Countdown - Iris Johansen [103]
Had she changed too? Probably. Mike’s death and this horror hanging over them had shaken her to her marrow. And she’d never had a sexual experience as intense as the one she’d shared with Trevor.
Trevor.
Intense wasn’t the word for what was between them. Even thinking about him was causing her body to ready. To hell with worrying about how much she or anyone else was changing. Who knew what was going to happen tomorrow. They had to live every moment while they had the chance.
His bedroom. He’d be waiting, he said.
But she’d been with Mario less than ten minutes, and Trevor was probably not finished with the things he had to do. She’d go to her own room and shower and then go to him.
Go to him. Go to his bed. Her pace quickened as she walked down the hall. Electric torches gleamed on the stone walls, casting triangular shadows upward on the arched wooden ceiling and on still another of the many faded tapestries that graced the hall. The MacDuffs certainly liked their tapestries. . . .
It would be strange going to an assignation in this ancient castle. Jesus, she almost felt like the mistress of old Angus MacDuff. If he’d had a mistress. Most of the nobility did, but maybe Angus was the exception. She’d have to ask MacDuff tomorrow.
Her bedroom was dark and she tossed her purse on the chair by the door before reaching for the light switch.
“Don’t turn it on.”
She froze.
“Don’t be afraid. I’m not going to hurt you.”
Jock.
Her heart was pounding, but she drew a deep breath and turned to the corner of the room from where he’d spoken. The moonlight pouring in the window was faint and it was a moment before she could make him out. He was sitting on the floor, his arms linked about his knees. “What are you doing here, Jock?”
“I wanted to talk to you.” She could see his hands clench into fists. “I had to talk to you.”
“And it couldn’t have waited until tomorrow?”
“No.” He was silent a moment. “I was angry with you. I didn’t like what you said. For a little while I wanted to hurt you. I didn’t tell the laird that. He’d get upset with me if I hurt you.”
“Not nearly as much as I would.”
“But you couldn’t get upset; you’d be dead.”
Was there a touch of black humor in those words? It was impossible to tell since she couldn’t see his expression. “Does hurt automatically mean killing, Jock?”
“It turns out that way. It happens so fast. . . .”
“What did you want to talk to me about?”
“Rei—Reilly.” He stopped and then said again, “Reilly. It’s hard for me to talk about him. He—doesn’t—want me—to do it.”
“But you’re doing it anyway. That makes you stronger than he is.”
“Not yet. Someday.”
“When?”
“When he’s dead. When I kill him.” The words were spoken with utmost simplicity.
“You don’t have to kill him, Jock. Just tell us where he is and we’ll let the authorities take care of it.”
He shook his head. “I have to do it. It has to be me.”
“Why?”
“Because if I don’t, the laird will try to do it for me. He won’t wait for anyone else. He’s . . . angry with him.”
“Because he’s an evil man.”
“Satan. If there’s a Satan, it’s—Reilly.”
“Just tell us where he is.”
“I—don’t know.”
“You have to know.”
“Whenever I try to think of it—my head—it hurts so bad I think it’s going to explode.”
“Try.”
“I tried last night.” He was silent. “I got—pictures. Flashes. Nothing else.” He paused. “But maybe—if I went back I might remember.”
“Back to Colorado?”
“Not Colorado.”
“That’s where they found you.”
“Not Colorado. North. Maybe . . . Idaho?”
She felt a leap of hope. “You remember that much? Where?”
He shook his head. “I have to go back.”
It was a step closer than they’d been before. “Then we’ll go back. I’ll talk to Trevor.”
“Right away.”
“Tonight.”
He rose to his feet. “And we have to find Reilly soon or the laird will start looking for him. He’s not going to wait much longer.”
“We’ll start out as soon as we can make arrangements.” She frowned, thinking about it. “But no one can know you’re with us or Reilly might decide that his position