Ice Storm

by Anne Stuart

  She was so weary, but the last place she was going was the bed. She sat on the floor, her back against the wall, and rested her arms on her drawn-up knees. How did the song go—“I’ll sleep when I’m dead”? She felt half-dead already. But that meant half-alive, and it was going to take a hell of a lot to get past that other half. She closed her eyes, listening to the sound of the water, tasting the rich, creamy coffee on her tongue. Remembering things she wished she could have forgotten forever.

  7

  Then

  “No room at the inn,” Killian said. “The entire town is booked. Some kind of religious festival, I think. We’ve got two choices. Push on, drive until we find a town with some space, or spend the night on the beach. The problem is, it’s supposed to rain, and apparently every town for miles around is booked solid for the weekend.”

  Mary Isobel was exhausted, bone weary. It seemed as if they’d been in the rickety old Citroën for centuries, and lunch had been nothing more than bread and cheese and fruit. She was grumpy, she was hungry and she was in love. Not the best possible circumstances.

  “How far would we have to drive to find a hotel?” she asked. It was already after ten, and a light rain had begun to fall, fogging the windows of the small car.

  Killian shrugged. He’d been quiet all day. She knew it had to be Marie-Claire, and she felt that familiar-unfamiliar knot of guilt and longing. He’d used a pay-phone just after lunch, and though he’d said nothing, she could guess there was trouble. “Probably two or three hours on these roads. And then only if we’re lucky.”

  “Do you want to head straight to Paris?”

  He turned his head, looking at her out of those mesmerizing green eyes, clearly surprised. “Why would we do that? Neither of us is starting classes for another week, and we wanted to see Marseille.”

  “I thought you might want to get back to Marie-Claire and patch things up. You’ve been quiet all day, and I know you’re thinking about her. You could leave me here and I’ll hitchhike to Paris. I’m sure I can find some cheap hotel to stay in until I get my student housing, and you’ve spent far too much time—”

  “She’s not in Paris.” His voice was quiet, unemotional.

  “Where is she?”

  “In Austria, with someone named Wolfgang. Apparently she’s fallen in love.”

  “Oh, Killian, I’m so sorry!” Mary Isobel said, her heart aching for him.

  He looked out into the rainy night. They were parked on a side street of the small village, the motor running, and she watched his profile in the dim light. “I’m not sure I am,” he said. “We’d been drifting apart for months now.”

  “But you loved her!”

  “Maybe. Maybe it was just really good sex. It doesn’t matter—it’s over now. And you can find really good sex anywhere.”

  She wasn’t going to argue with that. Maybe it was easy for him. He was tall, strong and gorgeous, and not cursed with a crazy mane of red hair and a few too many pounds. She’d never had all that much luck with men and sex.

  But talking about sex with Killian was something she intended to avoid. Particularly since every time he touched her, brushed against her, her nerve endings sang and her stomach clenched and she wanted to cry or fling herself at him.

  “And I don’t expect you’re in any hurry,” she said, trying to sound tranquil, and almost succeeding.

  “No hurry,” he said. “Since I’ve fallen in love with someone else, myself. This just makes it a little easier.”

  She’d been able to deal with Marie-Claire fairly well—after all, she’d been in place when Mary Isobel first met Killian, before she’d fallen deeply, hopelessly in love with him. But someone else, someone new, was a little harder to deal with.

  She’d been around boys who were madly in love with other people, had listened to them pour out their hearts, oblivious to her. Killian was no boy, and he wasn’t about to do that. But they were friends. They’d talked about everything over the last two weeks as they’d traveled around France. Of course he’d want to talk about the new woman in his life.

  Funny that he hadn’t mentioned her. He’d told Mary Isobel enough about Marie-Claire to make her sickeningly jealous. She didn’t want to hear about the new one. She knew he was out of her league—a good friend and nothing more—but that didn’t mean she wanted to listen to him.

  “Oh,” she said, knowing she sounded idiotic. Not caring. “So we don’t bother with Paris. Where are we going to spend the night?”

  “Let’s head for the Camargue. We both wanted to see it—how many times do you get to see French cowboys? If we don’t find a place to stay we can always sleep in the car.”

  The rain grew harder, steadier, streaming across the roads as he drove into the night. The Citroën was small and boxy—she could always curl up on the backseat, but he’d have a harder time folding his tall, lanky frame into any kind of comfortable position in the cramped quarters. At one point she fell asleep—easy to do with the sound of the rain beating against the canvas roof of the car, the even click of the windshield wipers, the absolute peace and safety she felt beside Killian. As long as she was with him nothing bad could happen. He’d saved her once, and he looked out for her. She’d put up with the ache of longing in return for his friendship, which was as solid and real as anything in her life.

  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 cavelike 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 befo
re; 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, hunching 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?”

  “No.”

  “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 seat, 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 arousing 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 she’d 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 to 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.

  8

  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 and the pleasure.