Ice Storm

by Anne Stuart

  “I don’t give a rat’s ass what your operatives are doing, as long as they aren’t interfering with me. The fault lies in your operation. If I could get that kind of intel, then so can other, less benevolent people.”

  “‘Benevolent?’” she echoed.

  “I’m not the worst man in the world.”

  “Prove it.”

  “You’re still alive.”

  She stared at him. “Drink your coffee,” she said finally. “And then we’ll get to work.”

  “Breakfast first.”

  He was usually a good judge of how far he could push someone, and he knew Isobel far better than she would have wanted, but he might have gone overboard. And then she blinked, and like the shutters covering the windows in this small space, her emotions and reactions were shut down, blanketed. “You’d better be worth all this trouble,” she said. “Good men have died for you.”

  “The truth is, many good men have died because of me,” he said. “I don’t let it bother me. If you were as cold as you want to be, it wouldn’t bother you, either.”

  “If it didn’t bother me, I wouldn’t be in this line of work. I don’t like good people being killed. I don’t like bad people getting away with it.”

  “So it really must gall you to have to keep me alive.”

  “Believe me, it does.”

  He moved closer, deliberately crowding her again in the limited space. She stood her ground, simply because she had no place to go, and he leaned down and breathed in her ear. “I promise you can be the one to kill me if it comes to it. Does that make you happy?”

  “Deliriously,” she snapped.

  She smelled like coffee and soap. She smelled like Isobel, and he wanted to take her up against the kitchen wall, no preliminaries, nothing but fast, hot sex. He let her see it in his eyes, and her own flared with sudden awareness. And then he stepped back, leaving her with the illusion of safety.

  “I like my eggs scrambled,” he said. And he walked back into the living room, smiling when he heard her drop something. Chaos, lust, confusion. His job here was done.

  The house in Golders Green was small, older, seemingly ordinary. The reinforced, lead-lined door looked as if it was made of wood; the windows were shatterproof and as close to bulletproof as technology could get. There was a highly developed sensor system around the perimeter that could pick up any trace of explosives, and there were three escape routes underneath. It was a fortress inside an ordinary white house, and as Peter passed at least three invisible security checkpoints he told himself Genevieve was safe. He wasn’t so sure about his own sorry ass. She was going to be majorly pissed off, and Genevieve Spenser was not someone you pissed off lightly.

  It had been one hell of a night. Cleaning up the mess of Morrison’s murder left no time to mourn his old friend. The man known as Serafin was unconscious by the time he and Reno reached Isobel, but the child in the backseat was both unexpected and a pain in the ass. To Peter’s amazement, Reno had taken charge, subduing the brat just by the tone of his voice, while Isobel and Peter dragged Serafin’s unconscious body into the car they’d bought and drove back to the apartment.

  By the time they reached Kensington, Reno and the kid—Mahmoud was his name—were in curious accord, probably due to the iPod Reno had handed over. Peter hated to think what sort of Yakuza gangsta rap Mahmoud was listening to, but at least it kept the boy quiet while they lugged Serafin up the camouflaged back staircase to the hidden apartment behind the offices of Spence-Pierce Financial Consultants, Ltd. As long as Mahmoud knew Serafin was on the floor below, he went along with Reno peacefully enough, up to the stripped-down apartment Reno had turned into his home with a flagrant disregard of property. When Peter left them, Reno had switched on the state-of-the-art video game system, and Mahmoud’s sullen eyes had lit up. At least that was one thing Peter didn’t need to worry about.

  Isobel was more than capable of dealing with someone like Josef Serafin, no matter what their history. Peter had taken one look at her, the blank expression in her eyes, and knew she was almost at the end of her endurance. But then she’d pulled herself together, as she always did, taking the news of MacGowan’s disappearance with no more than a flinch.

  Peter had tied Serafin to the small bed in the apartment, and hoped to God Isobel had the sense to leave him there until he could get back. He never would have thought it, but the indomitable Madame Lambert was vulnerable. Younger than he’d ever realized. And running out of reserves.

  In the meantime, he had someone even more terrifying to face. His angry wife, who didn’t even know she was, finally, pregnant. The nurse who had checked out her stomach flu had worked for the Committee before, and knew better than to say anything to anybody—even the patient—until given permission.

  Peter had no illusions that his wife was suddenly going to become docile and complacent. Genevieve was a warrior woman, and if she had a child to protect she could take on the Russian army.

  He passed the fourth checkpoint, punched in the code on the keypad and pushed open the door to the house, entering a long, narrow hallway with a row of closed doors on either side. Then he froze.

  Somewhere in the depths of the house, a baby was crying, and for a moment he thought he’d somehow walked into the wrong building, the wrong life.

  One of the doors opened, and if Peter weren’t so disoriented, the man who stepped into the hallway would have already been dead.

  “You’re getting slow in your old age, Madsen,” Bastien Toussaint murmured. “You’d better come in and explain a few things to your wife.”

