by user
“Killian.” she whispered. And the day went black.
2
Then
She’d been a wild child, with a tangled mane of curly red hair, a stubborn streak a mile wide, a passionate heart and an innocent soul. At the age of nineteen she’d shoved her belongings into a backpack, taken the first cheap flight to England and prepared to make her way to Paris and the Cordon Bleu at her own leisurely pace. There was no longer anyone back home in Vermont to worry about her—her mother had died young and her father had a new family. Mary Isobel Curwen was simply a reminder of another lifetime. She didn’t belong with them. She wasn’t stupidly reckless back then, just clueless. If she hadn’t decided to hike around England before school started, if she’d waited to go with her friends, if she’d had enough sense not to go out into the slums of
Plymouth in the middle of the night... If, if, if. She was older and wiser now, and hindsight was a bitch.
She hadn’t realized someone was following her that night. A group of some ones, silent, predatory, moving through the darkness like a pack of starving wolves. When she finally realized she wasn’t alone it was too late—she’d taken the wrong turn when leaving the pub, and was getting farther and farther away from the youth hostel where she’d left her backpack and sleeping bag.
She heard the scrape of a boot, a whispered laugh, and cold, icy fear had slid through her. She’d reached the end of the street and darted left, planning to disappear into the darkness of the alleyway. Only to find it was a dead end, lit by the fitful August moon.
And then they were there. A handful of them, some younger than she was, but she didn’t make the mistake of thinking they were harmless. They were blocking her escape, and she froze, a thousand thoughts running through her mind. If she disappeared, no one would notice, no one would ask. Her father had already forgotten about her, and while her friends back in Vermont might worry, it would be too late when they realized something was wrong.
No one was going to save her; no one was going to miss her. She was on her own, and she was either going to die or be hurt very, very badly.
“I don’t have much money,” she said in a deceptively calm voice.
“Not interested in money,” one of them said, as they crowded together, advancing on her. “Who wants first go?”
“Me,” said one of the younger ones, a skinny little rat with bad teeth and a feral look in his eyes. He was already reaching for his belt, and she opened her mouth to scream for help.
They were on her, slamming her onto the littered street, pawing at her, pressing her down, and no matter how she tried to kick or punch, someone always managed to stop her. She felt something sharp against her throat, and the young one grinned down at her. “I don’t mind cutting your throat first. I ain’t picky. I like a good fight, but if you want to lie there and bleed while I do you I’m not arguing.”
“Please,” she whispered, feeling the blade against her skin. She felt hands pulling at her jeans, trying to yank them down, and she kicked out, connecting with something painful, judging by the yelp of agony.
The boy straddling her turned and snarled, like a dog whose meal is threatened, and for a moment the pressure of the knife lessened. She slammed her head against his, feeling the blade knick her skin, knocking him off her and trying to roll away. But there were too many hands, too many bodies, and she knew there was nothing she could do but—
“Move away from her.” The voice was cool, deadly and blessedly American. Enough of a shock to stop the pack of teenagers from ripping at her. The ringleader rolled off her, peering into the night. ‘And who’s going to stop us? There’s one of you and seven of us, and I think you’d be smart to just keep on the way you were going. You can have a taste of what’s left.”
“Move away from her:’ he said again, stepping into the light. “Or I’ll make you.”
“You and what army?”
The scene was crazy, dreamlike. There was a flash of light, and the boy was flung back, away from her, as if by unseen hands. A moment later the sound of a gun cracked the darkness, out of sync. And then they were scrambling away from her, disappearing into the shadows, and a moment later all was silent.
“Are you all right?” The man moved out of the darkness. In the bright moonlight he looked ordinary enough. Tall, in jeans and a T-shirt, maybe five years older than she was. Nothing to scare a gang intent on rape. But he had scared them. He saved her—he was one of the good guys. He reached out a hand to her, and for a moment she wanted to shrink back, away from him. She was being stupid, and she took his hand, letting him pull her to her feet.
“Are you all right?” he asked again.
