Ice Storm

by user

  Mahmoud tried to punch her as she juggled him in her arms. He was probably seventy-five pounds—light for a human being, damned heavy if you weren’t used to it. Isobel pumped iron, practiced yoga and ran. He was still a strain.

  The nurse’s office was located on a lower deck, The few people who were out and about weren’t looking particularly happy with the rough seas, but they didn’t pay any attention as Isobel carried her small charge onto the elevator.

  When the door slid open Killian was there, and she stepped out, dumping Mahmoud in his arms and stretching her shoulders. “He needs a doctor.”

  Killian looked down at the bundle. “I take it he doesn’t like boats?”

  “You could say that.” Mahmoud began retching again, dry sounds, and the few people who’d been waiting for the elevator got on quickly, moving out of their way.

  The medical office was surprisingly empty, given the decided roll of the vessel. A woman in a white uniform was on duty, sitting behind a desk as Killian shouldered his way in. “Seasickness, I presume,” she said in English, rising.

  “He’s been throwing up for the last three hours,” Isobel stated.

  “You should have brought him down sooner. He might be dehydrated.” She looked them over. “Is this your son?”

  “God, no,” Killian said. With a British accent that made Isobel jerk. “We’re Mary and Jack Curwen, aid workers from England, and we’re bringing this poor child to his new family there.”

  “Set him down on the table.”

  Mahmoud was too sick to protest. He lay on the white-sheeted cot in misery as the woman looked him over. He made a feeble attempt at batting her hand away when she felt his forehead, but a sharp word from Killian in Arabic made him deceptively docile.

  “I’ll need to keep him overnight,” she said. “He is dehydrated. He’ll need an IV to replenish his fluids, and careful monitoring. Just fill out the paperwork and you can come get him in the morning.”

  Isobel glanced at Killian, expecting a protest on his part, but he didn’t argue. “Fine,” he said. “You’ll call us if there’s any problem?”

  “Of course.” The nurse gazed up at them, strong disapproval in her eyes. “You might at least have washed and fed the poor boy before bringing him onto the boat.”

  Isobel’s sting of guilt was entirely unexpected. She was glad when Killian replied, sounding calm and reasonable. “We did feed him. Quite a bit, as a matter of fact. Which is why he’s been so ill. As for bathing him, that’s easier said than done. Feel free to attempt it—you might have more luck while he’s feeling so ill. But I wouldn’t count on it.”

  Killian went over to the desk, rapidly filling in the forms with lies, then glanced at her. “Would you rather stay with the poor lad, darling?” he inquired.

  In fact, she was tempted. She didn’t want to go back to that quiet little room with the double bed, where she’d be alone with him.

  “Sorry, no visitors. I’ll alert you if I have any problems. We arrive at noon tomorrow—come by around ten and he should be clean and ready to go.”

  “God bless you.” Killian murmured, looking saintly. “Come along, my love. Let the nurse take care of this poor boy.”

  He whisked Isobel out of the cabin before she could protest, his hand under her arm, strong, almost imprisoning. At least she had several layers of clothing on and didn’t have to feel his skin against hers.

  “You want something to eat?” he asked, “At least one of the restaurants is open.”

  “Not particularly. Spending three hours with a vomiting child isn’t conducive to building up an appetite.”

  “Then just a drink, while we get someone to clean up the room,” he said, steering her into the elevator.

  There were a thousand protests she could have come up with. The ferry was far from full; it was off-season, or he wouldn’t have been able to book a room so easily. There’d be empty cabins available, as well as reclining seats for passengers who didn’t want to spend money on a room. The last thing in the world she wanted to do was go back into that tiny cabin with him.

  But she couldn’t leave him alone. They were probably perfectly safe on this boat as it plowed across the stormy Atlantic, but there had already been too many mistakes. She wasn’t letting him out of her sight until she could hand him over to the Committee for debriefing. It wouldn’t come soon enough, probably by tomorrow night, but in the meantime she was just going to have to put up with him.

  “All right,” she said. “One drink.”

  Only one of the ferry bars was open, and there were a mere handful of people inside. Smoking.

  She took the seat Killian handed her into, and waited until he brought back the drinks.

  Seven months was the longest shed ever gone without a cigarette. She’d done it cold turkey this time—no patches or gums or nasal sprays. And she’d never dare try hypnosis—she knew too many secrets that could have leaked out. No, she gritted her teeth, snapped at anyone who came near her and went without cigarettes. She’d only gained five pounds that last time, and she’d done her best to make sure those pounds were solid muscle, turning in her nicotine addiction for an addiction to pumping iron. She thought she’d gotten to the point where she no longer even wanted one.

  She’d been wrong, that time as well as now. She could smell the fresh smoke. That was one problem with Europe: it was too damn easy to smoke. In America they made it so inconvenient it was almost better not to bother. Though of course her rebellious streak always kicked in, making her crave them even more. But this time she’d sworn it was for good, more than half a year ago. They were making life unpleasant. She was free of them. Her breathing had started being affected, the taste lingered in her clothes and hair.

