Ice Storm

by Anne Stuart

  And her only defense was not to feel humiliated. “Are you almost finished?” she asked in a deliberately caustic tone.

  His fingertips danced across her abraded skin, as gently as a whisper. “I think we’ve got most of them. I have a suggestion while you’re in that position.”

  “I’ll bet you do.” She tried to sit up, but his hand came down on her neck, no longer gentle at all.

  “Stay put,” he ordered, his voice flat.

  “If you think I’m—”

  “Someone’s following us,” he said. “Right now it looks as if I’m alone in the car, and we’d better keep it that way.”

  She couldn’t argue with his logic. He loosened the pressure on her scalp, and she lay still, listening as he spoke to Mahmoud. The first thing she was going to do when she got back to London was take an intensive training course in Arabic. It was maddening not to know what was going on. And given the state of the world, she had no doubt she’d be needing it sooner rather than later.

  Assuming she continued to go out into the field. She’d had no choice in the last year or so. When Thomason had been in charge he’d simply delegated, probably due to the fact that he never liked to get his hands dirty. He had people to enforce his decrees, but he himself was no operative. He’d come in at an early age, a London bureaucrat with connections, and he’d never had to do anything more than give orders and exercise power.

  Absolute power corrupts absolutely. She wasn’t convinced that Sir Harry Thomason was, in fact, corrupt. It was a possibility, but a remote one. He cherished the life of an English gentleman a little too dearly. He was just a useless old man with nothing to do but harass Peter with petty annoyances. If that was the worst thing she had to deal with, then she could count herself lucky.

  And now they’d lost another agent. Morrison had been one of the oldest and best operatives they had, and now he was gone. At least it had been quick for him. As soon as she got to London she’d have to make arrangements for his body to be collected and properly buried.

  It was easier to think about Morrison than what she was doing at the moment, a fact that should have shamed her. But it didn’t. She could grieve Morrison’s loss, but her practical side forced her to consider how they were going to make do. Hiromasa was just going to have to come on board sooner than expected. She only hoped he had Taka’s ability to blend in.

  Killian’s hand had moved from the back of her head to her neck, underneath her loose hair. The heat was on full blast, and even wearing nothing but her bra, she felt warm, almost drowsy. If she didn’t know better she’d suspect him of drugging her again. But he simply hadn’t had the chance.

  No, it was just a matter of coming down from being on high alert. She knew she was safe, for at least a few moments. She was warm, and though her back felt raw, it would heal. The Committee had all sorts of expensive concoctions that could speed up the healing process. In general, she healed quickly anyway, but she needed to be at the top of her game until she finally managed to get rid of the man whose hard thigh lay beneath her head, whose long fingers were slowly, absently stroking the soft skin at the nape of her neck. He probably didn’t even realize what he was doing, she thought. He was concentrating on his driving, accepting the fact that she was momentarily quiet. She could be anyone beneath the slow, hypnotic stroke of his hand.

  “Mahmoud wouldn’t even notice,” he said in a low voice laced with amusement. “You could just unzip me….”

  She put her hand on his thigh to shove herself up, and to hell with anyone who might be following. But he was too fast for her, grabbing her hand and placing it against the hard flesh straining against his zipper. He had an erection. Why? There was nothing he wanted from her, nothing he’d wanted last night except to humiliate her, to prove his mastery, to prove—

  “Shut up,” he said.

  The only way she could pull her hand free was to bite him, and that was one thing she wouldn’t do. “I didn’t say anything.”

  “You were thinking.”

  “That’s out of your control, Killian,” she said. “Sorry about your problem, but I’m not doing anything about it.”

  “I don’t have a problem.”

  “What’s this?” She couldn’t pull away, but she could move her fingers, and she brushed the length of him beneath the heavy denim. He didn’t react, but then, she hadn’t expected him to.

  “Unfinished business. We’ll take care of it later. In the meantime, you can just lie still and be quiet. Look at it this way, you’ll be putting me through exquisite torment. Won’t you enjoy that?”

