by user
When she woke up the car had stopped. The night was black all around them, the rain still beating against the windows and roof. The lights of the dashboard provided only a small amount of illumination, and then none at all as he turned off the car.
“What’s up?” she asked, sleepy, unalarmed.
“Believe it or not, I’m lost. I figure we can just spend the rest of the night here and wait until it gets light or the rain stops, whichever comes first.” His voice was deep, soothing in the darkness.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“What for? It’s not your fault I kept driving when I didn’t know where the hell I was going. Go back to sleep.”
She could always fake it. The night had grown colder, the rain icy and driving, and she was wearing only a T-shirt and one of her light gypsy skirts. Her bare toes were freezing, but it was too dark for him to see her shiver.
“You’re cold,” he said. His night vision was clearly better than hers. “Stay put and I’ll get one of the sleeping bags to wrap around you.” He started to open the door, and she put out her hand to stop him.
“You’ll get soaked.” she protested.
“I don’t mind.”
“You’ll only make me colder.”
She heard his laugh. “Point taken. I can reach in the back and find a blanket.”
“Okay,” she said. And then wished she hadn’t. He turned in the seat, brushing against her, and she wasn’t cold at all. A moment later he’d turned, no longer touching her, and she didn’t know what was worse.
“Why don’t you climb into the rear?” he said. “I don’t think I’d fit, but you might be able to get comfortable.”
“That’s not fair....”
“Sure it is. That way I have the whole front seat to stretch out in.”
The front seat of a Citroën 2 CV wasn’t much bigger than a rabbit hutch, but there was no question he’d have more room without her. “Okay,” she said, reaching for the door.
He put his hands on her, hauling her back. It was far from the first time he’d touched her, but in the dark, in the cave like interior of the small car, it somehow felt more intimate. If I’m not allowed out in the rain, neither are you,’ he said. “Climb over the seat.”
“It would be a lot easier...”
His big hands were on her waist, and she was over the high-backed split bench seat a moment later, landing with a thud in the back. “There.” he said, shifting his long body to the passenger side. There was an edge to his voice, one she wasn’t used to hearing. “Now go to sleep.”
“Is something wrong?”
“Nothing.”
She’d been around grumpy men before; just because she hadn’t seen Killian in this particular mood before didn’t mean she couldn’t handle it. After all, he’d lost his girlfriend, had spent the last few hours driving in heavy rain and was probably cold, hungry and uncomfortable. And no man she’d ever known was cheerful when admitting he was lost.
“All right,” she said, bunching down on the small seat. She could just manage to curl up, and she tucked her hands under her head, closing her eyes and ignoring the cold.
Only to have something come sailing over the seat. The blanket he’d dragged into the front for her. “Wrap yourself up,” he said, still sounding testy. “You’re cold.”
“You keep it. I’ve got more space back there, and you’re cold, too.”
“I’m wearing more than that skimpy little outfit you’ve got on.”
“Skimpy little outfit?” she echoed, annoyed. “It was hot earlier today.”
“It’s cold now. And if you’re going to try hitchhiking around France you might at least wear a bra. I’m not always going to be around to save you.”
She sat up, pissed off and embarrassed at the same time. “I don’t need a bra,” she said. “It’s just one more piece of laundry to deal with, and I’m not so well endowed that I need to bind myself—”
“It would make life easier on me if you did,” he grumbled.
“What?”
“Never mind.”
She leaned forward, putting her hands on the back of the seat. “What’s going on with you? We’re friends. As far as you’re concerned I don’t even have breasts.”
“Princess, I’m a man. I always notice a woman’s breasts.”
“Okay, first stop tomorrow I’ll buy a bra. Will that make you happy?”
“Killian..
“Just go to sleep.” he said. “I’m going for a walk.” The blast of wind and rain swallowed her protest, and then the door slammed and she was alone in the car.
A moment later she was out in the night, chasing after him. He was barely visible, and the rain beat against her skin like tiny pellets. “Killian, get your ass over here!” she demanded.