  So why was the scent of tobacco dancing over to her like something out of an old cartoon, undulating and beckoning? And why the hell had she stolen the mashed pack of cigarettes from the dead pilot’s pocket?

  A moment later Killian was back, carrying two drinks. He put one down in front of her, and she eyed it doubtfully. It was a gin and tonic, with one cube of ice and a slice of lime, not lemon. She’d been drinking them for ten years now—long after their time together. How had he guessed?

  His own glass held unwatered whiskey. Scotch, probably. He hadn’t changed in all these years, even if she had.

  “They called maid service from the bar. Our room should be ready by the time we finish our drinks.”

  Our room. She didn’t like the sound of that. She picked up her glass, taking a sip. Tanqueray gin, her favorite. Enough was enough.

  “How do you know so much about me?”

  His smile was lazy. “Tricks of the trade, princess. I’m surprised you aren’t equally well informed. For what it’s worth, I like single malt Scotch at night, dark beer in the afternoon. I don’t like gin, hate vodka and despise martinis. If I drink too much I get short-tempered and lustful. In your honor I’m moderating my alcohol intake.”

  “Thank heavens for small favors. You didn’t answer my question.”

  “You know perfectly well that you can find out anything you want about someone if you know where to look. My life has depended on being able to access the right information at the right time.”

  “And how does knowing what I drink affect your Life?”

  “Let’s just say I was curious.”

  “When did you find out I was alive? You thought I was dead, didn’t you?”

  “When did you find out 1 was alive?” he countered.

  “I asked you first.”

  “Tough.”

  She took another sip of her drink. It was strong, and she hadn’t had much sleep or much to eat. It wouldn’t affect her judgment, but she needed to pay attention. “Five days ago,” she said. “When Peter told me you wanted to be brought in. I went through some Intel and saw a picture of you—of Serafin, actually. But I knew it was you. It must have been quite a shock to see me after all these years.”

  He said nothing, toying with h
is glass, and her eyes were drawn to his fingers. Long, elegant, clever fingers. Which had touched her. Brought her exquisite pleasure. Killed countless innocent people.

  “When did you find out I was alive?” she asked again, annoyed.

  His eyes met hers for a long moment. “I always knew.”

  She spilled her drink. Clumsiness had never been a particular failing, but his simple words shocked her so much that she jerked, and the glass tipped over, spreading gin and tonic and ice over the white tablecloth. “You’re lying.”

  “And it was no shock when you appeared in Morocco. I knew there was no one else available but you. Bastien Toussaint’s retired. Peter Madsen’s still recovering from that shoot-out in California Taka O’Brien is tied up in Japan, and the other agents are under such deep cover that even I couldn’t find out where they were.”

  “Thank God for small favors” she muttered. “I still don’t believe you.”

  “James Reddy.”

  So much for cool invulnerability. Isobel knew she was turning white, knew the shock was clear on her face, and she didn’t give a flying fuck. How could he know about James? What goddamned right did he have?

  She stood up, pushing the table back so hard that his drink would have spilled as well if he hadn’t grabbed it in time. Ignoring the curious looks directed at her, she ran out of the bar and onto the deck, into the furious blast of the rain and whipping wind.

  She kept going. The deck was wet beneath her feet, slippery, and the ferry was lurching like a majestic old drunk, but the railings were secure, and if she fell into the goddamned Atlantic she wouldn’t care. She was muttering a litany of curses under her breath as she ran, knowing she was weeping as well, knowing that the rain would wash away all trace of her tears and he’d never see them. For a brief moment she could let herself go.

  She ducked into an alcove, out of the direct fury of the storm, and reached in her pocket for the cigarettes. Her hands were shaking as she knocked one out, only to find it broken. She pulled another two, also crumpled, and dropped them on the deck, finally finding one in reasonably good shape.

  No matches. No lighter, no nothing. She needed that cigarette so badly she’d kill for it, and she was stuck out in the middle of nowhere on this huge ferry with no matches and no one to beg one from.

  She sank down on her heels, turning her wet face to the bulwark. Her hair was soaking, her clothes were drenched and it was cold, so cold. She was shivering, and she didn’t care. She just needed a few minutes to pull herself together. Then she’d go back, pick up a pack of matches in the bar and face Killian with her usual cool dignity. She only needed a few minutes.

  A second later the minimal light was blocked out, and rough hands were hauling up her. “Come on, princess.” he said in a gruff voice. “You’ll catch your death out here.”

  She could push him overboard, using the element of surprise. He stronger than she was, but he wouldn’t be expecting it, and he’d disappear into the icy waters. And right then it was the only thing she could think of that would stop the blaze of pain spearing through her body.

  “Don’t even think about it,” he said, reading her mind. “If I go over that railing you’re coming with me, and I know you don’t want that. You’re freezing to death already. Come on.”

  She wouldn’t move. He’d pulled her upright, but he couldn’t very well drag her the length of the boat, back to their cabin, without someone taking notice. She’d fight him with all the dirty tricks she was so good at and...

