At the Edge of the Sun (13 page)

Her hair was still wet from her brief swim. He gently pushed it out of her face. She didn’t blink, didn’t flinch, didn’t react at all. She just lay there on her back in the dirt, half beneath him, watching him out of emotionless eyes.

He hesitated for one last time. He’d taken advantage of her before—maybe this time he could make the supreme effort and let her go. Maybe for once in his life he could do the decent, unselfish thing.

“Do you want to go on to Damascus tonight?” He forced himself to ask it, and even to his own ears his voice sounded strained.

She just looked up at him. For a moment he wondered if she’d retreated into shock, not hearing, lost in some world where Pulaski still strutted and Randall Carter was nothing more than an unpleasant memory. But those calm, unseeing eyes focused on his for a moment, and she gave a faint, negative shake of her head.

He took a deep breath, a part of him amazed at the shakiness
of it. “Do you want me to leave you here and have Mabib pick you up tomorrow?”

Again that small shake of her head. There was a streak of dirt across one of her high cheekbones. At least, he hoped it was dirt and not a bruise from his less than courteous defense.

“What do you want, Maggie?” His voice was raw and strained in the night air.

She looked up at him, out of those half-dead aquamarine eyes that still, somewhere, held a spark of life.

“I want you to make love to me,” she said in a small, distinct voice, as if she were asking for cream and sugar in her coffee. “I want you to make me forget everything. You’re good at that, Randall. Good at making me unable to think. I’ve thought too much, seen too much, hurt too much in the last few days. The last couple of years. I want to forget. Just for a little while.”

He held himself very still. “So what does that make me? A sexual Valium? Take a dose when things get too much and then deny it in the morning?”

She just looked at him with that damnable calm of hers. “You have to be careful with dangerous drugs, Randall. It would be far too easy for me to become addicted.”

A long, silent moment passed between them. “I’m damned if I do and damned if I don’t,” he said.

“We’re all damned.”

“I don’t buy that.”

She said nothing, just lay there, passive, waiting, knowing he couldn’t resist. She waited for a blissful haze of sexual pleasure to wash over her, knowing he could provide that so well.

But not this time. This time he wasn’t going to seduce and pleasure and please her, no matter how easy it was for him to do it. This time she was going to have to participate. He slid his large hand behind her neck, roughly, and pulled her head up toward his. He had a brief glimpse of her startled eyes before his mouth met hers. His tongue thrust past her
soft lips, into the dark, hungry interior of her mouth, and his lips ground against hers. Their mouths were sealed tightly, in a suffocating bond of love and anger, and he moved his hands downward to rip her shirt apart, sliding it open to capture her naked breasts with his long, hard fingers.

She’d begun to pull away from him, but he ignored her resistance, feeling the buds of her nipples against his sensitive fingers, recognizing her arousal even as she fought it. He pulled his mouth away for a moment, taking a deep breath, and she looked up at him in confusion, her mouth swollen, her eyes glazed, her breath coming in shallow, angry gasps. There was no passivity left, only a dazed surprise.

He dropped his head again, recapturing her mouth before she could protest, his tongue forcing hers to respond. He heard a deep, answering groan from the back of her throat, and her hands had reached up to clutch at his shoulders, her fingers digging deep into his flesh, and the slight pain was just one more piece of fuel added to the bonfire of desire that was sweeping over him. Over them. Her breasts seemed to swell in his hands, pushing against them, filling them, and her hips cradled his, rocking slightly in mute need.

She wanted sex, and she was going to get it. Hard and fast, with no frills, just a hot, fiery release that would leave her with more questions, not easy answers. And he didn’t give a damn. He pulled his head away, reluctantly, staring down at the dark hunger in her eyes, the taut, desperate need that quivered through her body. The shirt lay open around her, and her pale torso rose and fell in the night air, pale against his dark, possessive hands.

For a moment he wondered how far he could push her. He wanted to lie back in the dust, have her mouth and hands all over him, ministering to him, arousing him, pleasuring him. He wanted her kneeling in front of him, taking from him, and he knew he could make her do it that night. She’d do anything he wanted, and more, trade anything for the forgetfulness she craved.

But forgetfulness wasn’t what he was offering. It was reality, and memory, and pain and love. He levered his body away from her, then yanked her jeans apart, and the tough, faded fabric gave readily before his strength. He pulled them away from her, leaving her lying naked and in the dirt, and his eyes were fire and ice as they stared down at her. He pulled away, long enough to strip off his own pants, and then he shoved her legs apart, holding her slender ankles captive, high against his shoulders. He plunged into her, filling her with his massive strength, and he was amazed that she was as ready as he was.

They were both covered with a light film of sweat. Her hands clutched at him, then slid under the loose shirt he still wore, and her nails dug into his skin, holding tight, as he rocked against her, filling her, pulling back, then filling her again. She was shivering, trembling, her body clenching around him, and her face was pale in the moonlight.

“Look at me, Maggie,” he said, and his voice was a savage gasp of pain and pleasure. “Look at me, damn you.” He stopped moving, holding still within her, forcing her to see him.

Slowly she focused her dazed eyes on his face. Tremors were rippling through her body, her fingers were slippery on his back, her mouth was swollen and hungry. She looked at him, and saw him. She knew who and what he was, what he might have done. And she reached up and put her mouth against his, kissing him with a desperate passion that was unlike anything he’d ever experienced. His soul was lost in that kiss, and for a moment he panicked.

He pulled away, but the loss was unbearable. He plunged into her again, and she rocked against him, capturing him. Again and again, advance and retreat, his hips undulating as the tempo increased. She was thrashing her head from side to side, her eyes glazed, her fingers clutching him, digging into him. And then she arched, pulling him to her, a small, strangled scream barely piercing the night air.

He heard the word, hissed against him, even as he
plunged deep into her, giving up the last of his control, flooding her with his body, his mind, his essence, shattering inside her shimmering body and losing the last tiny bit of invulnerability he owned. “Yes,” she’d said, against his hot, straining skin. “Yes.”

He collapsed against her, unable to summon enough energy to spare her the brunt of his weight. She didn’t seem to mind. She lay beneath him, quiet, her heart slowing its headlong pace, faint tremors still stirring across her silky skin, every muscle and bone in her body pure liquid. He felt the same, with one magnificent difference. With that hissed, half-conscious word she’d given up, she’d given herself to him as she never had before. The war was over. Maggie Bennett belonged to him.

There was no guarantee she recognized that fact. But he did, and therein lay the difference. Any defiance on her part would be only a sham, and Maggie was too bright not to face the inevitable, sooner or later. Knowing that eventually she’d admit her surrender, he could deal with anything. Even the distrust that had shocked him into a blind rage. Maybe the unforgivable crime of her doubt would even out some of the cruelties he’d handed her over the years.

A quiet sound came from beneath him, and slowly, carefully he pulled away, rolling to one side. Maggie didn’t move. For a moment he wondered whether she’d once more retreated into a protective state of shock. And then a small, quiet sound came from her mouth, something that could only be called a delicate, ladylike snore.

Overwhelming emotions swept through him. Relief, delight, lust, and adoration were only part of it. He knew what it was, knew what he’d fought against giving a name to for so long. He was in love with her, had been since he’d first known her—been in love with her tangle of contradictions and stubbornness and vulnerability and self-possession. It wasn’t a generous, unselfish, sweet sort of love. It was dark and powerful and possessive, and it ruled his life. He wasn’t going to fight it any more.

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.

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.