Ice Storm

by Anne Stuart

  It had gone beyond any reasonable control. There was nothing she could hide, nothing she could hold back, and the fact that it had gotten this bad, reached such a devastatingly naked level, almost made her stronger. Of course he knew.

  She jerked her head up. “To use the old-fashioned term, I’m frigid. If you were able to get into my records to find a diagnosis, I’m sure you could find out that much, as well.”

  His expression was cool, assessing. As if he wasn’t exposing her mercilessly. “My contacts got into the insurance records, not the doctor’s notes. Trouble having an orgasm, princess? Some men simply don’t know how to provide one. You didn’t seem to have any problem with me, but then, you were drugged most of the time. Maybe you’re just too uptight to have sex unless someone else is in control.”

  She was the past the point of caring. “Total lack of sexual interest or desire, Killian.” It was the first time she’d called him by name, and the sound of it was strange, intimate in the small cabin. “Presumably as a result of the trauma I suffered the night I killed you. They suggested I take testosterone as one way of creating a libido, but I figured I was aggressive and dangerous enough without added hormonal help. I’m exactly what you said—an iron maiden, an ice queen, and totally devoid of sexual feelings. Not even for a good, good man like James Reddy. And I prefer it this way, even though I still mourn his death. It’s one less vulnerability I have to deal with.”

  Killian moved back, and the faint smile on his face would have bothered her if she wasn’t already past that point. “You have other vulnerabilities,” he said. “Including monumental self-deception. You’re lying to yourself, and you have been for years.”

  “Oh, that’s right, I’ve just been waiting for your touch. Mourning your loss all these years, unable to love anyone else. I never realized I was such a tragic heroine. I’m so glad you pointed that out to me. Now I should be able to heal and live a full, rewarding life.” She smiled sweetly. “Killing people like you.”

  He moved to the door, and she had a brief, hopeful moment where she thought he might leave her. But then he simply double bolted the lock, so it would take her longer to escape, longer for someone to come in and save her. Save her from what?

  “So you haven’t responded to gentle, adoring men, Isobel?” It was the first time he’d used her new name, and the atmosphere in the cabin was suddenly charged with something strong and inescapable. “So let’s see if you like violence.” And he reached for her.

  15

  She didn’t hesitate. She was too good at what she’d done for years, and she was motivated. The last time she’d had sex was the night James had left, the night before he died. She’d made herself do it, had put on her best performance, but James wasn’t fooled. She hadn’t tried again.

  She wasn’t going to let this man touch her.

  She surged up from her seat, breaking his hold, shoving him back against the wall. She had the short blade of the pocketknife against his throat, against the bloody mark her teeth had made, and she couldn’t afford to hesitate. One sharp, deep slice and he’d go fast. Covering her in blood.

  His eyes were half-closed, that damnable smile still on his face. “What’s stopping you? You know how quick and easy it would be. I won’t stop you.”

  She froze. He reached up and took her hand in his, pulling the knife away, making her drop it on the floor. “Show me how much you hate me,” he whispered against her mouth. “Prove it to me.”

  She hit him, both of her fists raised, beating at his chest as he imprisoned her in the circle of his arms. She was striking him, scratching him, tearing at his clothes in a silent, deadly rage, and she could feel his skin beneath her hands, hot, sleek skin. He picked her up, wrapping her legs around his waist as he fell back against the door, the light switch, plunging the room into inky darkness.

  And Isobel was gone, swallowed up in rage and darkness and heat, and she was the one who pulled his head down to hers, she was the one who kissed him, openmouthed and full.

  He turned her, and they fell crosswise on the bed, and he was tugging her clothes off her body, yanking at them, and it hurt, and she wanted it to hurt. She hated herself, hated him.

  She heard the rasp of his zipper in the darkness, his muffled curse, and she caught her waistband in her hands and shoved her jeans down her legs, kicking them free. He arched over her, pushing her legs apart, resting against her, heavy, hard, pressing against her.

