At the Edge of the Sun

by Anne Stuart

  “Are you okay, Holly?” she whispered. Her sister nodded. “Randall?” A muffled grunt was all the response she got, but it was enough. “Okay, guys. Ian dropped his knife when he gagged me, but it’s going to take me a little while to get it open. Hang in there.”

  Her hands were clumsy and slippery with nervous sweat. Whoever tied her wrists, and it was probably Maddelena, had done a good job of it, and the cut-off circulation only added to her difficulties. Her fingers were numb, her heart was racing, and her body was more than ready to follow Ian’s coarse suggestion. If she didn’t get them untied and get to a bathroom soon she wouldn’t have any choice in the matter.

  The knife slipped, once, twice. It was a sharp little sucker, and she winced as it scored her skin. But finally, an eternity later, just as the final bit of light faded from the musty old room, she felt the ropes loosen and fall from her wrists.

  “I’ve done it,” she announced in a triumphant whisper. In her excitement she dropped the knife, and it took her a moment or two to find it again. She slit the rope between her ankles and immediately turned to Randall, pulling the gag from his mouth and cutting his bonds by feel alone. “Are you okay?”

  “Just peachy,” he said glumly. “Apart from the fact that I feel like a complete fool. Have you heard any noise from the other room?”

  “I think they’re long gone. The question is, where?” She scrambled back across the floor to her sister, pulling her gag out.

  “Don’t you remember?” Holly asked, her voice not much more than a raw croak. “She went to Christmas Eve mass.”

  “How’d I miss that?” Randall asked, sitting up and rubbing his strong wrists.

  “You were still out when she came in. You also missed our murder.”

  “You mean Ian? I recognized him as he bent over me. What the hell is going on?”

  “Do you know, Holly?” Maggie chafed her sister’s wrists. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m okay. All the little bitch did was frighten me,” she said, her voice a little stronger. “And I don’t have any idea what Ian’s doing here. I heard his voice earlier, so it wasn’t a complete surprise. She called him Jacopo, so I’d guess he’s gone undercover.”

  “Well, at least it saved our lives,” Maggie said cheerfully.

  “Even if we blew our only lead,” Randall said, rising to his feet and stretching. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “We’d better make sure we can,” Maggie reminded them. “We don’t know for sure that Maddelena and her sweet old grandfather are gone.”

  But the dank little shop was deserted. The three of them had been tossed in a second-floor storeroom, and if the building boasted any electricity it was long gone. They made their way down the twisting staircase, through the empty shop, and out into the Calle del Porco. Maggie eyed the bronze pig with a fond smile. “Let’s get the hell out of here. You don’t want to go back to the Danieli, do you?”

  “What about your place? Are there any extra rooms?” Holly the intrepid sounded almost forlorn.

  “You can have mine,” Randall offered.

  “You can share mine,” Maggie countered.

  Holly grinned. “I’ll take Randall’s. You never know when Ian might reappear.”

  Now wasn’t the time to fight that particular battle. Randall had kept his hands to himself last night; he could do so again. And she had to admit, she slept a hell of a lot better when she was lying beside him, with or without the soporific benefits of sex. No, Randall could share her bed again. As long as he didn’t get any other ideas.

  The vaporettos were jammed with passengers on this early Christmas Eve, workers heading homeward with their arms full of last-minute purchases, churchgoers heading for an early mass. The three of them must have looked fairly disreputable as they crammed in with the chattering, cheerful Venetians, but no one gave them a second glance. They were all too full of their own holiday spirit to notice three tattered refugees.

  Maggie looked at her sister’s pale, weary face. Randall was standing beside her, and his tall body had taken on an almost protective air. Right now Holly needed protection; she needed a little time to regain her energy. So why, Maggie derided herself, was she standing there feeling jealous?

