Early-evening light shed a subdued glow around the kitchen of Susannah's small house. Killian sat at the kitchen table and watched as she made coffee at the counter. He had insisted he wasn't hungry, but Pansy had sent a plate of food with him when he'd escorted Susannah back to her homestead. The meal had been simple but filling. Tonight he was more tense than he could recall ever being. He felt as if his emotions were caught in a desperate tug-of-war.
Was it because of Susannah's whiskey laughter, that husky resonance that made him feel as if she were reaching out and caressing him? Killian sourly tried to ignore what her breathy voice did to him.
"You sure ate your share of Ma's cherry pie, Sean," she said with a teasing look over her shoulder. Killian sat at the table, his chin resting forward on his chest, his chair tipped back on its rear legs. His narrow face was dark and thoughtful.
"It was good."
Chortling, Susannah retrieved the lovely flowered china cups and saucers from the oak cabinet. "You ate like a man who hasn't had too many home-cooked meals in his life."
Killian grudgingly looked at her as she came over and set the cups and saucers on the oilcloth. Her insight, as always, was unsettling to him. "I haven't," he admitted slowly.
Susannah hesitated. There was so much she wanted to say to him. She slid her fingers across the back of the wooden chair opposite him. "Sean, I need to talk to you. I mean really talk to you." Heat rushed up her neck and into her cheeks, and Susannah groaned, touching her flushed face. "I wish I didn't turn beet red all the time!"
Killian absorbed her discomfort. "In Ireland we'd call you a primrose—a woman with moonlight skin and red primroses for cheeks," he said quietly.
The utter beauty of his whispered words made Susannah stand in shocked silence. "You're a poet."
Uncomfortable, he muttered, "I don't think of myself in those terms."
She saw the wariness in his eyes and sensed that her boldness was making him edgy. "Is it a crime to say that a man possesses a soul that can see the world in terms of beauty?"
Relieved that Susannah had turned and walked back to the counter, Killian frowned. He studied her as he tried to formulate an answer to her probing question. Each movement of her hands was graceful—and each time she touched something, he felt as if she were touching him instead. Shaking his head, he wondered what the hell had gotten into him. He was acting like a man who'd been without a woman far too long. Well, hadn't he?
Clearing his throat, Killian said, "I'd rather talk about you than myself."
Susannah sat down, drying her hands on a green-and-white checked towel. "I know you would, but I'm not going to let you." She kept her voice light, because she sensed that if she pushed him too hard he'd close up. She opened her hands to him. "I need to clear the air on some things between us."
Killian's stomach knotted painfully. The fragrant smell of coffee filled the kitchen. "Go on," he said in a warning growl.
Susannah nervously touched her brow. "I'm actually afraid to talk to you. Maybe it's because of what happened, getting shot by that man. I don't know. . ."
"The hurt part, the wounded side of you, feels that fear," Killian told her, his tone less gruff now. "It was a man who nearly killed you. Why shouldn't you be afraid of men in general?" He had to stop himself from reaching out to touch her tightly clasped hands on the tabletop. Her knuckles were white.
"You seem to know so much about me—about what I'm feeling." She gave him a long, scrutinizing look. "How?"
Shifting uncomfortably, Killian shrugged. "Experience, maybe."
"Whose? Your own?" After all, he was a mercenary, Susannah reminded herself. A world-traveled and world-weary man who had placed his life on the line time and again.
"No. . .not exactly. . . My sister, Meg, was—" His mouth quirked at the corners. "She was beautiful, and had a promising career as a stage actress. Meg met and fell in love with an Irish-American guy, and they were planning on getting married." He cleared his throat and forced himself to finish. "She flew back to Ireland to be in a play—and at her stopover at Heathrow Aiiport a terrorist bomb went off."
"Oh, no. . ." Susannah whispered. "Is she. . .alive?"
The horror of that day came rushing back to Killian, and he closed his eyes, his voice low with feeling. "Yes, she's alive. But the bomb. . . She's badly disfigured. She's no longer beautiful. Her career ended, and I've seen her through fifteen operations to restore her face." Killian shrugged hopelessly. "Meg cut off her engagement to Ian, too, even though he wanted to stay with her. She couldn't believe that any man could love her like that."
