At the Edge of the Sun (14 page)

He had a knife in his suitcase. Holly had seen it several times, and it took her only a moment to find the hidden pocket where it rested. It was a nasty piece, very sharp, and the leather holder had an ominous brown stain near the top. For a moment she considered putting it back, then changed her mind. She couldn’t walk into the lion’s den unarmed. And that was exactly where she was going.

Once more she had an advantage. Once Sybil accepted the fact that Holly had seen Flynn she’d become embarrassingly loquacious, secure in the knowledge that of all her daughters, Holly was the least likely to judge her. She and Flynn intended to travel, she’d said. Only the best places. The Cielo in Rome, the Danieli in Venice, the Crillon in Paris. Darling Tim liked the finer things in life, and Sybil was more than willing to provide them. They’d go incognito, of course. While Sybil rather liked the fuss her worldwide reputation inspired, Tim was a possessive person and didn’t want to share her. If they were going to run away together to Italy they’d use phony names.

Extensive traveling had made Holly more than comfortable with the vagaries of the Italian telephone system. It took no more than three tries to get through to the Signor Palmo at the Cielo, to receive the regretful information that no, Mr. Flynn was not registered. There were a number of British and American males who’d checked in in the last twenty-four hours who might fit that description, from Dr. Mantel and Mr. Browning to Mr. MacDonald to …

“Mr. Browning?” Holly interrupted. “Mr. Robert Browning?”

“Yes, indeed, Miss Bennett. He checked into the ambassador suite late last night. Would you care to have your call put through?”

“No,” she said hastily, adrenaline shooting through her. “I think I might come and surprise him. What floor is the ambassador suite on?”

“The penthouse. May we say, Miss Bennett, that we’re all praying for your mother’s recovery? She’s been an honored patron here for many years. A great lady, a very great lady.”

Sudden tears filled Holly’s eyes. “Thank you, signor. You are very kind. And please, don’t say a word to Mr. Browning. I want my arrival to be quite unexpected.”

“I understand,” said Signor Palmo, clearly scenting a romance. “My lips are sealed.”

“I knew I could count on you.”

Once more Holly replaced the phone. There were clear advantages to being a Bennett. Signor Palmo would hardly have been as helpful to any curious tourist. And she was able to use the well-known name to make immediate appointments to have her hair done, a manicure, and a facial—everything to pamper her much-abused body into a state of smooth perfection. Her own hotel even had a decent boutique. In less than two hours she was primed and ready, exquisitely beautiful and dressed to kill. Literally.

Movies were running through her head—Sybil’s old classics.
The Barretts of Wimpole Street
had been her biggest hit, with Sybil as Elizabeth Barrett and Deke Robinson doing his best work playing Robert Browning. Robert Browning, who carried Elizabeth Barrett off to Italy. The current Robert Browning had left Sybil behind, taking only her jewels and quite probably her life. It hadn’t required great deductive reasoning on Holly’s part—Sybil had coyly, nauseatingly referred to Tim Flynn as the Robert Browning in her life.

But Sybil’s best movie had been
Judith
. She’d come within an inch of winning an Oscar for that one, playing the biblical heroine who’d seduced the enemy general and then calmly proceeded to cut off his head while he slept. Holly didn’t know whether she’d actually manage to decapitate Flynn, but the idea brought a slight feeling of warmth to her cold heart. However she did it, she was going to kill Tim Flynn.

She almost made a clean getaway. Ian Andrews was stalking
down the hallway, clearly in a foul mood, as she headed for the elevators and her appointment with death. He looked up when he heard her approach, and his scowl deepened.

“What the bloody hell are you all dolled up for?” he demanded, his green eyes running over her expensive silk suit, the spike high heels that made her an inch taller than he, her perfectly coiffed black hair.

She must have inherited some of her parents’ acting ability. She managed a serene smile, ignoring the dampness of her slender palms, and shrugged. “What else? I’m going shopping.”

“Shopping?” He shouted the word. “You silly, shallow, selfish woman! Have you even bothered to check on your mother? Have you tried to find out anything, anything at all, or have you just been sitting there polishing your nails?”

Her nails were freshly manicured, a fitting, deep blood red, and they curled against her damp palms. “I presumed you were taking care of things,” she lied.

“I couldn’t find out a bloody thing. If Flynn’s entered the country in the last twenty-four hours he came in under a phony name.”