“Get back in the car.” His voice came from out of the darkness.
“Not until you do.”
“Get back in the goddamn car, Mary.” He was moving farther away, and the rain was icy, blinding.
She could be just as stubborn. “I’m not going anywhere until you come back.” She started toward the sound of his voice, only to have him suddenly slam up against her out of the night, his arms around her, pulling her close.
“You idiot.” he said. “You almost went over the cliff.”
She tried to look up at him. “Why the hell did you park beside a cliff? Couldn’t you find someplace safer?”
He pushed her up against the car, and she could feel him fumbling behind her for the door latch. “Please,” he said, the word a growl, “get in the car and stay there. If you don’t, I can’t answer for the consequences.”
“Consequences? What the hell are you talking about?”
“This” he said. And he kissed her.
Not the sweet lover’s kiss she’d daydreamed about. Not the tender touch of his mouth on hers. This was rough, hard, deep—a kiss of such raw demand that it frightened her.
Her arms were trapped between their bodies, and she yanked them free, knowing she should shove him away. Knowing she was going to put them around his neck and pull him closer. Knowing she was going to kiss him back. He got the door open and pushed her into the front seal, and if he’d had any thought of leaving her he was out of luck, because she held on, dragging him after her into the tiny space. They were a tangle of arms and legs, mouths and tongues. She yanked at the denim shirt he was wearing, ripping off the buttons to expose the firm smooth flesh, as he pulled her T-shirt over her head and sent it sailing over the seat back. His hands covered her small breasts, and then his mouth, and the car was hot and dark, skin against skin. He pushed her into the driver’s seat and reached under her skirt, finding the plain cotton underwear and yanking it down, putting his hand between her legs, where she was Wet and aching.
He didn’t say a word. He simply pulled her back to him, her legs straddling his thighs, and she heard the rasp of his zipper, his soft groan, and then he thrust up into her, pushing, thick and hard. Hard with wanting her, needing her. The thought was dizzying.
She wanted more, and he gave her more, until she was clawing at his shoulders, shaking with it, lost in a dark, wicked place with no words, no tenderness, just heat and need and his cock inside her. Pulsing, thrusting, and her own body shivering, trembling, taking him, all of him, until she burst, arching back, her hair rippling down her naked back, her breath caught in a silent scream.
He put his hands between them, touching her, prolonging it, not moving as wave after wave swept over her, stars and darkness and a thousand pinpricks against her skin. When she was finally able to draw breath into her lungs, he began to move again, thrusting up, hard, over and over and over and over until he was trembling. She was shaking, needing more, ready for him, when he suddenly pushed her off him, and she felt the dampness across her thighs as she fell back against the seat, against him, breathless, weak, and his climax spilled over their bodies.
She wanted to weep. Weep because she wanted everything. Weep because at the last moment
he’d protected her. Weep because she loved him and it was never going to work.
She felt his lips behind her ear. “You’re in love with me, princess. Fortunately, I’m in love with you. Now go to sleep, and as soon as it gets light we’ll find a hotel and do this again.”
“Again?” she whispered sleepily. He loved her Astonishing, unbelievable, but true. He loved her.
“Again and again and again.” he said.
And before she could come up with another word, she fell asleep in his arms in the cramped front seat of the Citroën.
