Ice Storm - Anne Stuart [23]
“How did you get a picture of me?” Isobel asked coolly. There were very few of her in existence—she was almost as hard to pin down as the Butcher himself.
“Samuel has the best resources,” Serafin said. “Come along, princess. We have a bit of a walk before we get to his house.”
“Please don’t call me that.” It was a weakness, admitting it bothered her, but if he called her that one more time she was going to scream.
“You don’t like it? What shall I call you?”
“Madame Lambert. Or even ‘hey, you.’ I’ve never been a princess in my entire life.”
He tilted his head, watching her. “Oh, I don’t think that’s true. I imagine you were quite the fragile little flower when you were young.”
That stung, though it made no sense. She cultivated her agelessness, considering it a triumph when people assumed she was well past her youth. But for him to say it…
She wasn’t as immune to him as she’d thought, damn it. If it kept up like this she was going to have to shoot him out of self-preservation.
“You have a vivid imagination,” she said in a tight voice. Mahmoud had already scrambled out of the Jeep, keeping close to Serafin, the gun cradled in his arms.
“We need to get under cover quickly,” Samuel said, clearly impatient. “You can argue once we’re safely inside.”
“We’re not arguing,” Isobel said.
“Just a lovers’ quarrel,” Serafin said easily.
That settled it—she was going to kill him. As soon as humanly possible. Maybe she could push him out of the airplane as they flew over the Mediterranean. Or wait until they got back to England, found out everything they needed to know, and then let Peter finish him off.
Except she wouldn’t do that to Peter.
Maybe Serafin would be the first mission for Taka’s mysterious cousin. Or maybe they’d just let him live, fat and rich and untouchable.
In the meantime there wasn’t a thing she could do but follow the two men, like a good Muslim wife, ten paces back, with the lethal child taking up the rear. Assuming Serafin had no more surprises to inflict on her, they’d arrive back in England by the next morning, and she could pass him on to Peter. Never have to see the man again.
Twenty-four hours, she promised herself. And then she could breathe.
6
It was almost full light by the time they managed to slip inside Samuel’s house. The place was large and rambling, with an inner courtyard, a fountain and a burka’d wife to greet them without a word.
“Take the boy,” Serafin said. “The sooner he’s safely locked away the better.”
Mahmoud had no idea what was coming. Samuel’s wife sidled up behind him, putting her small hand on his shoulder. He whirled around, trying to aim the gun at her, but collapsed on the floor before he could even speak, and the woman dropped the hypodermic.
Serafin walked over to his unconscious little form and kicked the gun away. Then he glanced up at Isobel.
“He looks so innocent, doesn’t he?” he said. “I can see your heart bleeding for him.”
“Then you’re having hallucinations,” she said. “I’ve been telling you to ditch him for hours.”
Serafin reached down and hauled the small figure into his arms. “Where do you want him, Samuel?”
“My wife can carry him. She’s very strong.”
The silent woman stepped closer, her arms outstretched, but Serafin made no move to relinquish him. “That’s all right,” he said. “Just show me where you want him. You can take the first shower, princess.”
Isobel gritted her teeth, then smiled sweetly. “How very thoughtful of you. But I imagine Samuel and his wife have more than one shower in this lovely house.”
“We’ll be in a back bedroom, out of sight,” Serafin said, shifting the limp body in his arms. “Don’t be squeamish, Madame Lambert. I promise your virtue is safe with me.”
She bit back her instinctive snarl. “I’m relieved to hear it.”
“Samuel, why don’t you show her the room while I follow your wife?” Serafin said.
“Because, much as I trust you, old friend, an Arab never allows his wife to be alone with another man. Particularly one like you.”
“I think your wife