  “I doubt it’s torment. I wasn’t fighting last night. You missed your chance.”

  “There are always more chances, princess,” he whispered. “I had a crisis of conscience.”

  “You have no conscience.”

  “Not much of one, I’ll admit. But it does seem to appear when you’re around. I wasn’t going to kill you, you know. You didn’t have to shoot me.”

  “You could have fooled me.”

  “Oh, I did. Over and over again. You still are completely blind when it comes to me, aren’t you?”

  “No. I see you far too clearly, as the sick, murderous bastard you are. It doesn’t matter how hard you try to be charming, I know you’re an ugly piece of work in pretty packaging. I won’t kill you, but I’ll dance on your grave when someone finally manages it.”

  He laughed, sounding almost lighthearted. “How sweet. You still love me, don’t you? I wouldn’t have thought it possible, but you always were a stubborn woman. Lousy judge of character.”

  “I can change my mind and kill you.”

  “Of course you can. But you won’t. It doesn’t matter what you think I am, what you think I’ve done. You’re in love with me, and you will be until the day you die.”

  She shoved at him, and he let out a small sound of pain as he released her. “Careful there, Isobel. You really wouldn’t want to damage me.”

  She sat up. The highway was empty—no one was following them. Probably no one had been following them for the last hour; he’d just used it as an excuse to humiliate her.

  She opened her mouth to tell him all the things she wanted to do to him—hurt him, kill him. But the words didn’t come.

  Because he knew her too well. Better than she knew herself. She was the Ice Queen, the Iron Maiden, and she wasn’t going there.

  “Shut up, Killian,” she said, reaching for her ripped shirt. In the darkness he wouldn’t know how rattled she was. He might guess, but there was no way he could know for certain he’d managed to get to her. “Shut up and drive.”

  And he did.

  17

  Things were not going according to plan. Then again, things seldom did, and Killian was used to adjusting at an instant’s notice. But something wasn’t feeling right about this situation, even taking into account the expected complications and snafus.

  He had a simple enough job. The Committee was to extract him from North Africa, bring him to London, where he would supposedly be debriefed on his years spent in the service of some of the world’s most notorious dictators, warlords and terrorist organizations. While he was feeding them false and useless information, he’d be doing his own part to bring the Committee to total ruin. By the time he vanished, the Committee would be disbanded, leaving the way clear for his people to take over. It should be easy enough to accomplish—his cover was so impenetrable that no one even suspected there was more to him than there appeared to be. He’d always been particularly good at that. People believed what he wanted them to believe. But someone was killing off members of the Committee, and that body count had nothing to do with his job. At least, he hoped it didn’t. If someone else was assigned to the same task and they hadn’t bothered to inform him, he’d be beyond angry.

  But the attack on the Committee seemed to be coming from somewhere else entirely. It was direct and bloody, and if he just stayed out of the way he might not have to do anything at all. Whoever was intent on b
ringing down the organization was doing a very effective, if violent, job of it, and his employers wouldn’t care just how it happened. No one in his line of work was particularly squeamish about body counts, as long as the outcome was the required one.

  He could pull over and disappear into the night, leaving Isobel with Mahmoud. She wouldn’t thank him for that, and sooner or later he had no doubt that Mahmoud would track him down and kill him, if he had to wait ten years to do it. The boy was on his own mission—one from God—and Killian had to pay.

  As far as his intel went, the current roster of active Committee agents was very small. Takashi O’Brien was tied up in his late grandfather’s business in Tokyo. Peter Madsen was little more than a bureaucrat, sidelined with a bad leg. Morrison was dead, and MacGowan had disappeared, which left Jeffreys in Thailand, and perhaps one other.

  And Isobel. Sitting beside him in the front seat, her bloody shirt covering her poor back, staring out into the night as he drove down the A35. If someone was targeting Committee operatives, she’d be high on the list.

  “Did you ever consider that they might not be trying to kill me?” he said, breaking the thick silence.

