Ice Storm (19 page)

“Grow up, Isobel,” he said in a cold, merciless voice. “I knew everything about you, and you aren’t the sort of woman who gets hysterical at the drop of a hat.”

“I want a separate room,” she said. “I can’t be here.”

 
“You
are
here. You took the mission, and it’s not like you to flip out over trivialities. You’re the Iron Lady, beyond fear or pain. So calm down.”

She hated him. Hated him with a raw, bleeding passion she hadn’t felt in years. Her armor had been pierced, and while she knew he couldn’t tell she’d been crying, he still knew that he’d finally managed to get to her enough so that she’d run.
She wiped the rain from her face, disguising the tears. “I need a cigarette.”
“These?” He’d somehow managed to get his hands on the crumpled pack of cigarettes she had been pursuing like the Holy Grail. “Forget it.” And he crushed them in one hand.
It was the final blow. Isobel let out a shriek of rage and jumped him, trying to get her hands on what remained of the pack. Big mistake. A moment later he had her slammed up against the wall, pressing his body against hers, holding her immobile.
“Let’s establish a few ground rules, shall we?” he said. “If you try to hurt me, you’re just going to have my hands on you, and I know you think that’s the last thing you want. So I know all about you—get over it. I haven’t gotten to where I am due to faulty Intel. I’ve made it my business to keep track of you since you ended up at Stephan Lambert’s. I know you were recruited by the Committee shortly before Stephan died, and he didn’t want you to work for them. I know you’re smart and strong and ruthless.”

 
“Everything I wasn’t eighteen years ago.” she said in a cold voice. He was touching her in too many places: his hips against hers, pinning her to the wall; his chest pressing against hers, so she couldn’t breathe: his hard hands trapping her wrists so she couldn’t fight back.

She’d forgotten how much taller he was. Perhaps not as tall as Peter, but enough so that at such close proximity she felt rattled. Which was exactly why he was doing it. She was aware of him, suddenly, strongly, when until now she’d been able to keep a mental distance.
“You were smart enough,” he said, and she could taste the whiskey on his breath. “Just no match for
me.
”

“That’s not the case anymore.”

She could see his faint smile in the dim light. “I agree. You’re a perfect match for me.”
She tried to kick him but her legs were trapped, tried to hit him but might as well be handcuffed. She tried to slam her head against his but he saw it coming, so instead she sank her strong white teeth into his neck.

You could kill someone that way. If you had the strength and the stomach for it you could rip out their carotid artery and have them bleed out in a matter of minutes.
She could taste blood, but a moment later he moved her away from him, holding her at arm’s length, his eyes glittering in the darkness. I should warn you that I find biting to be highly erotic.”

She
froze.
He was between her and the door in their tiny cabin, and there was no way she was going to be able to get past him, at least not now.

She took a deep breath, certain that only she could hear its shakiness, and he stepped away, no longer touching her. She could breathe again, the iciness of her skin slowly warming.
“So sit down. Mary Isobel,” he said. “I’ll make another drink and you can tell me all about yourself.”

There was a banquette opposite the bed—the lesser of two evils. She sat stiffly. “I don’t care for another drink, thank you. You’d probably just drug
me.
”

“The notion is tempting, but I think I need you awake right now.” He stretched out on the bed, seeming perfectly comfortable, and with anyone else she’d be able to escape. She already knew his reflexes were equal or superior to hers. She wasn’t going anywhere unless he decided to let her.

She leaned back against the banquette, forcing her tight muscles to stop screaming and relax. If she stayed on high alert they might cramp, and she couldn’t afford to let that happen. She had to be ready to run.

“All right,” she said with deceptive calm. “What exactly do you want to know?”
The flash in his eyes was so brief she might have imagined it, if it weren’t for the shard of fear that spiked through her body.

“Time to catch up on old times. I want to know what was happening to you during the last eighteen years. Were you happy with Stephan?”

 
“What the hell does that have to do with anything?”

“Humor me. I was quite surprised to hear he’d married you. I wouldn’t have thought he was the marrying kind.”

“If that’s your way of saying he was gay, then yes, he was. He also considered me his masterpiece, and he was enamored of his finest work.”

“That explains Stephan. It doesn’t explain you. Why did you marry him?”

“I didn’t have anything better to do at the time.”

He ignored her caustic statement. “I imagine you were grateful. He saved your life, after all. I gather you were a pretty mess when he first worked on you.”

“Yes.”
‘Yes what?”

“Yes, I was grateful. That’s the only reason I fuck.”

He said nothing, not rising to the challenge. “So you marry Stephan, became a proper French housewife for a while, and then join a covert group of operatives intent on saving the world from scum like me. I suppose I can take pride in motivating you.”
“By that time I’d forgotten all about you. I don’t remember much of that night, but I believed you were dead and that I’d killed you. Case closed. I met a great many people through my husband’s work. It was nothing more than being available when they needed someone. I joined the Committee. When Stephan died I became a professional.”
“Very professional. So what about James Reddy?”

 
“Shut up.” Her reaction was so strong and instantaneous that she didn’t have time to shield it.

Killian leaned back on the bed, apparently at ease. “I know you got over me easily enough, but James was another matter. Your one true love, I gather. Too bad he died so poorly.”
“Shut the hell up.” she said, feeling desperate. No one, not even Peter, had spoken that name out loud to her in more than ten years.

Killian sat up. “What’s the problem, princess? Is that guilt rearing its ugly head? You didn’t kill him—he died in a helicopter crash in
Somalia
.”

He wasn’t going to let it go. She could shut her eyes, cover her ears and start screaming, as she so desperately wanted to do. Or she could pull herself together.
She really didn’t have any choice. Peter had been right to worry about her. If she was at the top of her game Killian wouldn’t be able to mess with her head like this. She wouldn’t feel as if she was about to explode.

