Ice Storm

by user

  “That means no one would hear you scream.” he said softly. “No one would come to your rescue. You’re just as trapped as I am.”

  “Yes” Her voice didn’t waver, her gaze was clear and steady, and even if her heart was racing there was no way he could know that.

  He put his hand against her neck, cradling her throat with his long fingers. “Your pulse is too fast Isobel. Are you afraid of me?”

  “No. I don’t feel anything at all.”

  He moved his face closer, his mouth hovering just over hers, and it took everything to keep her lips from trembling. “Are you lying, princess?” He was stroking her throat, the roughened pads of his fingertips brushing against her soft, vulnerable skin. “I think you’re lying to me.”

  He could tighten his hand, crush her larynx and she’d drown in her own blood. He could move his mouth a fraction of an inch closer and kiss her.

  Or he could step back, away from her, releasing her from the prison of his cool gaze. “If we’re finished for now I think I’ll take a shower,” he said, dropping his hand.

  “There should be new clothes in the bedroom. Our people are good about such things.” Her voice was only slightly husky—most people wouldn’t notice. She didn’t make the mistake of thinking Killian was most people, but her control was good enough, considering the circumstances.

  “I’d suggest you join me, but I can imagine your reaction.”

  “I’ve already had a shower.”

  She waited until the door to the small bathroom closed behind him before she sank down on the couch. Then jumped up a moment later because it was still warm from his body heat.

  “Snap out of it” she muttered tinder her breath. She was out of control, reacting to stupid things, and Killian was playing her like a master.

  In the last eighteen years she’d come up against some of the most monstrously manipulative people in the world. People who made a fictional character like Hannibal Lecter seem merely eccentric, and never had she faltered. This had to stop, right now. She needed a break, but it wasn’t coming. With the organization compromised, everyone had gone to ground, and there was no way she was drawing Peter into a tricky situation like this one. She had nothing to Lose. Peter had Genevieve, who’d somehow managed to be his salvation.

  Isobel was still reeling from the discovery that Hiromasa Shinoda was Reno. The Committee’s operatives could blend in almost any situation—Reno stood out like a brightly colored parrot, flame hair and all, and any other time she would have sent him packing. But tight now he was watching over Mahmoud, keeping him safe, and she couldn’t think of anyone better suited for the job. Peter would have probably strangled the boy. She sat back down in one corner of the sofa, curling her legs up beneath her and leaning her head back. She was so tired. She hadn’t dared sleep last night, Killian was so unpredictable that there was no telling when the drug she’d given him would wear off, and when that happened she’d expected him to be royally pissed off. So she’d dozed, off and on, telling herself that eventually she could rest. For now she had to stay on full alert, drinking cup after cup of coffee. It was no wonder her hands shook and her heart raced. It had nothing to do with him.

  He was taking his time in the bathroom, probably trying to find a way to escape, but that was one area she could feel completely secure about. Unless he was going to dig through plaster with a toothbrush, he wouldn’t find any way out. This safe house was a prison as well as a haven.

  The wind had picked up outside: despite the sound- proofing there was no way they could totally obliterate the noise of the wind whistling through the old house. It was probably raining again. November in England was cold and wet. She’d lived here so long she’d almost forgotten how bleak it was. The desert sun would have been a reprieve, if she hadn’t been on this particular mission.

  She could smell water and soap and shampoo when he opened the door—pleasant, normal scents in a crazy world. And then he walked into the small living room, wearing nothing but a towel around his hips.

  She was speechless. Not because of his near nudity— she wasn’t that innocent. And not because of the undeniable beauty of his long, wiry body. She already knew she liked the way he looked. She’d accepted that almost two decades ago. It was the scars. A knife wound above his right hip, crescent-shaped and deep. The tear bisecting his chest, his skin still faintly pink where the incision had been. The abrasion marks on the right side of his throat, as if someone had tried to strangle him. Or used a rope.