“Yes,” she said. A lie.
“How did you get them to run?”
He was taller than she was, lean and harmless looking. Not the type to frighten a bunch of creeps bent on rape.
“Car backfired,” he said easily. “They must have thought I had a gun.” He was still holding her hand, and she jerked away, suddenly nervous.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said. He tilted his head.
“If that’s what you prefer. And you can tell me something about yourself, and why you aren’t having hysterics over the fact that you just narrowly missed being raped and murdered.”
“I’m practical, and having hysterics won’t help me. I’ll wait till I’m alone.”
“There’s not much privacy in a youth hostel.”
She looked up at him. “You’re far too nosy about me and my reactions.”
“Hey, it’s not every day I save a damsel in distress. I have a vested interest.” His voice was light, careless, and the streetlights bounced off the thin glasses as they left the alley.
She shoved her tangle of red hair away from her face. “I’m not a damsel in distress. I’m a student on my way to the Cordon Bleu in Paris, and I can take care of myself:’
“So I observed. Classes don’t start for another three weeks. What are you doing wandering around England?”
The uneasiness that had almost ebbed away began to trickle back. “How do you know when the Cordon Bleu starts classes?”
“I’ve lived in France off and on for a number of years. I’m just about to head back there—I’m taking classes at a small art college in Paris and I planned to hum around the countryside for a bit. What’s your excuse?”
The panic was fading, and she pushed her paranoia down. “I was going to do the same thing. I was told it was safe to hitchhike in Europe.”
“Not when you look like you do.”
It was a simple statement, not even a compliment, and there was no way she could respond. To her astonishment they were already at the door of her hostel, where a pool of yellow light surrounded the front door.
She held out her hand. “Thank you for helping me.”
He looked at her hand for a moment a smile quirking his mouth. She could see him better in the light—his hair was long, tied in the back with a leather loop, his face narrow and intelligent looking, his mouth the only anomaly. It was a rich, beautiful mouth in an otherwise austere face, particularly when he was smiling.
He took her hand and bowed low over it in an exaggerated gesture. “I live to serve. My name’s Killian, by the way.”
“Is that your first or last name?”
“Take your pick. I’m Thomas Henry Killian St. Claire, but I don’t care much for the other ones. And you are...?”
“Mary.”
He waited patiently, still holding her hand. “Mary Isobel Curwen’ she said finally, snatching it away.
“Well, Mary Isobel Curwen, it’s been an honor to have been of service. If you decide you want a ride to France just let me know.”
“I don’t think so. I’m fine on my own.”
“Of course you are. I’ll be at the ferry tomorrow morning—I’ve got a battered orange Citroën. If you want a ride, just show up. No strings attached. I’ve got a French girlfriend who’d cut my throat if I even looked at another woman. I’m
just offering a ride to a fellow American.”
“I’m fine,” she said again.
“Suit yourself. I’m taking the ten o’clock ferry. In the meantime, stay out of dark alleyways, okay? France has even more of them.”
“I will.”
She half expected him to argue, but he simply walked away from her, down the deserted street, hands in his pockets, a man at ease with the world. She watched him go. The whole evening had taken on a surreal feeling, and the sooner she got in the shower and into bed, the sooner she’d get past it. By ten tomorrow he’d be on his way to France and she would have forgotten entirely about him. By ten o’clock she was sitting beside him in the disreputable orange Citroën, driving onto the ferry and wondering if she’d lost her mind.
She’d been a weakness; one Killian couldn’t afford to have. He’d only been passing through Plymouth, trying to find a good cover to get into France to complete his mission, and the noise in the alleyway was none of his business. He’d accepted long ago that he couldn’t save the world.
But something, probably simply the shitty luck that had currently plagued him, made him turn around and head back into the alleyway in time to stop some of the street rats from raping some stupid tourist.