  “I hate you,” she whispered.

  “I know,” he said. And slammed into her, so fast and hard that her breath caught, and she waited for the pain and tearing.

  Except she was wet. Her body had welcomed him, even as her mind rejected him, and she wrapped her legs around his hips, trying to pull him in deeper still, scratching at him, clawing at him, trying to get more of him. He caught her wrists, slamming them down against the bed, holding her still as he moved. Thrusting deep, so deep that she cried out, so deep that she needed more, and she couldn’t breathe in the velvety darkness, trembling, shaking, fighting it, fighting him.

  She wasn’t strong enough. Everything was gone now—only the darkness and their sweat-dampened bodies remaining, and she didn’t want this, didn’t want to…

  The first wave hit her with such force that she cried out. He released her wrists, putting his hand over her mouth to muffle the sound, and she bit him again, tasting blood, as her entire body arched into a silent, endless scream of such intensity that everything exploded. No enemies, no boat, no bed in the middle of the ocean. Just elemental, hot, sweaty sex, and she couldn’t stop, as wave after wave of climax washed over her.

  He rolled off her, and she could hear the hoarse roughness of his breathing.

  She opened her eyes in the inky blackness, because it was safer that way, because bad things could hurt you if you closed your eyes.

  Her face was wet, and she knew she was crying, but for some reason it didn’t matter. She lay next to the man she hated most in the world, a butcher, a monster, the man who had just destroyed her, and she tried to catch her breath. She had to find the knife. Now she had a reason to kill him. Nothing would stop her this time, no weakness that she hadn’t realized existed. She could kill him now, and the longer she delayed the worse it would be.

  A final shudder racked her body, and she squeezed her legs together, arching her hips, and shame swept through her. The knife, she thought, letting her eyes drift closed once more. The knife…

  He hadn’t climaxed. He lay beside her, listening to her as her murderous little soul relaxed into an exhausted sleep, and considered his rebellious body. It was pitch-dark in the room—she wouldn’t have been able to see he was still painfully erect, practically vibrating with need. But something had made him pull out at the last moment. Something had stopped him, and he wasn’t sure what.

  He considered finishing then and there, lying beside her in the darkness, breathing in the rich scent of her arousal. He could probably do it without touching himself, but he wasn’t going to. He could head into the bathroom, into the tiny shower, and take care of it, but he wouldn’t do that, either. He was going to lie in the torn-up bed next to his worst enemy, and think about how he wanted to be inside her again. And again. And again.

  He should have gotten rid of Mahmoud days ago. Another man, the man he used to be, would have. The man he used to be would have fucked Madame Lambert into a compliant stupor by now, or he might not have touched her at all. But Killian wasn’t the man he used to be. And he didn’t even know who that man was anymore.

  He wanted to turn and wrap his arms around her, pull her close. She was asleep—he could tell by her breathing—and she wouldn’t fight him, at least not for long. And he could put his head in the crook of her neck, taste her skin, and erase all the deadly years that had come between them.

  But he wasn’t going to. He was going to spend the rest of his goddamned life with a hard-on, but he wasn’t going to touch her again. She was bad for him, and always had been. Crazy and ba
d, making him think things he couldn’t afford to think, making him a little crazy, too. He’d watched her from afar the last eighteen years, always knowing where she was, waiting, listening. He’d squandered his employers’ money and intel-gathering resources keeping track of her. Not that it mattered—his employers had money to spare, and he surely wasn’t getting as rich as he deserved for all his hard work.

  He was hoping he’d be able to leech some money away from this current job before it was over. Shutting down the Committee was a complicated business, but he was well on his way to success. He’d already broken the acting head, and after Toussaint’s defection and Madsen’s injury, they were sadly understaffed. It wouldn’t take that much to finish them off.

