Darkness before the Dawn (16 page)

“Where are they?” Randall’s voice was clipped, indifferent. The moments in the closet might never have happened.

Leopold laughed. “Me, I have been very clever. The two flunkies have gone chasing after my cousin Tomas. Miroslav is thrashing about in the graveyard, chasing ghosts. He’s looking for you, my friend. Do you wish him to find you?”

Randall nodded, a short, satisfied nod. “Can you lead him toward the bridge?”

“I can lead him anywhere,” Leopold boasted. “You’ll be waiting?”

“I’ll be waiting.”

He disappeared into the night, and Randall turned to the silently watching Maggie, his face blank once more. “Is it a waste of breath to tell you to wait here?”

“Even that question is a waste of breath,” she said.

He reached out and took her hand, holding it in the moonlight. The dried blood and cuts looked no worse than Maggie had expected. “Did he do that to you, too?”

“No,” she said. “I did it to myself, breaking the window. It’s not as bad as it looks.”

“And this?” He turned her hand over, caught the other one, and examined her wrists. They were dark and bruised from the handcuffs, and Maggie had no choice but to nod.

“You already admitted he did this.” His hand reached out and feathered across her face.

She didn’t pull away. “I’m just glad he’s left-handed. He could have wrecked my best side,” she added with an attempt at lightness.

Randall’s hand moved from the bruised side of her face to the untouched side, the fingers gentle and questing. And then it left her, falling back to his side. “If you won’t stay here, at least stay out of sight.”

“What are you going to do?”

A savage smile transformed Randall’s distant face. “Settle some old debts”—his hand touched her face lightly, one more time—“and a few new ones.” And he turned and headed out into the moonlit night.

Her legs were long, her strides rapid, but there was no way she could keep up with Randall Carter when he was determined. The moonlight illuminated his silent, almost ghostly figure as he raced across the stubbled fields toward the narrow bridge, and she crashed along behind him with a fraction of his stealth, falling farther and farther back until he was out of sight in the fitful shadows.

When she finally reached the bridge, breathless, with a stitch in her side, the confrontation had already begun. Leopold stood to one side, watching. His youthful face was intent; for once, no trace of a smile lingered around his generous mouth. His eyes flickered to Maggie, then went back to the two men circling each other like wary dogs.

Miroslav was shorter than Randall by a few inches, but his burly arms and shoulders, his stocky legs, and the ruthless determination on his broad face made him a force to reckon with. Maggie felt panic sweep over her as she tried to figure their chances against him if he managed to best Randall.

And then the combatants’ movements brought Randall’s face into view, and Maggie’s doubts vanished, replaced by something close to shock. At this moment, the eminently civilized, impeccably dressed man looked absolutely savage. She watched with horrified fascination as he closed in on Miroslav, wondering if she were about to see a man die in front of her eyes.

It was a longer fight than she would have expected. Miroslav was incredibly strong, incredibly determined, and despite his shorter height he must have outweighed Randall by ten or
twenty pounds; those ten or twenty pounds were all muscle. For the first few minutes, Randall did little more than evade Miroslav’s furious attacks, letting his opponent wear himself out. And then, when Miroslav’s energy began to flag, when he stood panting, staring at his enemy like a frustrated, maddened bull, Randall moved.

It had been a fight with no rules, but even so, Maggie was still startled to see just how vicious Randall could be. The fight she’d witnessed in Caleb’s apartment had been a minuet compared to this. Randall’s knee slammed into Miroslav’s groin, his hand chopped across his throat, and his fist drove into his stomach. In moments, Miroslav was lying in the dust, groaning and spitting blood.

Randall stared down at him for a long, meditative moment. Maggie shut her eyes, afraid of what would come next. Miroslav’s semiconscious body was hauled upright and dragged toward the old stone bridge, and Randall shoved him up against the side of it. His body bounced against the unyielding stone, and Miroslav’s moan would have been pathetic if Maggie hadn’t remembered exactly who and what he was: chief torturer for the secret police, with more pain on his conscience than Randall could ever deliver.

It might be a close call, though. As Maggie watched and listened in the still, hot night, Leopold moved beside her, equally intent. Randall’s voice, speaking to Miroslav, carried on the thick night air. “I owe you a great deal, my friend,” he said, his voice rough and eerily polite. “More than I can ever repay.” He slammed him against the stone wall again, and Miroslav began to weep.

“But your worst mistake,” he said gently, “was being a little too free with your hands today. She said you were left-handed—” His voice was dreamy, almost meditative, as he caught Miroslav’s left arm and pulled it upright.

