Ice Storm - Anne Stuart [20]
Peter knew his wife very well. She was about to open her mouth to offer him a home-cooked meal, and the sooner he ditched Reno the better.
“We’ll drive into London and take you to your apartment. There are several sushi places nearby.”
“Fuck sushi,” Reno said. “I want fish and chips. And beer.”
“Great,” Peter said. “At least you’ll be a cheap date.”
“Don’t count on it,” Reno said.
And Peter wondered how long it would take him to kill his old friend Taka. And how much he could make it hurt.
5
It seemed as if she’d been riding in a car with Killian for most of her life. After she’d shot him he’d haunted her dreams, and now, suddenly, she was back with him, almost twenty years later. The same, and yet everything was different. He didn’t know who she was. And for the first time she knew exactly who and what he was.
They were climbing higher into the mountains; the air was thin and cold, and she hadn’t brought warm clothing. She’d dealt with cold before. She didn’t shiver—it would alert him, a sign of weakness. She simply concentrated, letting the cold sink into her bones and radiate outward. It would take longer to warm up, supposing she eventually got the chance, but it kept weakness at bay.
The sleeping child was impervious. The man beside her was wearing a heavy jacket, his concentration focused as he navigated the narrow, rutted roads. She glanced over at him, at the steering wheel, and for a brief moment wished she hadn’t.
His hands were still the same. He’d always had the most beautiful hands—long-fingered, graceful. When she’d been young and stupid she’d thought he had the hands of an artist, a lover. They were the hands of a killer, stained with invisible blood.
She glanced down at her own hands, lying in her lap, then looked away.
“Do you have any particular reason for taking us across a closed border when I already made plans for our pickup in Mauritania?” she asked in an idle tone.
“I have my reasons.”
“Then why did you bother insisting someone come and rescue you? It seems as if you’re more than capable of getting yourself where you want to be.”
“I don’t need help getting out of here. I need help entering England, getting properly settled. My money’s out of reach, and half the world wants me dead. You and your organization are going to see that I live a long, comfortable life somewhere far away from the people who want to kill me.”
“I doubt that’s possible,” she muttered.
His mouth quirked in a smile. In the darkness it was the same mouth. She looked away. “You think people will always want to kill me?”
“I think it’s likely. Even if your new cover is impenetrable, and you’re some retired businessman in the Netherlands, you’ll still manage to piss people off.”
“Yes, but retired businessmen in the Netherlands don’t get murdered because they’re annoying. And I have no intention of living in the Netherlands. I thought England.”
“Why not home to America?”
She could feel his eyes on her. “What makes you think I come from the United States?”
“Your past is very hard to pin down, but as far as we can tell you were born somewhere in the U.S. in the late sixties. Which makes you approaching middle-aged, ready for an early retirement. The perfect businessman.”
“Perhaps. But we’re not in the Netherlands. What about Ireland?”
“It’s bloody enough.”
“So which side of The Troubles are you on? Must be the English side, with that impeccable British accent of yours.”
There was nothing beneath his noncommittal tone—no suggestion that the British accent wasn’t quite real.
“Neither side. I don’t like war.”
“Then you picked the wrong line of work, Madame Lambert. Or is this just where your talents lie?”
It was meant to sting, but she’d made peace with all that a lifetime ago. “I’m very good at what I do, Mr. Serafin. It wouldn’t be smart to underestimate me.”
“Oh, I never would. I’m quite in awe of you, as a matter of fact. Not many women could immerse themselves so totally in their role. And even a conservative guess at your