On Thin Ice (13 page)

“Hoping to shave my chest, were you? I never bothered to think about it. Do you like your men hairy or smooth?”

“It depends where the hair is.”

He laughed, and she realized how indelicate that sounded. “You have the mind of an adolescent boy,” she grumbled, putting on another bandage. “And don’t give me any more crap about three years. I don’t imagine you were ever restrained.”

“You don’t know anything about me, Miss Pennington.” It was the voice of a stranger, clipped, cool, polite, and she looked up, startled. Even past the familiar beard he looked completely different, an upper class Brit in a distasteful situation. And then, just as swiftly, the mask fell away, and it was MacGowan again, with a slow, lazy grin on his face.

She bent back to her work. “What was that?”

“You don’t know what I do for a living. There’s a reason I survived up there for so long, a reason why they took me in the first place, a reason I was able to get the two of you down safely. I’ve been trained by the best, and I know how to get a job done without looking back. I also know how to be anyone I want to be. A year from now if you passed me in the street you wouldn’t even know me.” His voice was cool, dispassionate, almost bleak, and she wanted to break through that sudden wall.

“Especially if you shave,” she said caustically. “All done.” She gave him a little shove, but instead he moved closer, pushing between her legs so that he was too close, and he caught her hand as she started to put the bandages away.

She looked up, into his eyes, and her breath caught. He was looking down at her with the oddest expression on his face, something she’d never seen before, something she couldn’t understand.

“Where the fuck have you guys been?” Dylan appeared in the doorway, breaking the tenuous thread that had stretched between them.

MacGowan stepped back, and Beth felt her breath return. “Sister Beth’s been patching me up,” he said. “Where have you been?”

“Exploring. Whoever was living here sure left in a hurry. I found . . .”

MacGowan already had him by the arm, manhandling him out of the room. “Beth was living here,” he said. “And I don’t think she wants to talk about it. You can take care of dinner. She needs a bath and a rest, I need the same.”

“What makes you think I wouldn’t like a bath?” Dylan shot back.

“You’ve got a choice between food or a bath and you’re a teenage boy. I figure the answer is simple. You can take a bath after I’ve finished.”

“She stab you?” Dylan surveyed him with great interest.

“No. Not that she wouldn’t have liked to, but Sister Beth is a woman of infinite resources. Unlike you and me. Come along, hermano, and I’ll let you raid the kitchen.”

Their voices trailed off, and she was alone once more, sitting on her bed, unmoving. They were gone, and she’d already indulged herself in the luxury of grief. For now she could put it away, deal with it more properly once she was home. In the meantime, if she could trust MacGowan, there would be a hot bath available for the taking. Grabbing clean clothes from the trunk by her bed, she went out into the familiar hallway, heading for the bathing room that had once served the nuns.

The old bath was huge, and she filled it only half-full, with lukewarm water. MacGowan and Dylan needed baths or showers themselves and she wasn’t going to hog all the hot water. Besides, room temperature water was almost warm enough.

She was completely filthy, and the tub would be muddy in two seconds if she got in like this. She stripped off her clothes and stood under the shower, unbraiding her long hair as the top layer of mud and dirt came off her. Turning it off, she slid into the old porcelain tub, sinking down. She tilted her head back, letting her hair flow about her in the warm water, and felt the last bits of tension drain away. For now, for this moment, she was safe and happy. In an hour they’d begin the fight to survive once more, but right now she could simply lie back in the tub, rub herself with the rose-scented soap Tia Maria had brought her, and be glad to be alive.

It was no wonder she fell asleep. No wonder that getting a mouthful of water woke her with a start, and she climbed out of the now-cold water, wrapping herself in the threadbare towel. Her skin was burned by the sun, and bruises covered half of her body. There were no mirrors at the mission – the nuns had been denied them and Beth hadn’t cared, but now she wished she could see just how bad she looked. She pulled on a clean pair of cargo shorts and a tank top, covering her lack of a bra with an oversized cotton shirt. Her feet were a pathetic mess, but she had an old pair of flip-flops she could wear that would give her soles some protection, and she could smell food coming from the kitchen. Something spicy and good, and she realized with relief that Dylan was a better cook than she would have thought. The electric lights were on, the overhead fan spinning lazily when she walked inside the kitchen, and she opened her mouth to speak, then stopped in shock at the sight of the stranger standing by the stove. Not Dylan after all, and she should have run, but she was too petrified to move. It was one shock too many, and she stared at the man, trying to assess whether he was going to kill her, rape her, or feed her.