It happened so fast, Maggie almost missed it. Randall slammed Miroslav’s left hand against the stone wall with hideous force, shattering the fragile bones. He screamed once, a shrill, high-pitched shriek, and pitched forward in a dead
faint. Randall stood above him, looking down without a trace of emotion, and a shudder ran through Maggie’s body. Suddenly, the hot summer night was cold and deadly.

Leopold moved to Randall then, taking it all in stride. His matter-of-fact manner was almost as horrifying as Randall’s savagery had been. “You didn’t kill him?”

Randall lifted his head. His black hair was damp around his forehead, his shirt had ripped during the battle, and there was dust and sweat and exhaustion on his dark face. “Not this time,” he said, suddenly weary. “You said you had plans?”

Leopold reached down with hidden strength and hauled Miroslav’s unconscious body up and over his shoulder. “I thought he’d make a good birthday present for my brother. He had Vasili for almost a year before he managed to escape.”

“Then your brother must owe him even more than I do,” Randall said, his eyes glancing over Maggie’s still figure and then moving away.

“I think he will enjoy repaying his hospitality, yes,” Leopold said jauntily. “You can stay in one of the houses? My cousin Tomas will pick you up before dawn and get you over the border. I don’t think you should bother with customs this time around. The secret police will know Miroslav has disappeared, and they know he was after the two of you.”

“I agree completely.” Randall’s cool, polite voice was still shocking, coming from the rumpled, violent man opposite her.

“Meet him here by the bridge, mister. And take care of the lady. She looks like she’s seen a ghost.” Leopold’s voice was amused; the unconscious man across his shoulders was no more burden than a backpack.

“Maybe she has,” Randall said. “We’ll be in the middle shack if something comes up. Good-bye, my friend. Give my best to Vasili.”

Leopold nodded, hefting the body higher. “Good-bye, lady.”

She forced herself to move then, to break the paralysis that had kept her weary limbs captive. She crossed the few feet to
Leopold, keeping her eyes averted from the limp body draped over him. “Thank you, Leopold,” she said, “for everything.” And she leaned over to kiss him lightly on the cheek.

He dropped Miroslav into the dust and grabbed her, planted his mouth on hers, and kissed her with a youthful completeness she hadn’t experienced since … since his brother. When he finally released her, he had a pleased grin on his face.

“Vasili told me how beautiful you were, lady,” he said, hauling the body over his shoulder again, “and he didn’t lie. Now I’d better get out fast. Your man is looking like he’d like to do to me what he did to Miroslav. Good-bye, my friends.” And he disappeared into the shadows with his burden.

Maggie turned to face Randall. Whatever expression had amused Leopold was gone now, leaving the blank, shuttered look she was so damned used to. There were no words. She looked at him for a long, confused moment.

“Let’s go,” he said finally, his voice even and polite as if the last half-hour of violence and savagery had never happened. “We’ll need all the sleep we can get. It’s close to midnight, and dawn is sometime around five.”

She held her ground for a moment. “Are you all right?”

“What do you mean?” His answering question was wary.

“Did he hurt you? Did you hurt yourself … uh—”

“Did I hurt myself beating the shit out of him?” Randall finished the question smoothly. “No. And he didn’t manage to lay a hand on me. I’m fine.”

“You’re very good, aren’t you?” she said, wonder and distrust in her voice. And something else, something she didn’t even recognize.

He looked as if he didn’t know what answer she wanted. He gave the only answer he knew, the honest one. “Yes.” He held out his hand to her, an instinctive gesture, and when he realized what he’d done, he dropped it.

She crossed the few feet to his side, afraid to touch him. “I was afraid you were going to kill him,” she said suddenly.

“I wanted to. But I’d promised Leopold.” He was watching
her with a combination of patience and curiosity. “Are you coming with me, or are you going to spend the night out here?”

It was a thought. Going back into that run-down hovel with Randall suddenly seemed comparable to climbing into the lion’s cage with a ferocious man-eater. She eyed him warily, wondering what she would do if he pounced. And even worse, what she would do if he didn’t.

“I’m coming with you.”

The shack seemed smaller. The moon was setting, the shadows were deepening, and Randall seemed suddenly much larger than before, filling the spaces around her. He shut the door behind them, quietly, carefully, but she wasn’t fooled. All through the silent walk across the field, she could feel the tension thrumming through him, feel the violence still simmering beneath the surface, feel the anger and intensity that she could never understand.

“You take the bed,” he said, unbuttoning the remaining buttons on his shirt with deceptive calm.

She stood very still. It was a very small bed, more a sagging cot than anything else, but courtesy and something else dictated that she make the offer. “Where will you sleep? On the floor?”

“I could hardly hover in midair, now could I?” he replied, his thinly veiled temper slipping through.

“Don’t be an idiot, Randall,” she snapped. “We can share the bed.”