She’d never had a problem with a mission before, no matter who or what it had involved. It made no sense that this ghost from her past would be making her crazy, unless she was a little off to begin with.

That was it. It wasn’t him, it was her. She’d been under too much stress. All she had to do was get through the next day or so and she’d be safely back in her flat, where she could let herself go in privacy. For now all she had to do was keep it together so he didn’t realize just how fragile she really was.

 
“I sent him to
Somalia
,” she said, marveling at her ability to sound calm and detached. A cigarette would have done wonders for the image she was determined to project, but there was no way she was going to incite another wrestling match. “He got careless and he died. End of story.”

“Then why are you carrying around such a buttload of guilt? He can’t have been the only man you sent to his death. Not even the first man.”

“I loved him.”

She wanted to slap the slow smile off Killian’s face. “Tragic.” he said. “But you didn’t marry him.”

“We didn’t need to get married.”

“You didn’t live with him.”

How the hell did he know that? “That was unnecessary, as well. We had an understanding. And I still don’t see why you’re so interested in my ancient history.”
“I’m interested in everything about you, princess. Including why a medium level operative like James Reddy would have made the kind of fucked-up mistake that got him killed. You shouldn’t have sent him to
Somalia
in the first place—he wasn’t properly trained.”

“Goddamn it, how do you know...?”

“I know.” Killian said. “Just accept it. Why did you let him go to his death?”
Hiding wasn’t going to help. The only way out of this trap was to tell him the truth, calmly. “James and I were...close. Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to have the kind of relationship he wanted, and he thought proving himself might change my mind. Instead he died. Badly. Not in the helicopter crash—he was still alive when they dragged him out of it. It took him anywhere from two hours to two days to finally die.” She pushed her wet hair away from her face. She was getting it together, and she met Killian’s gaze squarely. “It was unfortunate, and I felt needlessly responsible. We all have our weaknesses, our mistakes.”

“Not me.”

“Bullshit,” she replied. “You’ve screwed up on just about every mission you’ve been involved in. It’s no wonder half the world wants you dead. The other half wants to kill for the things you didn’t fuck up.”

“I’m not going to argue with you,” he said lazily. “You see mistakes. I see alternative opportunities. And I don’t have any particular weakness.

“Not even me?”

“Damn, woman, you’re getting feisty’ on me,” he said lightly. “Are you sure you want to go there?”

She didn’t. She didn’t want to go anywhere near the question of why he’d kept track of her over the years. Except that answer made perfect sense. “I assume you want revenge. A stupid, innocent girl got the drop on you and almost killed you. That must have hurt your pride, even worse when you found I’d survived, and spent my life doing a damn good job of interfering with monsters like you. I think you want to humiliate me, torture me and then kill me.”

He looked thoughtful. “You don’t seem to be troubled by any of those possibilities.”
“I said it was what you wanted to do. Not what you were going to do. You need me, you need my resources, and by the time I’m no longer necessary I’ll be well out of your way”
“I could always hire someone.”

“You could have done that anytime in the last eighteen years.”

“Maybe I wanted to see your face when you found out I was still alive.”

“Well, you missed that particular treat. I was alone in my office when I realized the lousy footage of a war criminal was someone I thought I’d killed long ago.”
“And how did you feel, Mary Isobel?” His voice was silky.

“Redeemed. Justified. Saddened that I hadn’t done a better job. You were someone who should have been killed—I just wasn’t good enough at the time! “

“You are now. And you can’t do it, because you need me as much as I need you. That must be incredibly annoying,”

“Incredibly.”
“So why couldn’t you have the kind of relationship James Reddy wanted?”
She thought she’d distracted him from that line of questioning. The more she resisted, the more he’d dig, so she swiveled around on the banquette, drawing her legs up under her. “He was in love with me. Hearts, flowers, all that bullshit. And I don’t believe in love.”
“So why didn’t you just screw him and keep him happy? Most men will settle without going all emo on you. Most men would prefer it that way.”
“James was a romantic. An idealist. He came into the business trying to save the world, trying to do the right thing. He died because of it.”

“And because he wanted to prove himself to you. What would he have to do to make you love him?”

She answered him, because she knew he’d badger her until she did. “I did love him. Just not the way he wanted.”

“Not sexually.” It wasn’t a question.

“I’m not discussing my sex life with you,” she said.

His smile was cool and deadly. “We don’t need to talk about your sex life, since it appears to be nonexistent after James Reddy. Maybe even before.”
Isobel said nothing, trying to shut him out, that soft, insinuating voice other women would have found so seductive. Not her, of course. But other women.
He rose from the bed, and she braced herself for God knew what. He stood over her, too close, and she made herself look up at him, trying to judge him dispassionately. He’d been good-looking eighteen years ago. He was flat-out gorgeous now; she could admit it without emotion. His endless legs encased in laded jeans, the khaki shirt that was worn but clean, the face that somehow only looked better with age. Gray-blue eyes she’d thought were green, warmer than the eyes of a butcher should be. When he was in his twenties she’d been passionately, devotedly besotted, thinking he was so impossibly handsome he’d never look twice at her.

He had, but for his own reasons. And now, impossible as it was, he was even better looking, with a lean, weathered, world-weary grace that would have melted a heart of stone.
But hers was made of ice, and all the lazy charm left her inviolate. He was just a man. A bad man, to be sure. But just a man.

He leaned over her, his hands braced against the bulkhead, trapping her, and he moved his mouth to her ear, whispering. “What are you so afraid of, Mary Isobel? You’re the Iron Lady, the Ice Queen, nothing frightens you. And you’re sitting there like I’m about to stab and rape you.”