"How awful," Susannah whispered. Reaching out, she slid her hand across his tightly clenched fist. "It must have been hard on you, too."
Wildly aware of Susannah's touch, Killian warned himself that she'd done it only out of compassion. Her fingers were cool and soft against his sun-toughened skin. His mouth went dry, and his heart rate skyrocketed. Torn between emotions from the past and the boiling heat scalding up through him, Killian rasped, "Meg has been a shadow of herself since then. She's fearful, always looking over her shoulder, has terrible nightmares, and doesn't trust anyone." Bitterly he added, "She's even wary of me, her own brother." It hurt to admit that, but Killian sensed that Susannah had the emotional strength to deal with his first-time admission to anyone about his sister.
Tightening her hand around his, Susannah ached for Killian. She saw the hurt and confusion in his eyes. "Everyone suffers when someone is hurt like that." Forcing herself to release Killian's hand, Susannah whispered, "Look what I've put my parents through since I awakened from the coma. Look how I distrusted you at first."
He gave her a hooded look. "You're better off if you do."
"No," Susannah said fervently, her voice quavering with feeling. "I don't believe that anymore, Sean. You put on a tough act, and I'm sure you're very tough emotionally, but I can read your eyes. I can see the trauma that Meg went through, and how it has affected you." She smiled slightly. "I may come from hill folk, but I've got two good eyes in my head, and a heart that's never led me wrong."
Killian struggled with himself. He'd never spoken to anyone about his sister—not even to Morgan. And now he was spilling his guts to Susannah. He said nothing, for fear of divulging even more.
"I'm really sorry about your sister. Is she living in America?"
"No. She lives near the Irish Sea, in a thatched hut that used to belong to a fisherman and his wife. They died and left her the place. Old Dun and his wife Era were like grandparents to Meg. They took care of her when I had to be on assignment. Meg can't stand being around people."
"It's hard for most people to understand how it feels to be a victim of violence," Susannah mused. She looked over at the coffeepot. The coffee was ready to be served. Rising, she added, "I know that since I woke up from the coma I've been jumpy and paranoid. If someone comes up behind me, I scream. If I catch sight of my own shadow unexpectedly I break out in a sweat and my heart starts hammering." She poured coffee into the cups. "Stupid, isn't it?"
Putting a teaspoon of sugar into the dark, fragrant coffee, Killian shook his head. "Not at all. I call it a survival reflex."
Coming back to the table and sitting down, Susannah gave him a weak smile. "Even now, I dread talking about what happened to me." She turned her hands over. "My palms are damp, and my heart is running like a rabbit's."
"Adrenaline," Killian explained gently, "the fight- or-fight hormone." He stirred the coffee slowly with the spoon, holding her searching gaze.
"Morgan only gave me a brief overview of what happened to you," he probed gently. "Why don't you fill me in on your version? It might help me do my job better."
Susannah squirmed. "This is really going to sound stupid, Sean. It was my idea to go visit Morgan and Laura." She looked around the old farmhouse. "I've never gone much of anywhere, except to Lexington to get my teaching degree. A lot of my friends teased me that I wasn't very worldly and all that. After graduating and coming
back here, I bought myself a small house in Glen, near where I work at the local grade school. Laura had been begging me to come for a visit, and I thought taking a plane to Washington, D.C., would expand my horizons."
Killian nodded. In many ways, Susannah's country ways had served to protect her from the world at large. Kentucky was a mountainous state with a small population, in some ways insulated from the harsher realities that plague big cities. "Your first flight?"
She smiled. "Yes, my first. It was really exciting." With an embarrassed laugh, she added, "I know, where else would you find someone who hasn't flown on a plane in this day and age. I had such a wonderful time with Laura, with her children. Morgan took me to the Smithsonian Institution for the whole day, and I was in heaven. I love learning, and that is the most wonderful museum I've ever seen. On my way home I landed at Lexington and was on my way to the bus station to get back here to Glen." Her smile faded. "That's when all this happened."
