Ice Storm Page 15

  “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 f
or 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.”

  She wouldn’t look at him. He was too close, invading her space so thoroughly that he was almost inside her. And she didn’t want to be thinking about that.

  She wasn’t about to fight him, push him away, try to take the upper hand as she could have with just about anyone else outside of the Committee. Because it would give him an excuse to put his hands on her, and if he did, she didn’t think she could bear it.

  “So tell me,” he whispered, his voice low, beguiling. “What are you afraid of?”

  “Absolutely nothing.”

  He smiled. “I’d almost believe you, if I didn’t know you so well” His mouth brushed her ear, and she felt a shiver run through her body. “So why didn’t you love James Reddy the way he wanted to be loved? Why did he feel he needed to prove himself to you so badly that he ended up dying stupidly for it? He wasn’t a stupid man, but he died for no good reason, because of you.”

  “Shut up.” she said, fierce.

  “Just answer the question, princess.” His breath warmed her ear, tickled it. She was cold, wet from her run on the deck, and she hadn’t even realized it. Cold from the center of her being, radiating out in icicles. “Answer the question and I’ll leave you alone. What was the problem between you and James? Exactly what was the sexual dysfunction Dr. Kellogg diagnosed?”

  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 shed 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 exis
ted. 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 tom-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 lucked 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 bad, 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.