  He must have known what she was looking at in silent, hidden horror. “Like what you see?” He mocked her, turning slowly so she could get the full picture. Whip scars across his back. His elbow must have been smashed at one point—it had healed badly, though it didn’t seem to give him any trouble.

  His knee had been destroyed as well, and replaced at some point—she recognized the long scar. And along the back of his right shoulder were scars that could only come from bullets. It was a wonder he was alive.

  “I do make a pretty picture,” he drawled. But unless you’re taking off your clothes as well, I think I’d better get dressed. Where are the new clothes?”

  “In the closet.” She’d seen people who’d been tortured. Seen people who’d died from it. What she couldn’t understand was how Killian had managed to survive such a brutal life.

  He dropped the towel, tossing it at her, and headed back into the bedroom. Somewhere she found her voice. “Don’t be so damned predictable,” she said. I’m surprised you bothered with the towel in the first place.”

  He appeared back in the open doorway, but by now had a pair of black jeans on and was zipping them up. “I wanted to make it more interesting for you.” He’d brought a shirt with him, pulling it from the plastic sleeve and shaking it free. As he unfastened the buttons, she watched, trying to keep the question from forming.

  But it came out, anyway. “Where’s the scar?”

  He glanced at her, still holding the shirt in his hand. “What scar? My body is a veritable road map of pain, princess. Was there a particular one you were interested in, or just a global tour?”

  “Where I shot you, I thought it was center body mass.”

  “You didn’t even know those terms back then. Isobel,” he chided gently. “And you were so nervous, you were lucky you even managed to wing me.”

  “Your arm?” She could see a long, thin scar above his elbow, but it didn’t look right.

  “Shoulder.” He came up to her, and this time she didn’t retreat. “Look closer.”

  She couldn’t see anything. Just smooth, golden flesh crisscrossed by a faint network of lines. He took her hand and placed her fingertips against his shoulder, pushing, and she could feel the scar tissue, a small knot beneath the warm skin. She pulled her hand away. “You had a good doctor’ she said, uneasy.

  “One of the best.”

  “Who’?”

  “If you don’t want to hear the answer, then you shouldn’t ask the question.”

  He still hadn’t put the shirt on, but she was past caring. “My husband,” she said in a dead voice. “That’s Stephan’s work.”

  “Indeed it is. But he wasn’t your husband at the time. Granted, he was a lot more interested in stabilizing you than digging the bullet out of my shoulder, but then, I was in no particular danger of dying. You, however, had lost a hell of a lot of blood, and Stephan much preferred a challenge. Besides, even all cut up you were still pretty, and he knew I wasn’t particularly interested.”

  “In me?”

  “In him. Your husband was gay, remember? He gave me a shot of morphine to tide me over, and let me watch as he put you back together again. It was very impressive.”

  “Why didn’t you kill me?”

  “Why should I kill you? I was the one who brought you there.”

  She turned away, because she couldn’t look at him a moment longer. “No,” she whispered. Knowing it was true.

  “Don’t take it so hard. Isobel,” he said. “You ca
n still hate me. I killed five men that night, three with my bare hands. Hardly the kind of heroic behavior you would have expected.”

  “What five men?”

  “General Matanga. I was paid to take him out and I did. His aide got in the way as I was escaping. And then there were my three confederates, the ones with the knives. After all this time I’m afraid I’ve forgotten their names.”

  “Why did you kill them?”

  There was no humor in his smile, no warmth in his blue-gray eyes. “They’d dragged you back to the warehouse and they were having fun with you. You weren’t conscious anymore, but you could still feel pain—each time they cut you your body witched. This annoyed me, so I killed them.” His words were casual, his eyes watching her.

  “And then you took me to Stephan?”

  “Well, since I was heading there myself it seemed the gentlemanly thing to do. I have to say it was a bitch and a half carrying you with a bullet in my shoulder. On top of that I had to sit and let him save your life while I almost passed out. And then the son of a bitch decided I could spare a pint of blood, despite all the stuff that had poured out of me thanks to your bloodthirsty actions.”

