Ice Storm - Anne Stuart [42]
“And if she doesn’t come back?”
What did the man know that he didn’t? Peter’s instincts were on full alert. Thomason’s sudden haunting of the Kensington offices was more than suspicious, but how could he possibly have more intel than Peter had?
He was being paranoid, in general a sane and healthy thing to be in his line of work. And Thomason went out of his way to needle him; the last thing Peter was going to do was jump through his hoops.
“She’ll be back,” he said. “She’s only a couple of days overdue. We sometimes have to go dark for weeks at a time. But then, you were never an operative, were you? More of a bean counter.”
The cigar in Harry’s hand snapped in half, the crunch audible in the soundproofed room.
“I’ll let you know as soon as I hear from her,” Peter continued. “But don’t expect anything soon—these missions tend to be unpredictable. If something’s happened to Serafin the entire world will know it, and we’ll know that Isobel has been compromised. In the meantime, I wouldn’t worry. She’s the Ice Queen, the coolest, most capable human being I know. She can handle anything.”
I can’t handle this, Isobel thought numbly, clinging to the bouncing Jeep. Only the sliver of moon and the sand-covered headlights illuminated the desert landscape, and for the first time in more than a decade she felt out of control. Her world had turned upside down a few short days ago, with the sudden reappearance of Killian, and nothing had gone right since then. Now they were heading God knew where, a comatose child on the floor in the back, a ruthless killer at the wheel, and her only weapons were a small handgun, a Swiss Army knife and her wits. That would be more than enough in most circumstances, with most individuals. But this was Serafin the Butcher, the most dangerous man in the world, and he probably wanted her dead just as much as she wanted him gone.
When had he recognized her? She would have thought that was an impossibility. Her own father had known her for her first nineteen years, although admittedly he’d paid little attention. She’d run into him on purpose about eight years ago, just to see how well her new identity worked. He’d carried on a casual conversation with the elegant woman beside him on the plane, and not for one moment had he realized he was talking to his long-lost daughter.
Killian had known her little more than two weeks, and he’d been lying the entire time. He was probably barely aware of her, using her as a shield while he completed his bloody job. During those long nights in the car, when they’d talked about anything and everything, his words had all been lies. And he probably hadn’t heard a thing she’d said.
She wasn’t naive enough to think the sex had mattered. Men could have sex anywhere, anytime, under any circumstances. Screwing her had been his way of keeping her compliant—it meant nothing. She remembered the earlier part of that final night with crystal clarity, even if what came after was a blur. He’d made no more than a token protest when he’d heard a killer had been sent to finish her.
“Don’t you want to know what happened to me?” she said abruptly. “The last time you saw me I tried to kill you. That’s not what you would have expected from the stupid girl you drove around France with.”
He glanced at her. “All right, I’ll bite. What happened to you?”
“I shot you, and I ran out of the warehouse.”
“That much I remember.” He didn’t sound particularly interested, and she realized in his scheme of things it had been only a minor incident.
“You killed Etienne Matanga, didn’t you?”
“That was my job.”
“And you were going to kill me if I hadn’t shot you.”
“If you say so. But apparently you got away scot-free.”
“Not exactly. Your friends caught up with me.”
“Did they?” He sounded barely curious.
“Yes,” she said. “They did. They were very good with knives, and they were very unhappy with me. I remember thinking I was going to die, and not caring.”
“Such a very sad story. I expect you never made the mistake of falling in love with a mysterious stranger again.