"Were you in the bus station itself?"
Susannah shook her head. "No. I'd just stepped off the bus. There was a row of ten buses parked under this huge roof, and my bus was farthest away from the building. I was the last one off the bus. It was very dark that night, and it was raining. A thunderstorm. The rain was whipping in under the roof, and I had my head down and was hurrying to get inside.
"This man came out of nowhere and began talking real fast to me. At the same time, he was reaching for my shoulder bag and pulling it off my arm. He was smiling and saying he'd like to help me."
"Was he acting nervous?" Killian asked, noticing that Susannah had gone pale recounting the event.
"I didn't realize it at the time, but yes, he was. How did you know that?"
"Because no doubt he spotted you as a patsy, someone gullible enough to approach, lie to, and then use your luggage—probably to hide drugs or money for a later pickup. But go on. What happened next?" Killian leaned forward, his hands around the hot mug of coffee.
Susannah took in a ragged breath. She was amazed by Killian's knowledge. She was so naive, and it had nearly gotten her killed. "He said he'd take my bag into the station for me. I didn't know what to do. He seemed so nice—he was smiling all the time. I was getting wet from the rain, and I was wearing a new outfit I'd bought, and I didn't want it ruined, so I let him have the bag." She flushed and looked down. "You know the worst part?" she whispered. "I was flattered. I thought he was interested in me. . . ." Her voice trailed off.
Susannah rubbed her brow and was silent for a long moment. When she spoke again, her voice came out hoarse. "He'd no sooner put the piece of luggage over his shoulder than I saw this other man step out of the dark and shoot at him. I screamed, but it was too late. The man fell, and I saw the killer move toward me. No one else was around. No one else saw it happen." Susannah shuddered and wrapped her arms around herself. "The next thing I knew, the killer was after me. I ran into a nearby alley. Í remember thinking I was going to die. I heard shots—I heard bullets hitting the sides of the building and whining around me."
Closing her eyes, she whispered, "Ì was running hard, choking for air. I slipped on the wet street, and it was so dark, so dark. . ." Susannah opened her eyes. "I remember thinking I had to try to scream for help. But no one came. The next thing I knew, something hit me in the head—a hot sensation. That's it."
Glancing over at Killian, Susannah saw anger flash in his narrowed eyes. Her voice went off-key. "I woke up two months later. My ma was at my side when I came around, and I remember her crying."
"It was probably a drug deal gone wrong," Killian growled. He stared down at his hands. He'd like to wrap them around that bastard and give him back what he'd done to Susannah. "You were at the wrong place at the wrong time. There may have been drugs left in a nearby locker that the man who talked to you was supposed to pick up. Or the guy may have been on the run, using you as a decoy, hoping the killer wouldn't spot him if he was part of a couple." He looked at her sadly. "I'm sorry it happened, Susannah."
"At least I'm alive. I survived." She shrugged, embarrassed. "So much for my trying to become more worldly. I was so stupid."
"No," Killian rasped, "not stupid. Just not as alert as you might have been."
Shivering, Susannah slowly rubbed her arms with her hands. "Sean. . .the other night when I woke up?"
"Yes?"
"Please believe me. There was a man outside my bedroom window. I heard him. I saw his shadow against the opposite wall of my bedroom."
With a sigh, Killian shook his head. "There was no evidence—no footprints outside either window, Susannah. The grass wasn't disturbed."
Rubbing her head with her hands, Susannah sat there, confused. "I could have sworn he was there."
Killian wanted to reach out and comfort her, but he knew he didn't dare. Just her sharing the tragedy with him had drawn her uncomfortably close to him. "Let me do the worrying about it," he said. "All I need you to do is continue to get well."
Susannah felt latent power swirling around him as he sat tautly at the table. Anger shone in his eyes, but this time she knew it wasn't aimed at her; it was aimed at her unidentified assailant.
"I never thought about the killer coming to finish me off," she told him lamely. "That's stupid, too."
"Naive."