  It made no sense, but then, little did nowadays. If Holly needed peace and comfort, so did she. Maggie sighed, jostled by the merrymakers on the crowded water bus. All is calm, all is bright, the carol ran through her head. She wished there was even a slight chance of that. But there wouldn’t be, not until a thousand questions were resolved. And, plastering a bright smile on her face, she turned back to her sister in time to see Randall drape a protective arm around her narrow shoulders.

  fifteen

  The Palazzo Carboni opened its welcoming arms to them. Signor Tonetti had gone out with half his family, but the great-niece behind the desk quickly made the necessary arrangements. There were no cancellations during this holiday season, no extra rooms to be had, but they would be more than happy to have Signor Carter share Miss Bennett’s room and the second Miss Bennett to take over Signor Carter’s room. And there might be another guest to share the second Miss Bennett’s room? To be sure, he would also be made welcome. And, of course, all guests were invited to join the Tonettis in a holiday glass of lambrusco after ten-o’clock mass at San Marco’s.

  Maggie started to shake her head in a regretful denial when Randall caught her arm. “We would be delighted,” he said. “Come along, ladies.”

  “ ‘Come along, ladies,’ ” Maggie hissed in a mocking echo as he swept them towards their rooms. “Where the hell do you get off … ?”

  “I think mass would be a wonderful idea,” Holly said firmly.

  “Holly, I’m Lutheran and you’re an atheist,” Maggie argued.

  “Agnostic, but I’ve got an open mind,” Holly corrected. “And I’m thankful we’re still alive. I’m going to mass. You can stay here and sulk if you want.”

  “Bah humbug,” Maggie said. “What if we run into Maddelena?”

  “We won’t. I heard her say her mother lives on Murano—they’ll probably go to church there.”

  “Heaven help me.” Maggie sighed. “I just hope it’s not one of those two-hour services.”

  “It’d do you some good,” Randall said, opening the door for Holly. “We’ll meet you in an hour. Call and order something from room service. You look starved.”

  Maggie, who’d been coping with an empty stomach for the past several hours, cast Randall a disgruntled look. Why did he only hassle her, why did he shower all that consideration on her sister?

  Jealous bitch, she upbraided herself as she preceded him into their room and flopped down on the neatly made bed. Just a short nap might improve her temper if nothing else.

  “I’ll put the call through,” Randall said. He was still standing by the closed door, watching her, but she knew that tone of voice. It was a tone that allowed for no opposition.

  “What phone call?”

  “The one to L.A. To see how your mother’s doing.”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  She sat up on the bed, watching him out of level eyes. “Because I don’t want to remember Christmas Eve as the day my mother died. If she’s going to die I’d just as soon not hear about it.”

  “What if she’s better?”

  “I’m not going to take that chance.” She flopped back down on the bed. “Aren’t you going to take a shower?” If his voice could be intractable, so could hers. She could feel him watching her, feel him weighing his possibilities. “Why don’t you see if Holly wants to call?” There was just a trace of grumpiness in her voice, and she could feel the grin that began to stretch across his face.

  “Are you by any chance jealous?”

  “Are you by any chance crazy?” she countered.

  He stood there for a moment longer. “I’ll take a shower,” he said. “Order something from room service for me?”

  “Boiled eels if they have them,” Maggie sug
gested.

  “Whatever strikes your fancy, my love.”

  It was half an hour later when he returned. He’d showered, shaved, and changed into an elegant black suit. Holly was with him, looking stunning in red silk and none the worse for wear despite her ordeal. Maggie had changed into the black jumpsuit Holly had foisted upon her, and while she knew she looked good, even ten pounds underweight with circles under her eyes, she had long ago accepted the fact that she couldn’t compare with Holly’s dazzling beauty. It was damned hard to feel pretty and feminine when you stood close to six feet tall in your stocking feet, but somehow Holly managed it, while the best Maggie felt she achieved was a statuesque grace. Never before had she minded, not until Holly walked in beside Randall looking like she belonged there.

  Jealousy was an ugly emotion. It was even uglier when there was no cause for it. She didn’t care about Randall, and even if she did, she knew perfectly well that Holly didn’t want him and Randall didn’t want her. So why was she sitting there glaring at the two of them like a child who hadn’t been invited to a birthday party?

  “That jumpsuit looks fabulous on you, Maggie,” Holly announced. “I knew it would. Do you want to borrow my diamonds?”