He’d almost blown it, big time, Killian thought, shifting a little beneath his soft burden. He’d forgotten a condom, and the last thing in the world he needed was a pregnant mark. He had every intention of ditching her once he’d completed his assignment, but he was hoping to do it gently, without amusing any suspicions. Break her heart, maybe, but save her life. If she got pregnant he’d have to kill her. He couldn’t afford to let anything make him appear vulnerable. But that wasn’t going to happen. He had condoms in his backpack. Unfortunately, everything had happened too quickly for him to get to them.... He’d been meaning to wait until they reached a hotel, but whether he wanted to admit it or not, he’d been waiting for this moment since he’d seen another guy straddling her in the alley in Plymouth. And it had only been a taste. Fast and hard and good, but it was going to be even better once he found a hotel. He had three days before he had to meet his man in Marseille, and he knew just how he planned to spend those days. Fucking his brains out with Mary Isobel Curwen. She had perfect breasts. He’d known early on she was sensitive about them, even more than she was about her red hair and her curvy butt, Maybe if shed worn a bra he could have waited until they got to a hotel room. But in the end he’d gone with his instincts and his appetites. And she was now draped over him in a boneless little bundle of satisfaction, thinking she’d found her true love. He still wasn’t sure of the least painful way to get rid of her. Simply disappear? Tell her he was going back to the imaginary Marie-Claire? Pick a fight with her? That had worked this time, to get between her legs, but in general she wasn’t easily riled. She loved him, which made her both tolerant and an idiot. He was a very dangerous man, though he went to great lengths to hide it. She was smart enough to have picked up on it if she’d used her brain. But he’d done everything he could 10 keep her from doing just that. He’d kept her interested, aroused, frustrated for just long enough, and now he’d sealed the deal. She was his, body and SOUL, for as long as he needed her that way. When he was through, she’d be older and wiser. And he’d be long gone.
He wanted her again. Pulling out at the last minute had been the smart thing to do, and it had nearly killed him. When he got inside her again he was going to stay there a good long time. Until he’d had enough of her. He just hoped three days would do it.
He’d left. Mary couldn’t quite believe it. She’d crawled out of the rumpled bed a few hours ago, wrapping a sheet around her, and curled up next to the window, watching out over the rain-swept Marseille streets. It had been raining for three days now, and none of it had mattered. They’d spent those three days in bed, the first night at a small inn, the second two in this cheap hotel in one of the worst parts of the city.
She hadn’t even looked at it when he brought her here. She’d simply followed him into the room, onto the bed, moving in the dark, her body caught up with his, and it wasn’t until she woke up, late this afternoon, that she noticed just how run-down and dirty the place was. She glanced over at the small, torn-up bed, at the remaining sheet. It was a badly laundered gray, and she shuddered, yanking the other sheet off her body and heading for the tiny bathroom, amazed that there was one en suite in this slum. The towels weren’t any better than the grimy sheets. She used the rough soap on her body, her hair, and then dried herself with some of her clean clothes rather than touch the towels provided. And then she dressed and headed back to the window, to watch as the wet streets grew dark, watch and wait for a man who wasn’t coming back.
She had no reason to believe that. He’d been the perfect lover, tender, sweet, so intent on pleasing her that he’d barely let her touch him. It had been strange, wonderful, dizzying, and she’d felt drugged with it, with him, with the sex and the darkness arid the pleasure.
Drugged... She shook herself. Where was he? Strange, paranoid feelings were washing over her, ridiculous thoughts that she couldn’t shake. She couldn’t remember anything from the last few days, just flashes of sensation. Had she eaten? Had she used the bathroom? Had they talked? She yanked up her sleeves, half expecting to see needle tracks on her arms. Her head was clearing, and she pushed open the window, letting some of the cold wet air in. Where was he? And what in God’s name had happened?
Nothing of his remained in the room. There was no trace of him, though her things were intact. Including the small amount of money that needed to last, the credit cards and traveler’s checks. Why had he disappeared? He loved her. She’d believed him when he said it, but now a thousand doubts were beating at her brain. Why would he turn from friend to lover and then disappear? They’d spent more than two weeks together, traveling the back roads of France. She knew everything about him, just as he knew everything about her. And then, suddenly, he was gone. She couldn’t just sit there. She shoved her clothes into her backpack, pulled on a sweater and headed out to the lobby of the hotel. Her French had improved exponentially during the time she’d been in the country, and she had no trouble making the old woman behind the desk understand her.
