Ice Storm - Anne Stuart [36]
The rooms she and Serafin had been put in were at the bottom of the square courtyard, and from outside looked like storage space and nothing more. Maybe Samuel had a habit of hiding people. A safe haven would be a valuable commodity in any part of North Africa.
She ducked into the shadows, moving down the covered walkway that lined the courtyard and separated it from the house. She still had the gun tucked at the small of her back, and she was more than ready to use it. Preferably on Serafin.
There wasn’t a sound in the entire place. It was getting close to dinnertime, and yet there were no lights, no murmur of voices. Just the steady splash of the fountain, strangely ominous. Something was very wrong.
She sensed someone there. The sound was so small another person might have missed it—just a faint breath of wind, a slight shuffle of clothing.
Then she heard voices, in a language she didn’t recognize. Not Arabic—something European, maybe Slavic. Hadn’t Serafin done some of his dirty work in Bosnia? Was there any trouble spot in the world that he hadn’t contributed to?
And now they’d found him. Or at least they’d found where he was hiding—she could tell from the tone of the voices that they were frustrated, tense, still searching. So Samuel had managed to get him away, leaving her like a sitting duck. No matter. She could handle herself. Now she was going to have to incapacitate the men who were looking for Serafin, and there were at least three, from the sound of things. Once she got rid of them, she’d find the son of a bitch, her nemesis, and drag him back to England. She hadn’t come this far to fail.
She’d started forward silently, heading toward the intruders, when she heard the sound again, the almost-not-there breath, and a moment later she was slammed against the wall by a large body.
He didn’t bother slapping a hand over her mouth—he knew she wouldn’t scream and alert the Serbs. She let him push her back into a corner of the walkway, knowing who it was, hating him.
“Samuel sold us out,” he whispered against her ear. In the darkness it was Killian, and eighteen years ago…and she wanted to weep.
“Who can blame him?” Her answering whisper was ice-cold. “I’d do the same.”
“I’m sure you would. I happen to know a way out. Just be glad I decided to take you with me.”
The lights in the courtyard came on suddenly, and the eerie sound of music filled the air. Either the stereo was wired with the light switches, or someone wanted some noise to cover his movements.
But it could work to their advantage, as well. She looked up at the man pinning her against the wall, and turned to ice.
It was Killian. Killian as she remembered him. The beard was gone, and so were the blackened teeth. He must have used wads of cotton to fill out his face. He still had his hair, and the bulk around his middle had been left in a pile with his discarded clothes. He was Killian, eighteen years older, and even more devastating than back then, when she’d been young and stupid.
She couldn’t reach her gun, but the Swiss Army knife was close at hand, and even with a short blade she could do a lot of damage. She jerked against him, and the fool gave her enough room to get the knife open against his skin. He didn’t react.
“I should gut you now and do the world a favor,” she said, pressing the knife a little harder against the base of his throat.
“Maybe,” he said. “But you aren’t going to. You need me. And look at it this way—I came back for you.”
“I didn’t need your help. You don’t know who you’re dealing with.”
“Of course I do,” he said. “Hello, Mary Isobel. It’s been a long time.”
She had pale skin, her freckles long gone, and she didn’t even blink. Her reactions were so well schooled that even he was impressed. If he’d rattled her she didn’t show it.
She took a breath, and if it was just a trifle shakier than normal, most men wouldn’t have noticed. But he wasn’t most men. “I killed you once,” she said calmly. “I wouldn’t hesitate to