The stranger looked up at her out of cool gray eyes. He had long, blonde-streaked brown hair, a strong nose, and a mouth that curved in the trace of a smile. He wasn’t Hispanic, and therefore unlikely to be a threat, but she wasn’t going to let down her guard just because a ridiculously handsome man appeared in her kitchen.

“Where’s MacGowan?” she demanded fiercely, determined not to show fear. “What have you done with him? And where is Dylan?”

The man gave her a lazy smile, the kind that would charm most women, and the suspicion blossomed before he even opened his mouth. “I didn’t do a damned thing to MacGowan except give him a shower and shave him, Sister Beth. What do you think . . . do I clean up well?”

That was the understatement of the year, and for some reason Beth was suddenly annoyed. Almost betrayed. What the hell was someone that good-looking doing hiding under all that hair and dirt. Granted, he’d had no choice in the matter, but it was unfair of fate to have suddenly presented her with someone that gorgeous.

“Well enough,” she said in an unpromising voice. She limped over to one of the long tables where they’d fed the children, Carlos included, and sat. “Dylan’s in the shower?”

“Let’s hope so. He was making a fair mess of things here so I kicked him out. How are your feet?”

“They’ll heal. Did you get your dressing wet? I don’t have an unlimited supply of butterfly bandages, you know.”

“I know how to take a shower without ruining a field dressing, darlin’.” He started dishing up a plate of something, then dumped it in front of her. “Eat up. Tons more where that came from.”

It looked like canned dog food and smelled like heaven, and she took the fork he handed her and dug in, burning her mouth on the first bite and not caring. “What is it?”

“A bit of this and a bit of that. Flavored with a lot of chili.” He filled another plate and sat down opposite her, and his leg knocked against hers under the table. She jumped back, nervous, but either he didn’t notice or pretended not to. She kept her eyes lowered, staring into the mystery food in front of her, suddenly tongue-tied. As if things weren’t bad enough.

She needed to say something. He was watching her, she could feel those hard gray eyes assessing her, and she swallowed too large a mouthful of the dinner, then had to wait while she chewed. “How did you manage to shave?” she said finally. “There aren’t any mirrors here, and I gather scraping that much hair off a face is a complicated matter.”

“I can make do with most of the basic necessities of life. Look – not even a nick.”

She had no choice but glance at him, but her eyes skittered away quickly. He had a stubborn jaw, high cheekbones, with a deceptive delicacy about his mouth, a sweetness she knew was a complete lie. And there wasn’t even a scratch on his gorgeous face. “I’m impressed,” she muttered into her stew.

He laughed. “Why, Sister Beth, I do believe you’re shy.”

That was too much. She glared at him, looking for what she remembered in his face, the mocking, flinty eyes. “I don’t do shy.”

“Now that’s a lie, sweetheart.” Before she realized what he was doing he’d reached across the table and caught her hand in his. There was a world of difference. His hands were large, burned dark by the sun, covered with scars and scratches. Two of his fingers had been badly broken at one point and hadn’t been properly set, and her smaller, paler, much more delicate hand seemed almost child-like caught in his stronger one. His thumb rubbed against the inside of her palm, and she felt heat move up her arm, and she wanted to pull away from him, but she looked up into the handsome face of a stranger and didn’t move, mesmerized.

“I’m clean,” Dylan announced unnecessarily from the kitchen door, and Beth tried to yank her hand free. She couldn’t. “Dinner smells great.” He peered into the pot distrustfully. “Looks like ass, though.” He looked back at them. “What’s going on with you two? Every time I walk in the room you both look like you’ve been fucking. You decide to have a piece, dude?”

“You need to learn to respect your elders, lad,” MacGowan said in a lazy voice, still caressing her palm with his thumb, the slow, deliberate strokes sending a mass of contradictory feelings through her.