  Frigid. He let out a silent snort of laughter. What exactly had she been doing with herself during the intervening years that she’d managed to convince herself of such an absurdity? She would have had training in sexual techniques as part of her initiation into the Committee. No undercover operative could afford to be squeamish about such an effective weapon. And Stephan Lambert would have been certain to have given her a workout. While he was openly gay, he was also broad-minded, and could count any number of beautiful women among his former lovers.

  So what had turned Isobel off so completely that she’d shut down all her physical responses? The logical answer, absurd though it was, was that she’d been waiting for him.

  He wasn’t sure how he was going to use that knowledge. It was a useful weapon, but for the time being he’d keep it in reserve. He’d done what he needed to do, thrown her so off balance that her effectiveness would be compromised. His first step to taking down the Committee. It was enough for now.

  He got out of the bed, heading for the shower. She stirred in her sleep, making a soft, protesting noise, and it took all his determination not to finish what he started. The feel of her, the taste of her, hadn’t changed. The way he wanted her hadn’t changed.

  His self-control hadn’t changed. She was still the means to an end. And he couldn’t afford to forget it.

  Isobel was alone when she woke up. She pulled herself into a sitting position, looking at her hand. It was shaking. Her whole body was shaking.

  She stiffened, forcing the trembling to vanish. It was late morning, and they were due to land in the early afternoon. It was time to get on with her life.

  She hurt. Her entire body ached, as if she’d run for a very long time. The only part of her that didn’t hurt was between her legs, and that held its own particular fury.

  There was nothing of him to wash away. He couldn’t have used a condom—it had happened too fast. And she couldn’t remember him climaxing. She’d been too caught up with the overwhelming sensations to even think about the man who was providing them. Didn’t want to think about him. She’d been swept away, and he hadn’t even come.

  She washed thoroughly, including her hair. The auburn roots were just beginning to show beneath the blond; she’d need to get to her hairdresser as soon as she got back. That, and see how the new recruit, Hiromasa, was doing. She’d pass Killian off to Peter, or perhaps to someone else the Committee provided. Harry Thomason had never been a particularly effective interrogator—he tended to let his inherent violence get in the way. And violence wouldn’t work on a man like Killian.

  She wasn’t going to think about it. There was a pile of fresh clothes on the banquette, clearly for her, and while she would have liked to ignore them, her own clothes, torn and stained, were an even greater reminder of something she was determined to forget. It had happened; she couldn’t change that. But nothing on this earth could make it happen again.

  She was sitting on the banquette, cross-legged, making a list on the pad of paper she’d found in the little desk. She was crippled without her PDA. She looked up when he walked in, steeling herself.

  “I need my PDA,” she said, her voice flat.

  He gazed at her for a long moment, standing in the open door of the cabin, and she felt a moment’s fear that he was going to talk about what had happened in that room, on that carefully made bed.

  But he didn’t. “When we get to London,” he said. “I don’t trust your people.”

  “I do.”

  “But I’ve got the PDA,” he said. “We need to go pick up our little orphan or the nurse might report us for abandoning him.”

  Dealing with Mahmoud would at least provide a distraction. She pushed herself off the banquette, half expecting Killian to touch her, to say something. But he could have been a polite stranger, moving out of her way, walking beside her, but not close, as she headed for the elevator and the infirmary.

  Last night’s storm had vanished, leaving the water calm as the huge ferry plowed through it. People were out on the decks, children were playing in the sunshine despite the chill, lovers were kissing. They lived in an alternate reality, she thought numbly. One she could never find again.

  Mahmoud was sitting up, looking disgustingly healthy and surprisingly clean. He was wearing shorts and a long-sleeve T-shirt and sandals, his hair was washed and combed, and he looked oddly like a child, not the savage creature he really was.

  “You were able to get him washed…” she said, grateful, and then her words trailed off. The nurse was filthy, bruised, her hair a tangle, scratch marks on her arms. She wouldn’t have looked worse if she’d met Mahmoud on the battlefield.