He moved then, swiftly, silently, and once more she was reminded of his deadly intent down by the bridge. It wasn’t death she had to fear from him, she knew that—unless it was the death of her soul, from loving the wrong man. “It’s a small bed, Maggie.”

She managed a casual shrug that convinced neither of them. “We can sleep back to back. I’m not worried, Randall. I’m sure you’re not about to ravish me. I’m not one to overestimate
my charms, and you’re very good at resisting what you want to resist.”

“Maggie,” he said, his voice implacable and frightening in the darkness, “there are times when even you are a fool.” Then his hands were on her arms, and she knew the waiting was over, the choice was made, and there was no turning back.

The roughness of his mouth on hers reopened the cut on her lip, and she could taste the blood as she moved into his arms. With a small, deliberate decision, she turned her brain off, turned her mind and memory and doubts away, so that there was only the two of them, entwined in the darkness, his hungry mouth on hers, devouring, demanding, denying the existence of a past or future.

His mouth left hers, and his hands held her still, moving her inches away from his hot, tense body. “Maggie,” he said, his voice rough in the darkness.

He was frustratingly out of reach. His voice was the voice of reason, but she fought against it, fought against him, reaching for him. He gave her a small shake. “Maggie,” he said again, “do you know what you’re doing?”

She started to close in on herself again. “If you don’t want me, Randall,” she said, “all you have to do is say so.”

“How many men have you slept with since Pulaski died?”

She winced at the question, flayed by the memory of Mack. “None of your damned business,” she said.

“No one, right? Don’t you think I’m a hell of a choice? Do you really want to make it with someone you hate?” His words were biting, intrusive, and she wanted to hide from them. But his hands held her steady, the long fingers biting into her arms.

“Message received, Randall,” she snapped. “Get your hands off me, and I’ll sleep on the floor.”

He made no move to release her. She could feel the heat, the tension flowing from his body. His shirt hung open around his torso, and his lean brown chest was rising and
falling rapidly. He wanted her. His eyes told her so, his body told her so. But his words kept pushing her away.

“Did you think that because you slept with me before you met Pulaski somehow this wouldn’t count? That you’d still be faithful to your dead husband?”

“Don’t!” She thought she’d screamed it, but the word came out a raw murmur of pain.

He shook her, and her head snapped back. Her eyes met his. “Did you ever stop to think that maybe I look at it a little differently? For me, Pulaski doesn’t count. I had you first.”

She stood very still at the bitter, passionate words. Finally, she found her voice. “What are you waiting for, Randall? An engraved invitation? Don’t you want to see if I’ve gotten any better with practice?”

“You couldn’t have,” he said flatly, his hands leaving her arms.

“Hopeless case, was I?” She began undoing her buttons, one by one; her eyes never left his.

“You couldn’t improve on perfection.”

Her hands stopped where they were. The shirt hung open, exposing her skimpy little bra. “I think your memory needs jogging, Randall.”

“I think your mouth needs stopping, Maggie.” And he suited the action to the words, covering her mouth with his as he pulled her into his arms. His tongue slid past her teeth into the stunned interior of her mouth, and he kissed her long and hard and deep as his hands pushed the shirt off her shoulders and unfastened the bra. He stripped her jeans off and moved her down onto the narrow cot, covering her with his still-clothed body.

And then it was all darkness, warmth, and heat. His mouth was all over her, arousing her, inciting her, devouring her, until she was arching in his arms and weeping against the roughness of his shirt as his hands and mouth brought her to the border of madness and then beyond.

She lay gasping and trembling with reaction, listening to her pulse race and her heart pound. Randall lay, still clothed,
half beside her, half on top of her, and he made no move to do more than hold her as she slowly floated back toward sanity.

But sanity wasn’t what she wanted. She reached her hand down to touch him, but Randall caught her wrist, and she waited for him to pull her away. But he couldn’t do it.

“What did Miroslav do to you, Randall?” she taunted softly. “Geld you?”

He laughed then, a small, surprising sound of amusement. “You did a much better job than he ever did, Maggie,” he said, his fingers covering hers and pressing her hand against him. She began to tremble with fierce hunger, and her hands were clumsy as she tried to unfasten his zipper.

Finally he took pity on her, stripping off his pants and looming over her in the darkness. She lay back, waiting, nerves on fire, desire sweeping through her, waiting for him to complete their union. He hovered there for a moment, hesitating, and Maggie’s arms reached for him.

He moved then, swiftly, pushing deep into her, shoving her back into the narrow cot with the force of his thrust. Her fingers clutched his shoulders, and her legs wrapped around his narrow hips as she took him, all of him, deep inside her, and her entire body responded with a spasm of pleasure-pain that left her sobbing into the night.