Holly shrugged again, shutting down her twinge of guilt at not confiding in him. “Maybe he’s still in Lebanon. Maybe Maggie and Randall have got him tied up somewhere. Maybe he’s already dead.” And maybe he’s sitting in a luxury suite a few short blocks away, unaware that his downfall is about to arrive in the shape of an elegant young woman. Against her will, a small, sour smile lit her face at the thought.

Ian stared at her, not missing the smile, not missing much at all. “Maybe,” he said finally. “Why don’t you come back in the room and I’ll tell you what I discovered?”

“You said you didn’t find out a thing.” If she went back into that hotel room she’d have a hard time getting out again. Besides, he might notice the knife was missing, and then there’d be no way she’d be able to complete her mission. Ian would insist on accompanying her, and that was
the last thing she wanted. If he didn’t scare Flynn away he’d be the one to kill him. And at that moment Holly wasn’t going to give that privilege away to anyone.

“We can figure out what to do next,” he said.

“I’m sure you can take care of that all by yourself,” she said lightly. “You wouldn’t listen to my suggestions anyway. Don’t worry, Ian. I promise only to buy enough to fill six suitcases.” With a little wave of her hand she continued down the hallway.

She could feel his eyes on her, boring into her back. She hadn’t fooled him. No matter how good she was at lying, she hadn’t fooled Ian Andrews. But it would take him awhile to do something about it. And once she was gone he’d have a hell of a time tracking her down.

The elevator doors
whoosh
ed shut behind her, and for a brief moment she allowed her stiff shoulders to relax. And then she straightened them again. Escaping Ian’s eagle eyes was the least of her worries. Tim Flynn was going to require more than a little acting ability. She clenched her hands around her leather purse and wished that Ian had stopped her.

It was all absurdly easy. Signor Palmo met her in the lobby, clearly on the lookout for her distinctive figure. He plied her with espresso and biscuits before ushering her into the executive elevator that led directly to the penthouse, and nodded and leered when she requested as much privacy as the Cielo could afford for her meeting with Mr. Browning. The Cielo could afford a great deal of privacy, and the other penthouse suite was unoccupied. No one would interrupt, Signor Palmo said, with a romantic little sigh. Mr. Browning was a very handsome man, with eyes as blue as the sky and a smile that could light up the darkest room. He would be a worthy match for the
belissima
Holly Bennett.

She waited until the elevator descended to the lobby again, waited in the marble-floored, deserted penthouse hallway, and the last of her nerves vanished as if by magic. Now that the moment was at hand she was very calm, determined.
Reaching up, she pressed the bell on the ornate door of the ambassador suite.

He was a very handsome man. He opened the door in shirt sleeves, his reddish hair rumpled, his beautiful blue eyes sleepy and friendly. He’d checked her out through the peephole, she’d known that, and known that she’d passed muster. She took no pride in her beauty. It was a tool she worked with, and it served her well in this case. Timothy Seamus Flynn’s handsome face creased in a sleepy, welcoming grin, and Holly’s serene smile answered it.

“Hi, I’m sorry to bother you.” She pitched her voice low and sexy with just a trace of a flawless Italian accent. “My name is Annamaria Castellano.”

“Yes?” His voice was low, musical, and beguiling. It was no wonder Sybil had succumbed.

This was the hard part. Holly smiled, batting her eyes. She could only thank God that Ian hadn’t tossed her small package of tinted contact lenses out the window in Beirut along with everything else. She looked at Tim Flynn out of eyes as green as Ian’s, not the distinctive aquamarine that would have given her away immediately. She shrugged prettily. “I’m afraid I cannot tell you why I’m here, signor,” she said. “I was sent to make sure you were comfortable, that your needs were seen to.”

He still didn’t move away from the door, but his lazy smile broadened. “Who sent you?”

“A man named Bud Willis.”

It was a shot in the dark, but the best she could come up with. It worked. Flynn’s grin vanished for a split second, then returned, even wider, and he opened the door, ushering her in. “Very hospitable of the man, considering he’s a ghost.”

She was prepared for that, having listened to Maggie and Randall’s arguments over breakfast the day before. “That’s a moot point.”

“Is it?” He shut the door silently behind her, locking it, and Holly clutched her leather purse a little more tightly.
The knife was resting in there, the knife and five thousand lire. Enough for a taxi back to the Ultima once the bloody deed was done.

