He slid his calfskin belt from his trousers, tossing it on top of the shirt, and then proceeded to unfasten his pants. He had buttons instead of a zipper, she realized with an abstracted fascination. And then he stripped off his pants, leaving abbreviated silk boxer shorts chastely in place, and climbed into bed beside her.
She didn’t even bother to fight. If she’d hit him he’d have to touch her, and if he touched her they’d make love. At least he was lying beside her without making any moves.
“Please let me look for her,” she said, her voice small and pleading.
“No, Maggie.” There was real regret in his voice, but it wasn’t enough.
“I’ll never forgive you, Randall. My sister’s blood will be on your head.
“Add it to my list of sins,” he said in a clipped voice. “Put it up there along with my putting out a contract on Pulaski.”
“Did you?”
“I’ve told you before I’m not going to answer that. Make up your own mind,” he said. “Turn off the light.”
It was the final straw. The light beside her bed was as weak as the one in Randall’s room, but it kept the pitch blackness of the night at bay. “I’m afraid of the dark,” she said.
“Maggie,” he said in a weary voice, “I don’t give a rat’s ass. Turn off the goddamned light or I’ll climb over you to do it myself. And I might not feel like climbing back.”
She reached up and turned off the light. It wasn’t completely dark—the lights from the Grand Canal filtered back along the side canal, and there were lights from the other buildings around them. But it was dark enough, and cold enough, and in her mind Maggie could hear Holly’s voice, weak with tears and pain. Her arm throbbed, her body ached, and she wanted to scream with rage and fear. She bit her lip hard and lay there fully clothed, and shivered.
It may have been minutes, it may have been hours. Strong hands reached out and caught her arms, pulling her reluctant body against his. She fought for a moment, ignoring the searing pain in her arm, but he quickly stilled her halfhearted defenses, wrapping his arms around her and cradling her against the warmth of his body. “I’m just trying to get you warm, Maggie,” he whispered in her ear. “Lie still.”
She opened her mouth to tell him to let go of her, to get his goddamned hands off her. But she shut it again. Even if she really wanted to be released he wouldn’t do it. And she didn’t want him to. She needed warmth. And there were times when she thought Randall was closer to her than anyone else. They’d been through so much together that they were bound, whether they liked it or not.
A sigh left her lips, a noisy one that filled the room, and the tension drained out of her body as she settled back against him. She needed her energy for fighting Holly’s kidnappers, for fighting Tim Flynn. For now Randall was her ally, her only friend in a world full of dangerous enemies. For now that would have to do.
Timothy Seamus Flynn looked down at the man in the wheelchair, eyed the tubes and machinery that were keeping him alive, looked down and smiled. “I’ve missed you, mate,” he said.
The man returned his smile, a skeletal upcurving of his lips beneath the portable respirator. “We’re glad to have you back, Flynn. I didn’t think you’d be coming alone.”
“Maeve died,” he said sadly, his wonderful blue eyes filling with ready tears. “She was caught in a crossfire—she never stood a chance.” And as he remembered her desperate struggles that had pleased him so much a weary sigh left him. “There are too few like Maeve O’Connor.”
The man in the wheelchair nodded, speculation in his colorless eyes. “Too few,” he agreed solemnly. “What about the Americans who’ve been chasing you?”
“They’ll be taken care of in Venice,” he said. “No problem—Maddelena owes me a favor.”
“I wouldn’t count on it. You’ll find both Randall Carter and Maggie Bennett a lot harder to kill.”
“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 …”
She was smart enough to hear the warning in his voice. “Coffee,” she said meekly, swallowing her temper and heading for the bathroom.
She managed to eat half a sweet roll with Randall threatening mayhem, to drink three cups of sweet black coffee that only made her more nervous. Together they pooled their weapons—her Colt 380, his dark and serviceable Beretta, the ubiquitous Uzis. The border guards hadn’t bothered to check the aging Bronco for weapons, and Ian’s illicit arsenal would come in handy. Maggie stared down at the weapons with unconcealed distaste. She’d worked hard at making her hands and feet deadly weapons, but they wouldn’t be much good against machine guns. And Maddelena looked the type to be into hardware.
