Read Online At the Edge of the Sun by Anne Stuart - Free Book Online Page A

guns, drowning out everything, drowning out screams and pleas and weeping. As suddenly as it began, it was over, and there was silence once more, silence and darkness. Any light in the pub had been smashed by the storm of bullets.
    “Well done, lads,” a voice said. It wasn’t O’Banion’s voice, and Maggie wondered if their informant was lying dead in that pub. Randall’s body still held her immobile against the wall, and the two of them scarcely breathed.
    “You want to see if anyone’s left?” another voice questioned. A woman’s voice.
    “No need. We’ve been thorough enough. I think we’d better move fast. The villagers know well enough to stay behind closed doors, but we don’t want to risk running into any witnesses.”
    “What about the Americans? Shouldn’t we make sure … ?” Again the woman’s voice, cool and businesslike.
    “Faith, don’t worry, Maeve. They swallowed Flynn’s tale, hook, line, and sinker. They’re there, all right. And Flynn’s on his way to Beirut by now. It’s been a good night’s work. Stop looking for trouble.” They were moving away then, six or seven dark-clothed strangers on a walk in the damp nightair. Their voices drifted away, then back, bouncing off the fog, and then faded away entirely.
    Slowly, slowly Randall lifted his hand from her mouth. His body kept her pressed against the wall, and in truth, she was glad of it. For the moment she didn’t think her legs would support her.
    “I couldn’t let you scream, Maggie,” he said, his voice low and grim. “You couldn’t have saved them, and they would have killed us too.”
    “So instead we had to watch. It’s a hell of a choice, Randall,” she said quietly.
    A bleak smile lit his face. “Be glad you didn’t have to make it.”
    She nodded. He was warm in the chilly winter air. He was a few inches taller than she was, and broader, and his body covered hers, protecting her from the wind. She could feel his thighs pressed against her trembling legs, the bones of his hips, the warmth of his torso and strength of his arms around her. She knew she should push him away, but she didn’t have the strength. She used her mouth instead.
    “You want to let go of me now?” she said. Her voice didn’t come out the way she’d planned it. Not terse and laconic, it sounded almost wistful.
    “Not just yet,” he said, closing his eyes for a moment, and she could feel the tremor of pain and something else shiver over him. “Give me a minute.”
    She stood very still. And then she sighed, dropping her forehead against his shoulder, and slid her arms around him. And they stood there, for countless moments, with the smell of death all around them in the fog-shrouded night.
    “Do you think they’re all right?” Holly kept her voice casual as she toyed with the glass of whiskey. She was lying stretched out on one uncomfortable sofa in the deserted common room of the dingy, second-rate hotel Maggie had deliberately chosen, and one slender, high-heeled foot was dangling over the armrest. Her toenails were painted apinky-lavender, a perfect match for her silk caftan, and Ian Andrews glowered at them every ten minutes. It was now almost two o’clock in the morning. The two of them had been sitting there in monosyllabic discomfort since they finished an amazingly horrible dinner at ten-thirty, which made it … twenty-one glares, she computed triumphantly. Or was it two hundred and ten … ? What the hell. She drained her whiskey.
    “How should I know?” Ian demanded, pacing back to the front window. He’d been as restless as a caged tiger the entire evening, storming from the window to the doorway, perching for a moment on the other sofa, then moving back and forth. He’d taken two hours on one game of patience, drank more than his share of the bottle of Irish whiskey, and in general been a less than charming companion.
    Holly sighed. “Shouldn’t they be back by now?”
    “They should.”
    “What do you think