Ice Blue - Anne Stuart [39]
There had to be someone she could send. Someone to back Takashi up, someone who could do what needed to be done if for some reason he wouldn’t. She couldn’t send Bastien—he’d been brought in once to help Peter Madsen, but he had a new life now, with a wife and children and a peaceful existence in the middle of nowhere. He’d done more than he should ever have had to do; it was time to let him be.
And Peter couldn’t go—he was still using a cane, and he’d made promises to his wife and to himself. He was deskbound now, her second in command, more than capable of dealing with the hard decisions she made on a daily basis.
The others were scattered all over the world, most of them under deep cover. Which left only one person.
She shoved her perfectly manicured hands through her perfectly arranged hair. Shit. She hated to fly.
She hated the long hours craving a cigarette. She hated the closed-in air. But most of all she hated having someone else be in complete control of her life and her safety.
There was no choice. The girl would be one loss too many. Someone needed to get Jilly Lovitz away from the Shirosama before she was broken, before they could hurt her. Before Summer Hawthorne gave him everything he wanted for the onset of Armageddon.
And Isobel was the only one left.
She was so cold. Takashi O’Brien was holding her hand like a vise, taking her back to the huge black SUV he’d gotten from somewhere, and the tightness of his grip kept the shivers from washing over her body. He opened the passenger door for her, a perfect gentleman, and she wanted to laugh. But if she did she might start crying, and she couldn’t remember the last time she’d cried. Years and years and years ago. Tears were not an option.
He went around to the back of the vehicle, carrying her bowl with extreme care, placing it on the back seat before he climbed in. He didn’t look at her. “Fasten your seat belt,” he said, turning the key. “We’ll be driving fast.”
“As opposed to the sedate speeds you were driving earlier?” Her voice was raw, but at least it worked, a miracle to her own ears.
He didn’t answer, which was just as well. She didn’t want to start a conversation with him. Not until she came to terms with what had just happened in the old touring car.
She had to be out of her mind. The man had shown up time and time again, snatching her from danger and death. She had no idea why, but he’d appointed himself her personal savior, and the fact that she was still in one piece was proof.
So what had happened on the floor of the car? His body had covered hers, hard and strong, half pinning her, and his beautiful hands had stroked her face, and she hadn’t screamed, hadn’t cried, hadn’t frozen. Instead she’d looked into his dark, merciless eyes and known she was going to die. And she hadn’t cared. She hadn’t wanted to move, to run. She’d felt no fear. Only the pressure of his body against hers.
And then he’d kissed her. Just the soft pressure of his beautiful mouth against hers, not much more than a brush of his lips, and then it was over. Once he’d pulled away she’d started shaking, and she wasn’t quite sure she could stop.
At least he hadn’t noticed. He probably would have thought she was crazy. Hell, she was crazy, and no wonder. Kidnappings and death were not a normal part of her everyday world, and while he hadn’t specifically said so, she knew she was on the run for her life, and he was the only thing that stood between her and oblivion.
He had the bowl, and he still had her with him. That must mean something, though she wasn’t sure what. She had to be insane to think he wanted to hurt her.
He’d turned on the heat full blast as he pulled into the street. She allowed herself a brief glance at him. He’d left his jacket wrapped around the bowl, and was wearing