  She glared at Isobel. “He’s stronger than he looks.”

  “We warned you,” Killian said mildly in that perfect Oxford accent. “Come along, my lad. We’ll be docking in a few hours, and I imagine you want to fill that empty belly of yours.”

  “Just clear liquids and a little toast,” the nurse warned.

  Killian looked at her. “I’m not about to get in a wrestling match with him in public. I expect he’ll eat what he wants, and his new family can deal with his stomach. If he starts throwing up again it’ll be someone else’s problem.”

  “Serve the little brat right,” the nurse muttered, clearly devoid of charity that morning.

  Killian said something in Arabic, and Mahmoud slid off the cot to follow him out the door. At the last minute he turned and directed a string of words to the nurse that sounded far from complimentary.

  “He’s thanking you for your kind assistance,” Killian translated helpfully. He was clearly lying.

  “Hummph.”

  And to Isobel’s shock, Mahmoud grinned—a normal, naughty-little-boy grin. He caught her expression of surprise, and it vanished immediately, turning him back into the sullen little creature she was used to. But at least he was clean.

  Killian was right—Mahmoud ate enough for the three of them, finishing the practically untouched food on her own plate, scarfing down Killian’s last piece of toast. Isobel could only hope he wouldn’t get carsick once they landed in Plymouth. It was a long drive to London, and she didn’t fancy being trapped with a puking child. Whoever came for them would probably bring the Bentley—elegant and stately and armor-plated. Just in case. If Mahmoud started heaving again she’d put him in the front seat with Peter. She’d suffered enough on this particular mission.

  At least it was almost over. Last night hadn’t happened; it was locked in a little box and thrown overboard into the icy blue-green Atlantic Ocean. She’d pass Killian on to Peter, go home and break something.

  They ate in silence, Killian perfectly at ease, leaning back in his chair drinking coffee, and watching as they pulled into Plymouth harbor. “We’ll be one of the first off the ferry,” he said. “We need to get through customs and be on our way. I’ve got a couple of ideas for transport to London, but I need to check out the lay of the land.”

  She really didn’t want to speak to him. But she was being silly—anything that had happened was immaterial, imaginary. “I’ve already arranged for someone to pick us up.”

  “What?” She hadn’t seen that cold anger before. He usually covered everything with an easy charm that made her crazy. “You couldn’t have. I took yo
ur PDA.”

  “I called before you groped me in the cafeteria,” she said, ignoring the fact that she was bringing up a subject that could lead to dangerous places.

  He swore, in half a dozen languages. “You’ve been in the business long enough not to have made such a stupid mistake. Unless you’re trying to get me killed. In which case you could have tried it long distance.”

  “Maybe I want to be in at the kill,” she said in a silky voice. “Don’t be paranoid.”

  “Paranoia keeps me alive. I thought you were smarter than that.”

  She was impervious to his anger or his insults. “I took you seriously. Peter Madsen is the only one who knows we’re coming in, and whether you realize it or not, there are some people in this life that you can trust absolutely. The Committee has survived numerous attempts at infiltration—we’re invulnerable. And even if someone managed to get in, Peter would know.”

  “Whether you realize it or not, there’s no one in this life like that,” he shot back. He pushed away from the table, and Mahmoud uttered a protest. Killian’s response was short and sharp, and Isobel decided not to argue.

  “Why don’t you give me back my PDA and I’ll find out what arrangements have been made?”

  He shoved his hand in his pocket and handed the tiny thing to her. “We’re screwed, anyway. We might as well find out what we’re up against.”

  She started to move away from the table, but he stopped her. “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “I’ll get a better signal from outside—”

  “You’ll call him while I can listen. No texting.”

  She sat back down again, pushing buttons on the compact machine. Peter answered immediately.

  “We’re coming into Plymouth,” she said. “My friend thinks we’ve got a problem in the office.”