He’d shot one, just because he’d wanted to. He could have gotten rid of them without the gun, but the sight of those pathetic, evil hoodlums annoyed him. They’d scattered, including the one he’d winged, and he was even more annoyed he hadn’t killed him. And then he focused his attention on the woman. He’d put on his best American student affability, reaching out a hand to pull her upright. She was slight, medium height, looking a bit shell-shocked. Just an idiot woman who’d wandered into the wrong place at the wrong time. Pretty, too, if he’d been in the mood to consider such things. She had a mess of red hair, and he’d never particularly liked redheads. In the moonlight he could see she had unbelievably blue eyes—almost turquoise— and the kind of mouth that could distract most men. It didn’t distract him. Maybe playing Sir Galahad hadn’t been such a stupid idea, after all. She’d provide the perfect cover—no one would be on the lookout for a couple of American students bumming around France. He’d said all the right things, of course, and she’d taken him at face value. He couldn’t fault her for that; most people looked at him and failed to see the wolf that lurked beneath his calm exterior.
He wasn’t going to be able to take the easy route and sleep with her. The best way to get a woman to do what you wanted was to luck her, but Mary Isobel Curwen had nearly been raped. She wasn’t going to want any man putting moves on her for quite a while. If he needed to seal the deal later, before he’d finished his assignment, then he would, but it was always better if he kept things simple. Sex tended to make a woman possessive, or at the very least, curious. Curiosity was a liability in his line of work.
But a platonic, protective friend was another matter, and she fell for it. It was child’s play—just the right amount of a sexual charm and nonthreatening promise, and she was sitting next to him in the beater of a car that hid an engine that could outrun a Ferrari. She’d never know ‘hat hit her. The wind was up and the ferry crossing was rough, but his newfound cover had a cast-iron stomach, and she stood up on deck, the wind whipping her wild red hair around her pale face, her eyes bright. Lively. Another point in her favor—she wasn’t easily frightened, either by storms or gangs of rapacious teenagers. As long as she stayed docile she’d be just fine. She wasn’t quite the perfect partner. If he’d been able to custom-order one he would have picked someone a little plainer, with dark hair, someone a little less complicated, who would enter into a sexual relationship without a lot of baggage. He liked sex, but he never let it get in the way of an assignment, and someone like Mary Curwen would definitely demand more than a vigorous workout. She’d get involved, making things a great deal more dangerous, so she was off-limits. It would have been more convenient if she weren’t so smart. That was mistake number one—thinking a cooking student would be less of a threat than someone attending the Sorbonne. Just because she’d been foolish enough to wander out alone didn’t mean she couldn’t put two and two together. He’d have to be careful.
Thinking it would be easy to keep his hands off her was the second mistake. And he wasn’t sure which was worse. But Killian was a man who took what was handed to him and worked with it. Mary Isobel Curwen. American student, had fallen into his lap quite nicely, and he had every intention of taking full advantage of her. Two weeks until his rendezvous in Marseille. Two weeks to burn around France, setting up an innocent front for anyone who happened to be on the lookout for him, and there were doubtless any number of people who wanted to get to him before he could complete his assignment. He always worked alone—no one would ever expect him to have a woman in tow.
Two weeks to keep an unfortunately bright woman in the dark as to who and what he was, without even the benefit of sex to keep her distracted. It was going to be a long two weeks
But worth it in the end. He’d make his meeting. complete his assignment and then disappear, and she’d never know her charming American buddy had just as assassinated General Etienne Matanga, the best hope for peace in his small African nation.
She never could figure out why she’d woken up early that morning, shoved her clothes and books into her knapsack and made her way down to the ferry. The Citroën had been easy to find, and Killian had been leaning against the car, waiting for something. Waiting, it seemed, for her. He’d looked up when she approached, and simply opened the back door for her to throw her knapsack in
“I’ve got a thermos of coffee,” he’d said by way of greeting. “Black as the devil, hot as hell, pure as an angel, sweet as love.”
She just looked at him. “I don’t like sugar.”
He shrugged. “Well, if we’re going to be traveling together we’ll have to compromise. There isn’t really that much sugar in it.”
“I thought you said ‘sweet as love.”
