At the Edge of the Sun by Anne Stuart

give a damn about your fate, Randall.”
    His smile was faintly skeptical. “Really? I hate to tell you this, Maggie, but I could see your reflection quite clearly in that plate-glass window. You were damned glad to see me. Almost tearful, as a matter of fact.”
    She didn’t bother to deny it. “That’s because I knew your presence, no matter how unwelcome, meant that Holly was all right. Nothing more than that.”
    “I can accept that,” he said, his voice suddenly intent. “If you’ll tell me why you suddenly decided to hate me. If you feel like imparting that piece of information I’d appreciate it.”
    She stared at him for a long moment, contemplating. On impulse she spoke. “How well did you know Bud Willis?”
    His eyes narrowed. “Too well. Why?”
    “Did you ever hire him to do anything for you? Anything of a personal nature?” Hell, she thought, why don’t you just come right out and ask him?
    Randall was standing very still, and a mask had shuttered his features. “What makes you ask that?”
    “Idle curiosity. Are you going to answer me?”
    “No.”
    She waited. “No, you’re not going to answer me or no, you never hired him?”
    “No, I’m not going to answer your question. It’s none of your damned business, Maggie.” His temper flared. “The past is the past, and raking over old mistakes is a waste of time when it’s too late to change any of it. If you don’t like the way I’ve run my life that’s your problem, not mine.”
    Maggie nodded, her face cool and still. “You’re absolutely right. And I’ll take care of it, sooner or later. That’s a promise.”
    “It sounds like a threat,” he said wearily.
    Maggie managed a distant smile. “Take your pick, Randall.”
    Timothy Seamus Flynn chuckled softly, flipping the morning paper over and dropping it beside his half-empty coffee cup as he surveyed the Dublin morning. He was pleased—no, more than pleased. He was absolutely delighted with the results of his gerry-rigged device. The stuffy lords of Champignons wouldn’t look down their aristocratic noses at the likes of Tim Flynn again. And that snotty British bitch was missing in the rubble, that honorable miss whoever who’d been so shocked when he’d grabbed her arse. Serve the bloody cunt right, he thought, grinning.
    “More coffee, sir?” The waitress had reappeared at his elbow.
    “No, love. This is enough for now. I’ve got a plane to catch.”
    And the waitress forgot her sore feet and miserable cold and smiled back at that engaging grin.

five
     
    It was a cold night in Northern Ireland. Colder than London, colder than New York, with a chill wind that blew right through the thick woolens and into one’s backbone. Maggie leaned against the rough side of the building, huddling in the heavy cape she’d borrowed from Holly, and wondered whether the cold was all on the outside. Part of her wanted to run back to the carefully hidden rental car, part of her wanted to be back in her austere apartment in New York. But she was made of sterner stuff than that.
    “This is the place,” Randall said. He was only a tall shadow in the darkness beside her, his elegant suit traded for rumpled corduroys and a thick fisherman’s sweater. He had an uncanny ability to take on protective coloration. She could remember the time they’d spent in Eastern Europe, more than six years ago. In Gemansk he’d donned the persona of an Eastern Bloc factory worker when he’d taken on the rough clothing their contact, Vasili, had brought him. Tonight he looked like any number of Irish workers they’d passed on their long hike to this remote little corner of County Down, a little taller than most, a little quieter than most, but nothing remarkable.
    Maggie only wished she felt as anonymous as Randall. Her faded jeans and thick rust-color sweater would have been at home anywhere, and the thick green cape was as Irish as the cold North wind around her. But with her wheat-color hair,