  “Your diamonds?” Maggie echoed faintly. “Why in God’s name did you bring diamonds along when we’re chasing after a murderer?”

  Holly shrugged. “For the same reason I started out with twelve suitcases. One must keep up one’s standards, you know.”

  “I don’t think Ian would agree.”

  The light mood darkened a bit, as all three of them remembered where they’d last seen Ian. “You think he’ll be all right?” Holly asked suddenly.

  “I’m sure he will.” Randall’s voice was warm and comforting. He never used that tone on her, Maggie thought, and then mentally slapped herself.

  “Ian can take care of himself,” she said.

  “Let’s hope so. Shall we go, ladies?”

  Maggie opened her mouth to snap at him, then shut it again. It was Christmas and the least she could do was put a guard on her tongue for the next thirty-six hours. “Let’s go.”

  Signor Tonetti’s great-niece was still at the desk as the three of them headed for the front door and the tiny square beyond. “Signorina Maggie Bennett? Your call has come through.”

  Maggie stopped dead, and she stared up at Randall’s bland face in fulminating rage. “I’ve changed my mind,” she said in a grim voice. “I don’t wish to place the call.”

  “Signorina, your party is on the line.”

  There was no choice. Holly was looking confused, not a party to Randall’s high-handed deception. Slowly Maggie crossed the lobby, picking up the phone held out to her.

  “Happy Christmas, darling.” There was no mistaking Sybil’s voice, even in its weak condition, no mistaking the typically British greeting that her mother had clung to during all her years in Hollywood.

  “Mother?” Maggie’s voice was thick with tears.

  “She’s too weak to talk much, Maggie.” Kate’s businesslike voice came on the line. “She came out of the coma yesterday afternoon. We tried to call but we couldn’t get through. She’s going to be all right. The doctors say she’s got a long road ahead of her, but she’s a fighter.”

  “I know,” Maggie whispered. Randall had come up behind her—she could feel his body warmth through her back. Without thinking, without hesitation she leaned back against him, seeking his heat, and his hands rested lightly on her shoulders in a reassuring touch.

  “Why don’t you let the police find Flynn?” Kate continued. “Come home, both of you. There’s no sense in putting yourselves in danger.”

  “We can’t,” she said, wishing to God they could catch the next plane back to the States. “Now more than ever we have to find him.”

  “But why?”

  “Flynn doesn’t leave witnesses. If he finds out Mother’s regained consciousness he’ll come back to finish her off.”

  “How do you know that?” Kate, ever-practical, demanded.

  “I know. Merry Christmas, Katie. Give everyone our love.”

  “For God’s sake take care of yourselves. We almost lost Sybil—we don’t want to lose you. We Bennetts have to stick together.”

  “We’ll be fine. Tell Sybil she’ll get Flynn’s head on a platter. With tinsel in his ears and an apple in his mouth.”

  Kate’s laugh was a forced one. “Be careful.”

  Maggie held out the phone to Holly. “Speak to Kate,” she said, and then turned to face Randall.

  He was looking down at her, and for a moment she had the oddest sensation. She was looking at a man who loved her, loved her as much as Mack had, in his own way. A man who loved her as she needed to be loved. And a man she loved in return, just as desperately, whether she wanted to or not.

  Could he read the love in her eyes? Randall seemed omniscient at times—there was every likelihood that he knew exactly what was going on in her brain. “Thank you,” she said, her voice soft and low and loving.

  An achingly brief smile curved his mouth. “Merry Christmas,” he said, and leaning down, brushed his lips against hers, slowly, sensuously, lovingly. And she accepted it, accepted him, took his sensuality and his love and opened her mouth beneath his.

  “Ahem.” Holly was standing there, tapping her foot with mock impatience, a mischievous sparkle in her eyes as Maggie finally surfaced. “We’re going to miss the service.”

  Randall smiled down at Maggie, and there was an equally bemused look in his blue-gray eyes. “Oh, we can’t do that.”

  “Goodness, no,” Maggie murmured. “We wouldn’t want to do that.” Still in a daze, she put her arm through Randall’s strong one and followed him out into the Venetian night.