“I find love bittersweet, don’t you?”
She opened the thermos and poured some into the cap, taking a tentative sip. “I’m not sure I find love at all,” she replied. The coffee was good—hot and rich with just a trace of sweetness. “And who says we’re traveling together?”
“That’s up to you. I’ve got two weeks to kill before classes start. My girlfriend’s stuck in Berlin on a photo shoot, and I’m just going to drive around the south of France. You’ve got a few weeks to kill as well, and you’re welcome to join me, no strings attached. Maybe I’ll even give up sugar in my coffee if you’ll pitch in for gas.”
“Your girlfriend’s a photographer?”
He shook his head. “She’s a fashion model.”
That clinched it. No man with a fashion model girlfriend could have any ulterior motives in messing with red-haired Mary Curwen. He was absolutely right—she had three weeks until she could get into the cheap apartment waiting for her, and the fun of wandering on her own had permanently vanished last night in the alleyway.
“Lucky you,” she murmured.
He laughed. “Hey, what about lucky her?”
He was right about that. Now that Mary Isobel could see him in the light of day she realized he was good- looking. Maybe beyond that. He was well over six feet tall, with long legs clad in faded jeans. He had a narrow, clever face and green eyes. And he was taken.
“Lucky her.” she agreed with a smile. “You’ll make very pretty children.”
“If I can ever talk her into ruining her figure:’ he grumbled. “Got your passport? They’ll be checking them.”
“Of course.”
“Hand it to me. It’ll go faster if they know we’re traveling together.”
The nonchalant request bothered her. There was no reason for it, but it bothered her anyway, even as she put the dark navy passport in his outstretched hand. But he smiled at her, a warm, dazzling smile in the sunlit morning, and she knew she was being ridiculous. He was a fellow American. Looking for company and s
omeone to share the gas expenses, and she had nothing else to do for the next few weeks.
So she smiled back at him. “Very practical.” she said, as he pocketed her passport. And she took another sip of the hot, dark coffee and ignored her misgivings. The worst mistake of her life.
3
Now
The Moroccan sun was blazingly bright, a shock to the system after the dark rain of a London winter. Isobel Lambert drove very fast over the rutted roads. She was blessed with an unerring sense of direction, something that had saved her life on numerous occasions, and she knew shed make her destination by nightfall. She ignored the fact that she didn’t want to; she wasn’t ready to face who and what was waiting for her in a tiny North African village at the edge of the desert. At least he wouldn’t have the faintest idea who Isobel Lambert was. She didn’t know how he’d survived that night, but since he clearly had, he’d know that she, too, should have died. He would have forgotten all about the gullible young woman he’d used and tried to kill, even though she’d turned the tables and shot him. And he’d never connect cool, pale Isobel Lambert with the wild child he’d spent two short weeks with a lifetime ago. And thank God that was who she was. An elegant, ageless automaton, with no desires, needs or emotions. Those had been scrubbed out of her over the long years, and after the initial shock of recognition, she could view her current mission with equanimity. Josef Serafin would be out of commission, and the world would be a marginally safer place.
The winter sun was blazing down on her open- topped vehicle. But the Jeep was the fastest, most rugged conveyance she could find, and if someone managed to track her, or Serafin, even an armored tank wouldn’t keep them safe. The tires were kicking up too much dust, but during the seven-hour drive from Agadir she’d seen only a handful of sheepherders and a few nomadic encampments. There was a good chance she was being tracked by satellite, but there wasn’t much help for it. Killian, Serafin…. was hidden in a deserted village near the Algerian border, and there was enough trouble in the neighboring areas that she had every confidence they’d manage to get away. But then, she never went into a mission without being convinced of its viability. She could get Josef Serafin out of Morocco, back to London, without someone blowing his head off, no matter how many people wanted to do just that. Including his unwilling savior. The sun was starting to set by the time she reached the outskirts of the deserted village of Nazir, and a shiver danced across her skin. It was getting colder, as it did in the desert, the blistering daytime heat turning to a bone-numbing chill.