  “A pint of blood?”

  “You needed a transfusion, and he was fresh out. We both happen to be AB negative, princess. Just one more sign we’re destined to be together.”

  She wanted to throw up. His blood was running in her veins. She’d shot him, and he’d saved her life. And he was standing there, looking at her out of enigmatic eyes, and she wanted to scream.

  She cleared her throat. “Interesting,” she said. “You really are full of surprises.”

  “And you don’t fool me for a minute, princess. You’re ready to fall apart, but you aren’t going to let yourself do it. Part of you is wishing to God you’d killed me when you had the chance, another part knows you’d be dead as well. I’m a nightmare. a monster who saved your life when I should have left you to bleed to death. Now, how are you going to make peace with that unpleasant truth?”

  “Quite easily. You’ve been trying your absolute best to manipulate me, but I’m not the puddle of emotions you seem to think I am. I know what you’re doing, and I know what’s behind it. What’s wrong with you.”

  “Please share,” he said amiably. “I’ve always been interested in other people’s opinions about my sociopathic behavior.”

  “You’re afraid of me.”

  This time she’d managed to shock him, and she could feel her fear ebbing, the icy strength taking over. She was far from defenseless, and she’d finally realized the weakness in his armor.

  “Afraid of you?” He laughed lightly. “I hate to tell you, but I’m not afraid of anyone or anything. It’s both my strength and my weakness. I don’t care if I live or die, I don’t care who I hurt. I’m not afraid.”

  “You’re afraid of me,” she said again. “And I think you always have been. You kept me drugged and pliant in that hotel room in Marseille—I remember it better than you think. And you never let me touch you. It was as if you were experimenting on me, to see just what you could make me feel, and you never were there at all.”

  “You were drugged, Isobel, and it was eighteen years ago—”

  “And two nights ago,” she continued ruthlessly. “On board the ship. You just wanted to prove you could make me feel. But you didn’t feel anything at all. You didn’t let yourself.”

  He was looking no more than remotely interested in her theory, but she wasn’t fooled. She knew the truth this time, and she wasn’t going to be distracted.

  “You didn’t climax. You couldn’t. You could manipulate me enough to make me feel powerless, and then you pulled away. Is it women you’re afraid of, Killian, or just me?”

  He looked at her for a long moment, his eyes hooded, unreadable. “What are you trying to do, Isobel?”

  “Call your bluff. Get you to leave me the hell alone. You don’t want me, you just want to fuck with me. So here I am, you son of a bitch. Take me.”

  She could feel the power coursing through her, a strangely mournful power. It was a triumph to realize he’d only been playing with her, a triumph to know that she really didn’t matter.

  His smile was almost wistful. “You’re right about two things. Mary Isobel Curwen Lambert,” he said. “I absolutely want to fuck with you. I’m calling your bluff. So why don’t you go down on me and prove yourself right?”

  The silence in the room was muffled, absolute, and the caffeine must have finally hit overload, because her heart was slamming so hard against her chest that surely he must have heard it. And if she turned her back, gave in, he would win, and she could never let him do that, never again.

  Her knees hit the floor as she sank down in front of him. Her hands were shaking as they worked on the snap of the new jeans. He didn’t move, just stood there and let her fumble with the zipper, his hands at his sides. He wasn’t wearing underwear. She grasped the denim and yanked it down, and in the murky light his cock was hard, bigger than she’d expected.

  She looked up at him, her eyes cold and hostile. “So you can get an erection,” she said. “Too bad you can’t come.” And she put her mouth on him, a deliberate taunt, an insult, a sly, erotic challenge that she knew she would win. She closed her mouth around him, sucking at him, pulling with her lips, letting her tongue swirl around the rigid, unfeeling length of him, as she proved to him...She felt his hands on her head, oddly gentle, his fingers threading through her hair, pulling it loose from its tight bun so that it spilled over her shoulders. He was stroking her scalp, kneading her, letting her taste and suck and then swallow, as he froze, his body rigid, his cock pumping into her mouth as he held her there.