  She turned to look at him. “Everyone in the world wants you dead,” she replied after a moment. “Have you done anything to change their mind?”

  Such a sweetheart. The hostility was coming off her in waves—waves of heat, nothing like the ice she’d encased herself in. “Oh, I’m sure most people want me dead,” he said. “I’m just wondering whether these current attempts are directed at me. Or whether someone’s trying to get rid of you, just as they got rid of Morrison and MacGowan. Or do you think it’s just a coincidence? Bad timing?”

  “I don’t believe in coincidences.”

  “Neither do I.”

  She pulled out her PDA, but he took it from her hand, opened the window and threw it out onto the rain-wet highway. “Your security’s been compromised,” he said.

  “Do you have any idea how much that piece of equipment cost?”

  “Do you have any idea how little I care?” He reached into the side pocket of the car door, handing her the cheap mobile phone he’d picked up. “Use this. I doubt whoever you call will be secure, but at least they won’t be able to track us.”

  “I have a number for Peter.”

  “Madsen’s probably dead by now.”

  He wasn’t able to rattle her. “Peter’s very hard to kill,” she answered calmly.

  “So were Morrison and MacGowan.” The traffic was heavier now, and it was making him edgy. They were about to get on the M3, and on the highway he wouldn’t be able to tell whether they were being followed. Right now his usually reliable instincts were shot all to hell. He could thank Isobel for that. He could still feel the warmth of her skin, still taste her mouth. She was a dangerous distraction, one he couldn’t afford. But he’d asked for her, and now he was paying the price.

  If he was the professional he prided himself on being, she’d have been left behind in a closet on the ferry. Though it might not have made a difference—security would have found her by now, setting up an alarm, and he wouldn’t be that far ahead of the game. Besides, he needed her to get into the Committee. Unless someone else, someone with the same agenda but different rules, took it down first.

  She was texting, and in the faint glow of the tiny screen he could see her face. She was frowning, biting her lower lip as she concentrated, and she had no idea he was watching her as well as the heavy traffic. She sighed and turned the machine off.

  “Do you think I need to toss this one, as well?” she said.

  It was the first time she’d asked his opinion in an equable tone. Maybe she was beginning to realize they might be in more trouble than she’d thought.

  “If you’ve turned it off they shouldn’t be able to trace it. Just turn it on if you need to use it again. What’s up?”

  “Change of plans. We had a safe house in Golders Green all set up for you. Very secure—there’s no way in hell anyone could get in there.”

  “But someone did?”

  “No. We’ve had to put someone else there, and you’re too volatile a contact. We don’t want to risk her life.”

  “Her?”

  “Peter’s wife. You’re at least half-right—someone’s targeted the Committee, and we’re all at risk. Personally, I think it’s simply because people are determined to get at you, and we’re in their way, but in the end it doesn’t matter. Peter’s wife can’t stay in their home in the country, so he brought her in and put her in the Golders Green house. And we’re not going to risk putting you there as well.”

  “Who don’t you want to risk, me or Genevieve?”

  “Genevieve,” Isobel said flatly. “I’m not even going to ask how you know her name—you’d just lie. At this point I don’t give a rat’s ass whether someone blows you to pieces or not.”

  “You should. You’re with me. Unless you have some romantic notion of dying by my side.”

  Her low growl was absurdly sexy. He’d made the worst mistake of his life last night. Not fucking her—that had been smart and well-planned, throwing her entirely off balance. But not finishing. Coitus interruptus might be fine for sharpening the senses, but some of his senses were entirely meshed with hers. It wouldn’t have made any difference if he’d come. And he’d be feeling a hell of a lot less distracted.

  Maybe. Or maybe not. She’d always had the ability to distract him; through the last eighteen years he hadn’t been able to let go of her. If he’d climaxed inside her body he’d just be wanting to do it again.