  It was a two-and-a-half-hour service, and Maggie didn’t mind in the slightest. She could have gone on indefinitely, sitting there in the magnificent vastness of St. Mark’s with Randall’s body pressed up against hers in the crowded sanctuary. For a brief time everything was perfect. Tomorrow, or the next day, perhaps, she’d try to figure out what and where Cul de Sac was. Later they could make plans, try to trace where Ian had gone, figure out how to trap Flynn before he found out Sybil had survived his knife work.

  But for now she was content to sit there, letting the liquid Italian and sonorous Latin roll over her, thinking about her thirty-four years of Christmases, thinking about almost two thousand years of Christmases. For tonight and tomorrow she wasn’t going to think about death or terrorism or Timothy Seamus Flynn. She was going to think of peace and happiness. All is calm, all is bright.

  A light snow was falling on the Piazza San Marco when they left the church. It melted as soon as it hit the ground, the dozing pigeons, the furled umbrellas from the outdoor cafes. “A white Christmas,” Holly said with a sigh. The wind ruffled her long black hair, brushing it against her pale, flawless complexion. “Where the hell is Ian?”

  They chose to walk back to their hotel. It was a brisk night, but the gentle snow, the fitful half moon, and the fresh clean smell of the sea surrounding the ancient city added to the magic in the air. The three of them didn’t talk; they didn’t need to. They were perfectly attuned to each other, to the joy and relief at Sybil’s recovery, the tinge of melancholy of missing Ian who’d managed to save their lives that afternoon. The ancient city was as serene as befitted her old name, La Serenissima, and its calm touched the three of them.

  The Palazzo Carboni was a blaze of lights and noise when they finally reached the tiny square. “Are we going to skip Signor Tonetti’s glass of lambrusco?” Randall asked, his voice even.

  “I think so,” Maggie replied. “I want to go to bed.”

  “Do you?” he said. “We can arrange that.” Neither of them were talking about sleep.

  “Would you rather have my room?” Holly questioned. “It’s bigger than yours, and I’m afraid I’ll be spending the night alone.”

  “I like my room,” Maggie said. “We’ll stay there.
” Randall said nothing.

  But as luck would have it Signor Tonetti was in the wide hallway that served as a lobby, and his seamed face lit up as he caught sight of Maggie. He rushed over, enveloping her in a hug that smelled of lilac water and lambrusco, welcoming her in a spate of Italian that was incomprehensible.

  Finally he released her, regaining his composure, though there were sentimental tears in his spaniel-like dark eyes. “What a pleasure it is to see you again, signora. I could not believe it when my wife told me you were back. I had thought never to see you again.”

  She could feel Randall beside her, standing motionless, and a sudden sense of foreboding swept over her. She wanted to run, wanted to drag him away from the garrulous old man before all hell broke loose, wanted to keep that warm and happy feeling of requited love for just one night.

  But it was already too late. “We were heartbroken to hear about the signor, your husband, and his murder. I told my wife, I said ‘Zara, never have I seen two people more in love than those two. What a cruel joke of life, to separate them so soon.’ We wept for you, Zara and I, and we weep with joy at your return.”

  “Thank you, Signor Tonetti,” she said hastily, trying to pull away. “You’re very kind. Perhaps tomorrow or the next day we could talk …”

  “Tragedy!” Signor Tonetti proclaimed in thrilling accents. “A great tragedy of life! And so brave you are, to return to a place filled with memories. With every glance you must remember the joy you had here.”

  She could feel it building, the sheer, white-hot rage of the man beside her. She didn’t dare look at him, she just stood there, trying to free herself from Signor Tonetti’s embrace, desperate to escape before the old man ruined everything.

  “And to think, you were even able to stay in the same room, the same bed where you spent your honeymoon. It is so sad, it is like Puccini. My heart breaks, looking at you.”

  Too late, she thought numbly. Much, much too late. She felt Randall’s icy cold hands on her arm, removing her from Tonetti’s clutch. She heard him speak, even, polite words, bidding them all a good evening and a merry Christmas, leading her away from the Tonettis, from a worried-looking Holly, down the dark, empty corridors to the room she’d once shared with Mack. And she could feel his hands shake.