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

conclusions for both of us,” he said. “I’ll go downstairs and see what I can find out. Why don’t you pour us both another drink while you’re waiting?”
    “If Holly and Randall are dead another drink won’t help matters.”
    “It won’t hurt either,” he replied, grabbing his shabby tweed jacket and patting his pocket assured that his gun which Maggie had returned to him was there. He also checked his ankle holster for his knife. Satisfied, he headed for the door. “Unless you want to come with me.”
    Maggie stared at him. “I’ll wait here.”
    The door shut behind him silently enough. Maggie moved with studied calm, pouring herself a second, stronger glass of Scotch and downing it with one gulp. She looked down at her hand and was amazed to see no tremor at all. She picked up the phone, requested an outside line, and dialed the number Randall had left. No one at Champignons deigned to answer the phone—if Champignons was still standing.
    She set the phone down quietly, moving back to the window.It looked as if an entire block was in flames, and the snowflakes drifted down, silhouetted by the orangey brightness. Holly was too damned young to die, she thought, her face set and grim. She couldn’t lose Sybil and Holly all in a matter of days. Life was cruel, but it simply couldn’t be that cruel. A small, helpless moan came from somewhere in the room, and she realized with a start that it emitted from her own tight throat.
    She didn’t know how long she stood there, staring out into the night. The fire spread to a second block before it was brought under control, and she watched, mesmerized, wondering how many bodies were cremated in that funeral pyre that could have only been Champignons.
    She heard the key in the lock, but she didn’t dare turn. She couldn’t bear to see the sorrowful expression on Ian’s face. She didn’t know him well enough to share the suddenly unbearable emotions that were threatening to strangle her, and she clenched her fists, her short nails digging into her palms, waiting for the deadly words.
    They were prosaic enough. “Shouldn’t you be in bed?” Randall’s unmistakable voice pierced through her fog of despair. “We’re booked on a plane to Northern Ireland tomorrow morning and you’ve probably still got a hell of a case of jet lag.”
    It took her a moment to school her features. She kept her back to him, her face turned to the plate-glass window as the first waves of relief and joy washed over her. She shuddered, then turned, her face calm and unmoved.
    “Where’s Holly?”
    “Down in the bar with Ian, filling him in on what little we found out.”
    “Then it was Champignons,” she said in a weary little voice, unable to contemplate what she had almost lost. “Do you want to tell me?”
    Randall shut the door behind him, moving across the room so that he was standing much too close to her. He didn’t touch her, he didn’t need to. His very closeness wasan unwanted embrace. “We got caught in the world’s worst traffic jam. We were three blocks away when the bomb blew.” He shrugged. “We were lucky.”
    “Was it Flynn?”
    Randall smiled, his cold, wintry smile. “Who can tell? Anybody who worked in the club, who would have seen him, has been blown to hell and back. I think it would be a reasonable assumption.”
    “Reasonable,” Maggie agreed coolly. “Is Holly all right?”
    “A little shaken. Andrews isn’t half bad, you know. He took one look at her pale face and immediately began to insult her. She perked right up. Last I saw them they were squabbling over brandy and chips.”
    “Brandy and chips?” Maggie said faintly. “Better her than me. What time is our plane?”
    “Not till eleven.” His voice was curiously gentle. “Are you all right?”
    “Why wouldn’t I be?” She summoned up a trace of belligerence.
    “Maybe you were worried about the bombing?” he suggested.
    “I was worried about Holly,” she corrected. “I could