  “All right, no Romeo and Juliet fantasies,” he said lightly. “Nevertheless, keeping me alive would be the smart thing to do. Once I’m dead, what’s to stop them from wiping you out entirely?”

  “Wrong. Once you’re dead they’d have no reason to come after us. Problem solved.”

  “And you without a gun,” he murmured. “I don’t think you’d get very far in hand-to-hand combat, but I’m more than happy to let you try.”

  “Just drive.”

  “Where?”

  “Head north of London. Peter will meet us.”

  “And he’ll have a gun,” Killian said. “Are you going to shoot Mahmoud, too? Because he’s going to be pretty pissed off if you kill me before he has a chance to do it.”

  “No one’s killing anyone, no matter how tempting,” Isobel said.

  “At least not tonight,” he said.

  And Isobel said nothing at all.

  “Get up.”

  Reno ignored the voice. The plump blonde lying next to him squealed, jumped up with the sheet wrapped around her, leaving him stark naked in the bed, and ran out of the room. Reno turned over, slowly, to look up into Peter Madsen’s ice-blue eyes.

  “What’s up?” For a moment he wondered whether Madsen would put his hands on him. It would be an interesting battle—Reno didn’t underestimate his opponent for one moment, despite his bad leg and the ten years age difference between them. There was no guarantee of the outcome, and Reno tended to fight dirty. He expected Peter Madsen did, as well.

  “Get out of bed. And get rid of the girl. Who is she, by the way?”

  Reno shrugged. “Just someone with a taste for the exotic,” he said. “There are more of them around here than I can count. In English or in Japanese.”

  “Did you ever stop to consider that sleeping around might compromise our security?”

  “I know what I’m doing,” he said lazily, climbing out of bed. The girl emerged from the bathroom, fully dressed, beet-red. Was that one Lucy? Or Angela? He’d lost track.

  “Uh…I’d better be going,” she said, not meeting anyone’s eyes.

  He half expected Peter to stop her, but Madsen simply stepped back. “See you,” Reno said unhelpfully. In fact, he didn’t expect to see her again. The novelty of English girls was wearing off.

  He pulled on his discarded black jeans, zipping them, then turned to look at Peter with his usual innocent expres
sion. He’d already gotten rid of the condom and washed off, hoping his activities would arouse his somnolent bed partner and send her on her way, but it had taken Peter to roust her. He never liked sleeping with them. “So what’s the big emergency?”

  “We’ve been compromised. Isobel almost walked into a trap at least three times in as many days, and we’ve just lost another operative. And I asked myself, what has changed around here recently that might have compromised our security?”

  Reno reached for the black silk shirt he’d been wearing. He was growing very fond of the quality of clothing he’d been finding in London—rich silks, creamy leathers, angel-soft wools. He pulled it on, stalling for time. “So you think I’m a plant,” he said. It was not a question. “You think I set Isobel up. So why am I still alive?”

  “I’m not convinced of anything. And out of respect for Taka I’m keeping an open mind. Did you sell us out?”

  “If I said yes, you’d kill me.”

  “Yes.”

  “If I said no, you wouldn’t believe me.” He slid his feet into the leather motorcycle boots he loved.

  “Try me.”

  Reno tucked his shirt in, reaching for his sunglasses. “No, I didn’t sell you out. I may not want to be here, but I don’t betray family, and by extension, you’re family. You matter to Taka, and Taka matters to me.” Reno met Peter’s gaze calmly. He’d taken out his tigereye contact lenses, and there was nothing between them, just ice blue gazing into cold brown.

  And then Peter nodded. “I believe you.”

  He’d managed to shock Reno. “You shouldn’t just take my word for it,” he said.

  “I have good instincts. And I already called Taka.”

  “Good,” he said. “I would have done the same. So why did you wake me up? What time is it, anyway?”

  “A little after midnight. We have to go pick up Madame Lambert and Josef Serafin. They’ve been driving around for hours now, until I could set this up.”

  “It sounds simple enough. Why do you need my help?”

  “Why do you always ask questions?”