Then there was nothing to do but wait. Their plan was simple—Maggie would head into the front of the shop, Randall would sneak around back. It wasn’t much of a plan, but with so little information available it was the best they could do. Maggie promised herself that if they hurt Holly she wouldn’t hesitate to use the hated Uzi.
The snow had melted in the bright Venetian sunshine, and the Piazza San Marco was crowded with tourists even during the chilly winter. For a while Maggie tried to distract herself by deciding whether there were more pigeons or tourists, and then gave up. Either way, there were too damned many of them. Without a word she walked with Randall, across the great square, putting her arm through his without a murmur of protest, as they watched the great clock of St. Mark’s pass the hours with excruciating slowness.
She was staring out at the island of San Georgio Maggiore when Randall’s deep voice interrupted her mindless abstraction. “It’s time, Maggie.”
She looked up at him. “It’s only two-thirty.”
“Makes sense to get there early, doesn’t it?”
She grimaced. “Of course it does. My mind doesn’t seem to be working properly.”
She expected some blistering comment, at best some sly mockery. But he squeezed her arm, and the expression on his face was oddly tender. “You’ll be fine when the time comes,” he said. And because he believed it, she believed it.
There was only one glassware shop in the Calle del Porco, a small, seedy affair with fly-specked windows and graceless glassware that didn’t even dare call itself crystal. At quarter to three it looked deserted, observing a siesta the rest of Venice generally ignored, particularly during this busy holiday season. There was a tattered strand of silver tinsel hanging over the doorway, and nothing but darkness beckoned.
Randall had left Maggie just before the entrance to the square, in case anyone was watching for them. And someone must be—she could feel the eyes boring into her tall, slender figure as she crossed the Calle del Porco, with its tiny green garden in the center and its bronzed statue of a pig. Someone had decorated the pig with a wreath of evergreens, and someone had stuffed an apple in its open bronze mouth. Maggie looked at it, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. She had the suspicion she wouldn’t be smiling for quite a while.
It was two steps down into the darkened interior of the little shop. She almost hoped the door would be locked, but it opened noisily beneath her shaking hand. The Uzi was tucked up under her heavy sweater, the Colt resting in the small of her back, tucked into her too-loose jeans. And Randall was backing her up—there was nothing to be afraid of.
“May I help you, signorina?” The old man behind the counter had the slurred northern accent of the Venetians, and his eyeglasses were as thick as the clumsy glassware in the window. “A Christmas present for a lover, perhaps? I have several very nice goblets—I could lower the price for a pair. Just right for you to toast each other.”
“No, thank you. I’m looking for someone named Maddelena. She told me to meet her here.”
The old gentleman frowned. “My granddaughter,” he said heavily. He gestured toward the curtained doorway behind him. “She’s in there.”
“Grazie,” she murmured with her friendliest smile. He probably didn’t have any idea what his sweet little granddaughter was using his shop for, Maggie thought as she moved past him toward the doorway. How was he to know his little angel was involved in kidnapping and probably extortion and murder and …
She felt the sudden uprush of wind as she passed the old man. Out of the corner of her eye she saw his arm descend, and then everything went black, and she was falling. She caught the curtain as she went, and it ripped off its rod, wrapping around her as she slid downward. She fought that terrifying blackness, but it was useless, and she was gone before she hit the floor, lost in a velvet trap of darkness.
When she awoke, she was lying prone, trussed up like a chicken, something nasty was stuffed in her mouth, and every bone in her body ached. The frail old man hadn’t been as delicate as he looked, damn him. She tried to stretch her cramped muscles, but the ropes binding her were tight, and she sank back on the floor, resting her face against the cool stone in the dark room. And then she realized she wasn’t alone.
It took a bit of effort to roll over, but it was worth it. The gathering shadows couldn’t obscure Holly’s similarly bound figure, couldn’t hide the fear in her eyes or the bruise above her own gag. But she was alive and well, and a rush of gladness swept over Maggie. Now it was up to Randall.
