Ice Storm - Anne Stuart [107]
24
They got back to Golders Green by five. Cleanup had been no easy matter, but Isobel had simplified things by ordering Peter to blow the charges when everyone was at a safe distance. The ensuing explosion had been a bit of overkill, but Harry Thomason and the bodies of five Russian mercenaries disappeared in a collapsed field and tons of rock. By the time anyone got around to excavating, there would barely be enough left to trace their DNA. No one would look too hard—the Committee would see to it.
Peter was exhausted. He needed a shower, a meal and a good night’s sleep. But most of all he needed his wife. Bastien had been silent since they dropped Isobel off at her flat; she’d refused to come with them, and he’d been wise enough not to push. Bastien would be taking his family back to the States as soon as they could get a flight, and Peter had every intention of dragging Genevieve back to Wiltshire as soon as she was willing to go. And if she argued, he’d throw her over his shoulder and haul her there.
He’d had a few rough moments during the last twenty-four hours, one of the absolute worst being when he’d dragged Reno to the hospital and the admit ting nurse had asked, “Your son?”
“Christ, no,” Peter had replied in total horror, earning a smirk from Reno. But he’d done a good job, cool-headed in a crisis, deadly when he needed to be. He’d make an excellent operative. If they could get him to cut his ridiculous hair.
In the meantime, someone needed to warn Takashi O’Brien that all of Harry’s stratagems hadn’t died with him. Taka was more than capable of taking care of himself and his wife, but a heads-up wouldn’t hurt.
Mahmoud had refused to leave Reno’s side, and in the end Peter had dropped them off in Kensington. They were both kids, outlaws, brats, brothers. For the time being he didn’t have to worry about them. They could play video games and drink Red Bull to their heart’s content. With Reno’s arm in a cast, Mahmoud might actually be able to beat him. No, Peter didn’t have to worry about them.
Isobel was a different matter. She was cool, calm, the Ice Queen personified. She hadn’t even asked where Killian had disappeared to. Which was a good thing, because Peter had no idea. He was simply gone by the time they’d left the bunker.
Genevieve was sitting in a chair by the fire, Bastien’s daughter Sylvia in her lap. She only looked half-ready to kill Peter—maybe there was hope, after all. She looked up when he walked in, and then for a moment all was chaos as Bastien followed him, to be inundated by his wife, his baby son and his daughter.
Peter moved past them, to Genevieve’s side, and knelt down beside her. Which hurt his bad leg like hell, but he figured she was going to demand some serious penance for disappearing on her.
“I love you,” he said, hopeful.
She gave him a look. “Is it over?”
“Yes,” he said.
“Is Isobel all right?”
“I don’t think so. I don’t think there’s anything I can do about it, either.”
“No,” she said thoughtfully. “I expect not. By the way, I don’t have the stomach flu.”
He had to tread carefully. “You don’t?” he asked, trying to look innocent.
She laughed at him. “Why is it you can lie to everyone on earth except me? You already know. You probably knew before I did.” She took his hand and put it on her still-flat belly. “Are you going to stop trying to get yourself killed?”
“I’ll do my best.”
“Humph,” she said. “Let’s go home.”
And it was that easy.
Isobel walked into her apartment, dropping her purse, kicking off her shoes. It was dark outside, but she didn’t turn on the lights. She walked through her flat, straight into the bathroom, and climbed into the bathtub, still wearing her tailored slacks and her cashmere sweater. They were stained with blood. Her soul was stained with blood. She sat in the tub and turned on the shower.
The water was icy, but she didn’t flinch. It quickly grew warmer, but she didn’t move, letting the water soak into her hair, her clothing, her skin. She sat until