“He paid for two more nights,” she said, “and told me to tell you he had to go back to Paris. He was sorry.” Mary just looked at her, uncomprehending. “Did he say why? Leave an address or a phone number?” The concierge shook her head. “Monsieur Brown left nothing but cash for the room.” She eyed Mary’s backpack. “Are you leaving early? There are no refunds.” “Monsieur Brown’?” He’d given a false name. Had he given her one, as well? “We don’t want any trouble here,” the woman said. “Stay or go, it’s up to you. But your boyfriend’s left, and he went off with a group of men. Maybe you should just go back to America and forget about him.”
That wasn’t about to happen. At the very least, she needed some answers. “What kind of men? Do you have any idea where they went?” The innkeeper, not much cleaner than her rooms, scratched the side of her face. “Bad men,” she said finally. “Smugglers, terrorists. I’ve seen them around before, and you don’t want to have anything to do with them. The police leave them alone, and you should, too. If your boyfriend is mixed up with the likes of them you don’t want to be anywhere near him.”
“Terrorists?”
“I don’t want any trouble here. I think you should leave.” “Mr. Brown paid for two more nights and you don’t give refunds.” The woman slapped some money on the desk. “You go.” Mary Isobel Curwen looked at the bills. She was still feeling drugged. The world had turned upside down, and she was lost. If nothing else, she needed some answers.
“Did you see where they took him?”
“They didn’t take him, mademoiselle. He took them.” She shoved the money toward her. “Go.”
Blood money. For some strange reason the thought came to mind. What in God’s name was Killian doing with smugglers and terrorists? He was a graduate student, a teacher, with a fashion model ex-girlfriend and a family back home in the Midwest. The woman had to be crazy.
“Did you see what direction they went? You can keep the money if you tell me.” Dumb, Mary thought. The avaricious woman would probably just make up something.
“They were headed to the docks. I heard them say something about it. There are old warehouses down there, most of them boarded up. You’ll never find him. Let him go. chérie.” She’d already pulled the money back. “He’s a bad one, and you were too blind to see.”
Was she? Could she have been that wrong about him? For the first time in her life Mary Isobel had fallen in love. Had she been so stupid as to fall for a liar? And p
erhaps even worse?
“I don’t know anything more. If you have any sense, you’ll get the next train to Paris and go home. You seem like a nice young lady—these people aren’t like anyone you’ve ever known, and the sooner you get away from them the better.” She’d go to Paris. But she wasn’t going home—she was moving on with her life, her plans, her semester at the Cordon Bleu, where she’d learn to butcher meat, and think of a certain lying American while she did it. But before she left she needed more answers. “Which way are the docks?”
The old woman shook her head. “You’re a foolish girl. You don’t want to get mixed up in this business.” “Where are the docks?” She jerked her head. “Turn right and follow your nose,” she said, moving away. “And good luck to you.” Mary shouldered her backpack and stepped out into the rainy evening. She had no idea where she was—she couldn’t remember when they’d arrived in Marseille, and she had no idea what part of town she was in. Some kind of slum, with narrow, hilly streets leading down toward what must be the docks. Killian had found her tail of the covering, flipping it back, and the familiar orange color caught her eye. She wound her way through debris that looked as if it had been piled there for decades, telling herself she was crazy, until she pushed the rest of the tarp back and saw the scratch on the side panel, a scratch he’d told her came from a rock. A scratch that looked more and more like it was from a ricocheting bullet.
“Crazy,” she muttered under her breath, standing in the rain, staring at the abandoned car. She was imagining disasters, when the answer was probably much simpler. He’d tired of her and gone off with someone else. But why bother to hide his car? And what was he doing with people the innkeeper thought were smugglers? When Mary Isobel first heard the voices, she thought she was imagining them. She was standing there in the pouring rain, stunned, for God knows how long, but the rough French made her suddenly dive down next to the car, purely on instinct, and yank the corner of the tarp over her as they drew nearer. Then the nightmare blossomed into full-out horror.