  Peter shoved his gun back in the shoulder holster. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  The crying noise had stopped—clearly the angry infant had been given what it wanted. Peter imagined a future filled with such moments, and told himself he should be miserable, but he couldn’t summon up much of anything.

  “Safest place to be,” Bastien said. “Come in and meet Swede.”

  “Swede?” God, not another person crammed into the tiny house.

  “The new baby. We’re all here, in one piece, and we’re going to stay that way while we find out what the hell is going on. Three men tried to get to us in the States.”

  “And you couldn’t find out who sent them?”

  “They died too quickly,” Bastien said with his impenetrable calm. “I decided not to wait around to see if someone else was going to show up. Where’s Madame Lambert?”

  “In trouble,” Peter replied. “More than I’ve ever seen her.”

  “Then we’d better see to it. Chloe will keep Genevieve calmed down. I don’t think you have the time to deal with her at the moment. A pregnant woman is a dangerous thing.”

  “How did you know she was pregnant? I don’t think she knows herself.”

  “It’s obvious to anyone used to the signs. Chloe’s bound to blurt it out sooner rather than later, which means we’d better get this mess taken care of fast or your wife might possibly kill you. What’s Madame Lambert working on that’s got her in trouble?”

  “Josef Serafin. He’s trading intel for immunity. Right now he should be filling her in on the inner workings of some of the worst fascist governments of the last twenty years.”

  Bastien froze. “Hell and damnation,” he said. “He’s trading nothing but lies.”

  “I imagine he’ll try, but Isobel’s too smart to fall for anything like that. Why don’t you think he’ll tell the truth?”

  Bastien grimaced. “Because he’s not a professional mercenary, working for the highest bidder. He’s CIA, and always has been.”

  Peter’s bad day suddenly got a great deal worse.

  19

  “You’re lying to me,” Isobel said.

  “Now why would I do that? I haven’t anything to gain—I expect the Committee’s generosity is going to be contingent on the quality of intel I bring. I have no reason to hold back.” Killian turned his head to look at her. He was stretched out on the sofa, his long, lean
body taking up the entire space. Not that she would have wanted to sit next to him. She was happy to keep her distance, and the uncomfortable chair was perfectly adequate. She’d fed him, simply because she was famished herself, and in a battle of wills he probably would have won. And she’d spent the last three hours grilling him. And getting nowhere.

  He told her absolutely nothing she didn’t already know. It wasn’t common knowledge, but the Committee wasn’t a common organization, and their intel was first-rate. Killian wasn’t bringing anything new to the table.

  “What happened in Mauritzia?”

  He shrugged, perfectly at ease. “One of my more spectacular fuckups, I have to admit. I was in charge of removing the ethnic population of three small cities to a holding area where they were to be exterminated under my supervision. Which is where I got the charming name Serafin the Butcher. Unfortunately, someone let word slip, and the neighborhoods were emptied before I even got there. Personally, I didn’t see the problem—the local governments wanted these people gone, and they were, having slipped over the border into refugee camps. Unfortunately, Busanovich didn’t see it that way. I got out at the last minute.”

  “It didn’t seem to hurt your future employment prospects any,” she said.

  His smile was cool and deadly. “There’s always employment for a man with my skills and moral…flexibility. I’d be more than happy to give you names, positions of President Busanovich’s advisors, but like the president himself, they’re all dead, and Mauritzia is discovering the wonders of democracy. I like to think in my own modest way I contributed to that.” His tone was mocking.

  “Next you’ll be telling me that you were saving the world with your incompetence.”

  He shrugged. “You could look at it that way. I’m afraid Fouad Assawi was a bit more determined than some of my previous employers. Which is why I decided to throw myself on the mercy of the Committee.”

  She said nothing, closing the lid to her laptop.

  “If you’re done with that do you mind if I check my e-mail?” he said, sitting up. “I was bidding on a couple of things on eBay and I wanted to see if I won—”

  “Oh, shut up. You’ve probably never been on eBay.”

  “Now that’s where you’re wrong. There’s quite an interesting bit of black market trade going on—you just have to know how to find it.”

  “And what’s the e-mail for—online dating services?” Her voice was caustic.

  “No, princess. I’ve already got you.”

  She stood abruptly, needing to get away from him. “As a matter of fact, we don’t have Internet service in here. No cell phone service, either—we’re completely cut off. The walls are lined so that nothing, not even a telecommunications signal, can get in or out.”

  “Then how are you going to know what to do with me?” he said lazily.

  “The door still works, if you know where to find it and how to open it. If you don’t know the codes you’ll die, but Peter doesn’t make mistakes like that.”

  “Which is why he walks with a limp nowadays.” Killian swung his legs over the side of the sofa, stretching, and she moved back, skittish.

  It was too much to hope he hadn’t noticed her retreat. And responded. He came toward her, and she told herself she wouldn’t back up, but her feet moved, anyway, until she ended up against one of the blanketed walls, and there was nowhere else to go. He was standing too close to her, and she couldn’t remember ever being so intensely aware of another human being. “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 under 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 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 right 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 soundproofing 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.”