But the tiny rustling noise behind her filled her with sudden misgiving. It was either a rat, or she wasn’t the only one who’d walked into a trap. She would have given ten years off her life to be able to turn and face the mean red eyes of a woman-biting rodent, but her prayers weren’t answered. Randall was lying stretched out on his back beside her, bound as they were, a thin line of blood oozing from a cut on his forehead. And they were up shit’s creek without a paddle.
They must have been listening for sounds of life in the old storeroom. The door opened, letting in only minimal light, and Maddelena stepped inside. There was a dark, sturdy figure behind her, still in the shadows. It was too broad to be the old man, too short to be Flynn. She could feel the tension emanating from Holly, and she peered through the darkness, suddenly aware that there was something oddly familiar about the figure.
Maddelena smiled down at them, a sweet, sad smile, and Maggie could see she had a split lip and a black eye. The wounds did nothing to mar her beauty, but she was glad someone had put up more of a fight than she had. It had probably been Randall, who made no pretensions to being a gentleman. “I am certain you are glad to be together. It is a sad thing that you must die, but you know the dangers when you play the game.”
Maggie had been pressing her tongue against the filthy rag in her mouth, and with a sudden feeling of triumph she spat it out. Maddelena made no move to come closer, to replace the gag, and Maggie considered screaming. Considered, then dropped the idea. Both the Uzi and the Colt had been removed, probably into Maddelena’s capable hands, and she wouldn’t get off more than one shriek.
“Why are you going to kill us?” she asked instead, her voice husky but eminently reasonable. “We’ve never done anything to you.”
“Of course you haven’t,” she agreed. “We’re extending a professional courtesy to Flynn. The Irish freedom fighters have helped the Red Brigade many times. We’re returning the favor, simply because we were asked.”
“How nice,” Maggie said faintly. “Why doesn’t he do it himself?”
“He’s not in Venice. He never has been, for that matter. He went directly from Rome to a place called Cul de Sac. Have you ever heard of it?”
“No.”
“It’s no matter. You won’t care for very much longer. And I’m not go
ing to be the one to kill you. For one thing, I don’t like to kill. I only do it when I have to. For another, it’s Christmas Eve, and I promised my mother I would go to mass with her. I’m going to pass you on to one who enjoys killing.”
“I think you’d better go early enough for confession,” Maggie snapped.
Maddelena’s brown eyes were shining with innocent fervor. “I have committed no sins. This is a holy war, and the three of you are simply casualties of a battle you chose to enter. Bonne notte.”
“Shouldn’t you say Bonne Natale?” Maggie sneered.
Maddelena shrugged. “Rest in peace.” She turned and left them, pausing long enough to mutter instructions to the dark figure standing behind her.
The door shut after her, plunging the room back into gloom once more. Randall was still only semiconscious, lying on his back in the dust and mildew, and Holly was simply rigid with fear and despair. It was a hell of a way to die, Maggie thought, straining at the ropes that were digging into her. She could see the gleam of a large, efficient-looking handgun, the elongated barrel with its silencer adding to her chill. She lay there, staring, as the figure moved into the light.
Ian Andrews’s face was completely expressionless. He walked over to Holly, pointed the gun toward her head, and shot. The muffled ping seemed to echo around the room as the bullet buried itself in the wooden packing case behind their heads.
Holly just stared up at him, her wide, expressive eyes glazed with terror, relief, and a slow-burning rage. He moved on to Maggie, shoved the gag back in her mouth before she could say anything, and repeated the ritual. Obediently she flopped back, lying there doing her best imitation of a corpse. She heard the same hideous ping as he completed his charade with Randall, and then he was moving back toward the door.
“If one of you could manage to relieve yourself,” he said in his wonderful upper-class accent, “it would add to the effect.” And he shut the door silently behind him.
It took her longer to spit out the gag this time. When she finally managed to, the room was almost completely dark. She could tell from the muffled sounds beside her that Randall was regaining consciousness, and she could see Holly’s figure beside her.