  She fell back, shocked, wiping her hand across her mouth, and she could barely see the expression on his face in the murky light. “You’re right about something else,” he said, his voice ragged. “I’m scared to death of you. Because I want you, when common sense and a lifetime of experience tells me I should kill you. I want you, and if I give up then you’ll own me, and I’ll have nothing left to fight with.”

  She said nothing. She could taste him in her mouth, feel him between her legs where he hadn’t touched her—and she was ready to climax from thinking about what she’d just done.

  “But then, it’s too late, isn’t it? You win, princess. Now let’s take this on the bed and get it done right.”

  20

  He reached down to pull her to her feet, but she fought him. His jeans were halfway down his legs, trapping him, and when she struggled, he fell, taking her with him onto the cold, hard floor of the apartment.

  He kicked the jeans off, rolling on top of her, and he had her clothes off her, those plain, expensive clothes, in less than a minute. She fought him, hitting him, not knowing what she wanted. He was hard again, that fast, and he shoved her down on the thin carpet, kneeling between her legs, waiting for her to tell him to stop. Whether he would listen was another matter entirely.

  But she didn’t. She lay in a welter of discarded clothes, her hair loose and tousled, and he looked down at her body. A body he remembered, even after all Stephan’s handiwork.

  She still had pale freckles, spots of gold, dancing across her stomach. She still had red hair, and he stopped thinking about his cock and put his mouth there, kissing her, so damn grateful that something was still the same.

  She put her hands in his hair and yanked his head up, hard, and her eyes were a storm of pain and confusion. “What the hell are you doing?” Her voice was no more than a far whisper.

  “You know what I’m doing. Returning the favor.” He half expected her to keep fighting, hitting at him. But she didn’t. She dropped her hands to the floor, trying to will her body into that ice-fogged State she’d lived in for so long, and he wanted to laugh. That was one battle she’d never win. He was an expert when it came to using his mouth, and he’d never done it with someone he cared about. He was enmeshed with her, body and soul, and he knew just how to touch her
, with his mouth, his tongue, to make her shatter in a matter of seconds.

  And before she had a chance to come down, he was inside her, pushing into the tight wet sleekness, feeling her tighten around him, first trying to keep him out, then pulling him in deeper, and he put his hands under her butt and yanked up, hard, so that he was in so deep she could probably taste him.

  She was tasting him, and the knowledge almost made him lose it again. He loved her mouth, the cold things it could say, the hot things it could do. He arched back, looking down at her, deep inside her.

  He’d forgotten her breasts. Small, perfect, the nipples hard in the warm room. He’d forgotten the soft, muffled sounds she made when she was ready to come. Like she was right now.

  And he’d forgotten the dark, bleak pain in her eyes when she had no defenses left, and he’d trapped her, used her, and there was no love at all. He’d pull out. Away from her, before he could destroy her completely. That’s what he had to do—he couldn’t, he shouldn’t...

  Her hands came up from the floor and touched his face, gently. Her fingers brushed his mouth, slowly slid down his tense, sweat-dampened body, light and caressing. She was crying.... A woman like Isobel Lambert shouldn’t cry. And then her hands gripped his hips and she arched, bringing him in deeper still, and she said yes to his unasked question. Yes, and yes, and yes.

  He kissed her, because he couldn’t stop himself. He tried to go slowly, to make it good for her, to make it the best she’d ever had, but she was already past that point, making those strangled little cries that sent him over the edge, and there was nothing but heat and damp and the smell and the touch and the taste, and he could have no more stopped himself than he could have stopped the storm outside.

  He was a man who fucked in silence. And when he climaxed, long, hard, endlessly, inside her tight body, he heard his voice in the darkness. Calling her name.

  Reno stretched out on the floor, a beer cradled in his hands, his eyes drifting closed as he listened to the sound of the storm outside. Tiny pellets of icy rain were beating against the windows, mixed with the noise of the video game Mahmoud was playing.