"Whatever you want to call it, it still can get me killed." She gave him a long look. "Would this man kill my parents, too?"
"I don't know," Killian said, trying to soothe her worry. "Most of these men go strictly for the target. In a way, you're protecting your parents by not being in their house right now."
"But if the killer got my address, he might think I was at my home in Glen, right?"
"That would be the first place he'd look," Killian agreed, impressed with her insight.
"And then he'd do what?"
"Probably discreetly try to nose around some of your neighbors and find out where you are," he guessed.
"It's no secret I'm here," Susannah said unhappily. "And if the killer didn't know I was out here at the homestead, he might break into my folks' home to find me."
"Usually," he told her, trying to assuage her growing fear, "a contract killer will do a good deal of research to locate his target. That means he probably will show up here sooner or later. My hunch is that he'll stake out the place, sit with a field scope on a rifle, or a pair of binoculars, and try to figure out the comings and goings of everyone here. Once he knew for sure where you were and when to get you alone, he'd come for you."
A chill ran up her spine, and she stared over at Killian. His blue eyes glittered with a feral light that frightened her. "All the trouble I'm causing. . ."
"I'm here to protect all of you," Killian said. "I'm going to try to get to the bottom of this mess as soon as possible."
With a sigh, Susannah nodded. "I felt it. The moment you were introduced to me, I felt safe."
"Well," Killian growled, rising to his feet, "I'd still stay alert. Paranoia's a healthy reaction to have until I can figure out if you're really safe or not," he said, setting the cup and saucer in the sink.
Grimly Killian placed his hands on the counter and stared out the window. The blue-and-white checked curtains at the window made it homey, and it was tempting to relax and absorb the feeling. He'd been so long without home and family, and he was rarely able to go back to Ireland to visit what was left of his family—Meg. Sadness moved through him, deep and cutting. Being here with Susannah and her family had been a reprieve of sorts from his loneliness.
"Sean, I really don't feel good about going back to town, back to my house, knowing all this." Susannah stared at his long, lean back. He was silhouetted against the dusk, his mouth a tight line holding back unknown emotions, perhaps pain. Overcoming her shyness, she whispered, "Now that I know the real reason you're here, I'll take you up on that offer to stay with me at night. If you want. . ."
Slowly Killian turned around. He groaned internally as he met her hope-filled gaze, saw her lips part. The driv
ing urge to kiss her, to explore those wonderful lips, was nearly his undoing.
Susannah took his silence as a refusal. A strange light burned in his intense gaze. "Well. . .I mean, you don't have to. I don't want you to feel like a—"
"I'll stay," he muttered abruptly.
Nervously Susannah stood and wiped her damp hands down her thighs. "Are you sure?" He looked almost angry. With her? Since the assault, she'd lost so much of her self-esteem. Susannah found herself quivering like jelly inside; it was a feeling she'd never experienced before that fateful night at the bus station.
"Yes," Killian snapped, moving toward the back door. "I'll get my gear down at your folks' place and bring it up here."
Feeling as if she'd done something wrong, Susannah watched him leave. And then she upbraided herself for that feeling. It was a victim's response, according to the woman therapist who had counseled her a number of times when she'd come out of the coma but was still at the hospital.
"Stop it," Susannah sternly told herself. "If he's angry, ask him why. Don't assume it's because of something you said." As she moved to the bedroom next to her own, separated by the only bathroom in the house, Susannah felt a gamut of insecurities. When Sean returned, she was determined to find out the truth of why he'd been so abrupt with her.
Chapter Five
"Are you angry with me?" Susannah asked Killian, the words coming out more breathless than forceful, to her dismay. He'd just dropped his leather bag in the spare bedroom.
Turning, he scowled. "No. Why?"
"You acted upset earlier. I just wanted to know if it was aimed at me."
Straightening, Killian moved to where Susannah stood, at the entrance to his bedroom. Twilight had invaded the depths of the old house, and her sober features were strained. It hurt to think that she thought he was angry with her. Roughly he said, "My being upset has nothing to do with you, Susannah."
The Rogue Page 8
