Ice Storm - Anne Stuart [27]
Funny that he hadn’t mentioned her. He’d told Mary Isobel enough about Marie-Claire to make her sickeningly jealous. She didn’t want to hear about the new one. She knew he was out of her league—a good friend and nothing more—but that didn’t mean she wanted to listen to him.
“Oh,” she said, knowing she sounded idiotic. Not caring. “So we don’t bother with Paris. Where are we going to spend the night?”
“Let’s head for the Camargue. We both wanted to see it—how many times do you get to see French cowboys? If we don’t find a place to stay we can always sleep in the car.”
The rain grew harder, steadier, streaming across the roads as he drove into the night. The Citroën was small and boxy—she could always curl up on the backseat, but he’d have a harder time folding his tall, lanky frame into any kind of comfortable position in the cramped quarters. At one point she fell asleep—easy to do with the sound of the rain beating against the canvas roof of the car, the even click of the windshield wipers, the absolute peace and safety she felt beside Killian. As long as she was with him nothing bad could happen. He’d saved her once, and he looked out for her. She’d put up with the ache of longing in return for his friendship, which was as solid and real as anything in her life.
When she woke up the car had stopped. The night was black all around them, the rain still beating against the windows and roof. The lights of the dashboard provided only a small amount of illumination, and then none at all as he turned off the car.
“What’s up?” she asked, sleepy, unalarmed.
“Believe it or not, I’m lost. I figure we can just spend the rest of the night here and wait until it gets light or the rain stops, whichever comes first.” His voice was deep, soothing in the darkness.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“What for? It’s not your fault I kept driving when I didn’t know where the hell I was going. Go back to sleep.”
She could always fake it. The night had grown colder, the rain icy and driving, and she was wearing only a T-shirt and one of her light gypsy skirts. Her bare toes were freezing, but it was too dark for him to see her shiver.
“You’re cold,” he said. His night vision was clearly better than hers. “Stay put and I’ll get one of the sleeping bags to wrap around you.” He started to open the door, and she put out her hand to stop him.
“You’ll get soaked,” she protested.
“I don’t mind.”
“You’ll only make me colder.”
She heard his laugh. “Point taken. I can reach in the back and find a blanket.”
“Okay,” she said. And then wished she hadn’t. He turned in the seat, brushing against her, and she wasn’t cold at all. A moment later he’d turned, no longer touching her, and she didn’t know what was worse.
“Why don’t you climb into the rear?” he said. “I don’t think I’d fit, but you might be able to get comfortable.”
“That’s not fair….”
“Sure it is. That way I have the whole front seat to stretch out in.”
The front seat of a Citroën 2 CV wasn’t much bigger than a rabbit hutch, but there was no question he’d have more room without her. “Okay,” she said, reaching for the door.
He put his hands on her, hauling her back. It was far from the first time he’d touched her, but in the dark, in the cavelike interior of the small car, it somehow felt more intimate. “If I’m not allowed out in the rain, neither are you,” he said. “Climb over the seat.”
“It would be a lot easier…”
His big hands were on her waist, and she was over the high-backed split bench seat a moment later, landing with a thud in the back. “There,” he said, shifting his long body to the passenger side. There was an edge to his voice, one she wasn’t used to hearing. “Now go to sleep.”
“Is something wrong?”
“Nothing.”
She’d been around grumpy men before; just because she hadn’t seen Killian in this particular mood before didn’t mean she couldn’t handle it. After all, he’d lost his