Dylan plopped himself down at the table beside MacGowan and dug in. He seemed to take MacGowan’s transformation in stride, but then, the elegant cheekbones, the seductive mouth would most likely leave a teenage boy cold. “You know, holding hands isn’t gonna get you anywhere,” he confided, his mouth full of food. “You’re not
that
old.”

MacGowan laughed then, and released her. “You make me feel positively ancient. If I have any trouble getting Sister Beth in bed I’ll ask your advice. Until then, shut the fuck up.”

Dylan chuckled. He glanced over at Beth, who’d snatched her hand back and stuck it under the table. “You look nice,” he said to her. “Not that you look all that different from when you arrived, just cleaned up a bit. I didn’t recognize MacGowan when I first saw him.”

“Three years,” MacGowan reminded him absently, his eyes still on Beth’s face. She wished he’d look somewhere else. She looked in his direction, avoiding his gaze, concentrating first on his shoulder, then looking at his long hair.

“He looks very different,” she agreed. “How long were you held captive? And how did they kidnap you?”

Dylan shrugged, but he looked a bit sheepish. “I was just bumming around the country with a couple of friends, having a good time, and the next thing I know I wake up and I’m in the mountains.”

“What he’s not saying,” MacGowan broke in, “is that he and a bunch of his rich friends commandeered his father’s private jet and came down here in search of drugs and a good time. The friends got hauled back to the States but our lad here managed to avoid capture and struck up a friendship with the wrong sort of people. People who sold him out to the Guiding Light. How long were you with us, kid? Three months? Four?”

Dylan seemed unoffended by this harsh assessment. “Six weeks and two days, dude. Until you got me out.” He sighed. “There’s a cantina in town, and I sure could use some . . .” he glanced at Beth, “. . . some feminine companionship. It’s a long time to go without . . . uh . . . feminine companionship.”

“Meaning he wants pussy,” MacGowan translated, “and he’s suddenly decided to watch his language.”

“It wouldn’t do you any harm either,” she snapped.

“But the thing is, kid,” he continued, as if Beth hadn’t said anything, “I don’t want you leaving this place. I have to go scout things out, see if I can find us a vehicle, and I need you to look out for Sister Beth.”

“I don’t need looking out for.”

He just looked at her, and once more she lowered her eyes to the stew. “I would have thought by now you’d realize that the only way we’re going to survive is to do what I tell you.” He pushed back from the table, and for the first time since she’d seen the new, gorgeous version of him she found she could breathe. “Dylan, since you didn’t cook and Beth needs to stay off her feet, you end up with KP. And then I want you both in bed.” He cast a menacing glance at Dylan. “Separately, kid. But take the room next to her just in case. I’ll be taking care of business.”

“You’re the one who’s going after pussy,” Dylan accused him.

“Three years, kid.” He headed for the door, then paused for a moment, looking back at her, and once more she felt the uncomfortable warmth of his gaze. “Watch out for Sister Beth.”

Vincent Barringer was feeling uncharacteristically annoyed. He always acted with deliberation and calm, but things had definitely not gone his way.

Sully had lost MacGowan. The Guiding Light had gotten a tip, and had gone after MacGowan before Sully could stop them, and his quarry had disappeared into the jungles without a trace.

They would have to wait until he showed up in a town. He had no choice, if he wanted to get out of the country he’d need to make it to a reasonably large city, and Sully’s informants would make sure Sully found out about it. It was just going to take a little bit longer.

In the meantime, his people in London had picked up what seemed like ghost transmissions. Messages that had come from a source they were unable to trace so far, but he was guessing had come from Isobel Lambert. Unfortunately he could only bring in his most trusted operatives – there was no budget for this. Killian had been written off long ago, though the file was still open, and would be until there was a verified kill.

Still, Barringer had to be careful whom he trusted. Thank God for Sully. If Sully couldn’t catch MacGowan, then no one could. And once he was in the hands of the CIA, Isobel would emerge, Killian at her side. The perfect target.

He felt himself calming at the pleasant thought. He’d been a crack shot when he was younger, a sniper in Viet Nam. Maybe he’d do the hit himself this time, though he’d much prefer handling it face to face. Anonymous death was frustrating for both the victim and the executioner. People needed to know why they were dying.