“Can I get you a drink, Annamaria?” His voice caressed her name.

“That would be nice.” Her voice shook slightly. He reminded her of a cobra, coiled and ready to strike. Her plans had been stupid, half formed, not taking into account the reality of the man. She’d thought to seduce him, screw him into a stupor, and then cut his throat. There was no other way she’d get the chance, but right now the very thought of touching him made her physically ill. Maybe she could get him drunk.

She moved toward the window, looking out toward the distinctive shape of the Vatican, still clutching her purse. There was a small noise, and she jumped, back against Flynn’s hot body.

His hands had caught her upper arms, kneading slightly. “Why don’t you get more comfortable, Annamaria?” he crooned, the Irish lilt a travesty of charm. “Take off those shoes. I don’t like it when a woman is taller than I am. And you are here to please me, aren’t you?”

“Yes.” It came out in a nervous thread of sound, and he laughed.

“Do I frighten you, Annamaria? I’m just a traveling businessman, alone in Rome. I need company, and you’ll do an excellent job of providing it. Won’t you?” His hand snaked around in front of her and cupped her breast, squeezing, just hard enough to hurt.

She swallowed, slipping out of her spike heels, the movement pulling her away from his encroaching hand. “You don’t frighten me, signor. I’m not in holy orders. I know what’s expected of me. I know how to please a man.” She should turn and press herself against him. She should kiss that smiling mouth. She remained where she was.

“Ah, Annamaria, I’m sure that you do,” he whispered. “But I have special tastes.”

She couldn’t control the slight nervous twitch as his body pressed against her upright back. “I will do my best to satisfy them,” she said.

“You’ll do just fine,” he purred. “Why is your heart pounding like that, signorina? Are you excited?” He slid his hand down her arm, across her stomach and lower, his fingers gripping her with cruel force.

“I—I don’t like pain, signor,” she said, swallowing a groan.

He laughed. “Don’t you, Annamaria? That’s too bad. Because you’re going to feel a great deal of pain before I’m through with you.” He slid his hand back up her stomach and snatched her purse away before she realized what he was doing. “You’re going to learn to like it in the few hours you have left on this earth.” He moved away from her, snapping open the purse to take out Ian’s knife. He eyed it like a connoisseur. “Very nice,” he said. “I think I’ll use this one on you.” And he moved back.

Holly backed against the window, no longer able to hide her terror. “But signor, why would you want to kill me?”

“Because, Signorina Holly Bennett, I like to kill women,” he said, smiling that horrifically charming smile as he started toward her.

She watched him come. There was absolutely nothing she could do. He was going to kill her, slowly, painfully, and her choice was simple. She could scream and fight and run, or she could die with dignity. She opened her mouth to scream.

No sooner had the first ear-splitting shriek escaped her mouth when all hell broke loose. It sounded as if the entire Italian army were outside Flynn’s door, breaking it down. Moments later it crashed down, and Ian Andrews stood there, breathing fire, an Uzi assault pistol in his hand, looking for all the world like a green-eyed Rambo.

Flynn whirled around, the knife moving with him, and Holly screamed a warning. It came in time, Ian ducked, and the knife embedded itself in the hallway as he stormed into the room.

But Flynn was gone. He hadn’t waited to see if the knife connected, hadn’t waited to see whether Ian was going to use that assault gun despite Holly’s proximity. He dove out the window, onto the steeply slanted lower roof, and had taken off, disappearing into the shadows.

Ian was halfway out the window, heading after him, when the wailing siren of the carabinieri reached their ears. He pulled back, cursing vehemently. “We’ve got to get out of here,” he said, grabbing her arm and pulling her out of the suite. She grabbed her discarded shoes on the way, following him out at a stumbling run. He yanked the knife out of the wall and headed for the service exit, ignoring the elevators that stood waiting.

They were halfway down the fourteen flights when Holly pulled back, her breath tearing through her. “Why … are … we running?” She gasped. “We didn’t do anything wrong.”

He looked up at her from the lower step, and she couldn’t read anything in his expression beyond impatience and a raw determination. “I don’t want to waste time trying to explain what we were doing there to the Italian police. I smuggled the knife into the country, and this gun is highly illegal. By the time they let us go Flynn would be so far gone we’d never find him.”