  He knew all her dirty tricks. He disabled her struggles in a matter of seconds, wrapped his arms tightly around her and marched her down the long stretch of rain-lashed decking. She couldn’t struggle, couldn’t fight back. She could do nothing but move when he moved her, her feet obeying him, not her. She would have screamed at him, but common sense finally hit her. She couldn’t afford to bring any unwanted attention to them. She had to handle him on her own. Even if, for one brief moment, she wasn’t strong enough.

  He pushed her into the elevator and the door shut, closing them in, alone together. He released her, and she tried to hit him, but he simply grabbed her wrists in one hand, so tightly that the bones seemed to grind together, and it took all her will not to cry out in pain. The elevator door opened, and he half carried, half dragged her down the deserted hallway to their cabin, unlocking the door and shoving her inside before he followed her into the darkness, slamming the door behind him.

  “Grow up, Isobel,” he said in a cold, merciless voice. “I knew everything about you, and you aren’t the sort of woman who gets hysterical at the drop of a hat.”

  “I want a separate room,” she said. “I can’t be here.”

  “You are here. You took the mission, and it’s not like you to flip out over trivialities. You’re the Iron Lady, beyond fear or pain. So calm down.”

  She hated him. Hated him with a raw, bleeding passion she hadn’t felt in years. Her armor had been pierced, and while she knew he couldn’t tell she’d been crying, he still knew that he’d finally managed to get to her enough so that she’d run.

  She wiped the rain from her face, disguising the tears. “I need a cigarette.”

  “These?” He’d somehow managed to get his hands on the crumpled pack of cigarettes she had been pursuing like the Holy Grail. “Forget it.” And he crushed them in one hand.

  It was the final blow. Isobel let out a shriek of rage and jumped him, trying to get her hands on what remained of the pack. Big mistake. A moment later he had her slammed up against the wall, pressing his body against hers, holding her immobile.

  “Let’s establish a few ground rules, shall we?” he said. “If you try to hurt me, you’re just going to have my hands on you, and I know you think that’s the last thing you want. So I know all about you—get over it. I haven’t gotten to where I am due to faulty Intel. I’ve made it my business to keep track of you since you ended up at Stephan Lambert’s. I know you were recruited by the Committee shortly before Stephan died, and he didn’t want you to work for them. I know you’re smart and strong and ruthless.”

  “Everything I wasn’t eighteen years ago.” she said in a cold voice. He was touching her in too many places: his hips against hers, pinning her to the wall; his chest pressing against hers, so she couldn’t breathe: his hard hands trapping her wrists so she couldn’t fight back.

  She’d forgotten how much taller he was. Perhaps not as tall as Peter, but enough so that at such close proximity she felt rattled. Which was exactly why he was doing it. She was aware of him, suddenly, strongly, when until now she’d been able to keep a mental distance.

  “You were smart enough,” he said, and she could taste the whiskey on his breath. “Just no match for me.”

  “That’s not the case anymore.”

  She could see his faint smile in the dim light. “I agree. You’re a perfect match for me.”

  She tried to kick him but her legs were trapped, tried to hit him but might as well be handcuffed. She tried to slam her head against his but he saw it coming, so instead she sank her strong white teeth into his neck.

  You could kill someone that way. If you had the strength and the stomach for it you could rip out their carotid artery and have them bleed out in a matter of minutes.

  She could taste blood, but a moment later he moved her away from him, holding her at arm’s length, his eyes glittering in the darkness. I should warn you that I find biting to be highly erotic.”

  She froze. He was between her and the door in their tiny cabin, and there was no way she was going to be able to get past him, at least not now.

  She took a deep breath, certain that only she could hear its shakiness, and he stepped away, no longer touching her. She could breathe again, the iciness of her skin slowly warming.

  “So sit down. Mary Isobel,” he said. “I’ll make another drink and you can tell me all about yourself.”

  There was a banquette opposite the bed—the lesser of two evils. She sat stiffly. “I do
n’t care for another drink, thank you. You’d probably just drug me.”

  “The notion is tempting, but I think I need you awake right now.” He stretched out on the bed, seeming perfectly comfortable, and with anyone else she’d be able to escape. She already knew his reflexes were equal or superior to hers. She wasn’t going anywhere unless he decided to let her.

  She leaned back against the banquette, forcing her tight muscles to stop screaming and relax. If she stayed on high alert they might cramp, and she couldn’t afford to let that happen. She had to be ready to run.

  “All right,” she said with deceptive calm. “What exactly do you want to know?”

  The flash in his eyes was so brief she might have imagined it, if it weren’t for the shard of fear that spiked through her body.

  “Time to catch up on old times. I want to know what was happening to you during the last eighteen years. Were you happy with Stephan?”

  “What the hell does that have to do with anything?”

  “Humor me. I was quite surprised to hear he’d married you. I wouldn’t have thought he was the marrying kind.”

  “If that’s your way of saying he was gay, then yes, he was. He also considered me his masterpiece, and he was enamored of his finest work.”

  “That explains Stephan. It doesn’t explain you. Why did you marry him?”

  “I didn’t have anything better to do at the time.”

  He ignored her caustic statement. “I imagine you were grateful. He saved your life, after all. I gather you were a pretty mess when he first worked on you.”