Ice Storm - Anne Stuart [43]
“I didn’t fall in love!” she snapped. “You used me.”
“You enjoyed being used.”
“You drugged me.”
He shrugged. “Once we got to Marseille I wanted to hedge my bets. I couldn’t afford to have you showing up in the middle of my job. Trust me, you would have done anything I told you to by that point. I just figured drugging you would make things a little easier.”
She had a flash of memory; his hands holding her down, hot, wicked words in the darkness, as his mouth…
“Your friends left me for dead, lying in a pool of blood in a slum alleyway. If it hadn’t been for a Good Samaritan, that would have been the end of me.”
“How touching. I’m glad there are still good people in this world. So who was this Good Samaritan who saved your life?”
“I don’t know. When I woke I was in a bed, covered with bandages. I was in such pain he kept me unconscious as much as he could.”
“Your savior?”
“My doctor. My husband. He was a plastic surgeon with a slightly shady clientele. He kept me hidden, rebuilt my face, rebuilt my life. And married me.”
“Charming,” Killian said, his voice cool. “Fairy tales do come true, after all. You should thank me for hooking you up with your true love.”
“I should thank whoever knew the French underworld enough to dump me on his doorstep,” she said. “Unfortunately, Stephan had no idea who had brought me there.”
“Quel dommage,” Killian murmured.
“I thought you were dead.” It came out of the blue, and she would love to bite back the words.
“Unfortunately for you, you didn’t know what you were doing. You winged me, and I decided I’d just stay down. I’m sure you’re much better at it nowadays. Killing requires experience and expertise.”
“I have both.”
“Yes,” he said.
“Your friends died that night. A few weeks later, when I was beginning to heal, Stephan brought me newspapers, with stories about General Matanga’s assassination and the five people found dead with him in the warehouse.”
“I was already blessed with experience and expertise.”
“But how did the men who tried to kill me end up dead in the warehouse? And how did you escape?”
“Trade secrets, princess.” He cut the wheel sharply as they skidded down a hill. “I figure I need every advantage I can get. You’re a formidable enemy.”
She didn’t feel formidable. She felt crushed, aching. She glanced at her reflection in the mirror. Dust-blown, shadowed, the elegant features that never showed emotion, contact lenses that muddied her blue eyes. How could he have known her?
That was a question she could, and should, ask. If she’d made a mistake, tipped him off somehow, she needed to be aware of it so it wouldn’t happen again. Assuming she came out of this mess alive. Death was waiting for her, sooner or later, and she accepted that with equanimity. But she wasn’t about to seek it out.
“How did you recognize me? And when?”
He didn’t even glance at her. Once more she was driving into the night beside this man, looking at his slender, elegant hands on the steering wheel. Bloodstained hands, figuratively if not literally.
“I don’t think you want the answer to that.”
“I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t. When did you know it was me? Was it my voice?”
“Your voice is very different. Deeper, and you have a British accent that’s quite believable. Charming, as a matter of fact.”
She gritted her teeth. “How did you know me?”
He said nothing. She could see the shadowed form of something in the distance, and as they drew closer she recognized the outlines of a plane. Maybe they were going to get out of this mess, after all.
“When did you realize who I was?” she pressed.
He pulled to a stop abruptly, and she put out a hand to brace herself. Mahmoud made a piteous sound from the floor of the backseat, and then Killian cut the motor. “Let’s just say I’m very good at what I do. I’m not easily surprised.”
He climbed out of the Jeep, reached in back and tossed something at her—the dark blue burka that she thought had gone up in flames. “Better put it on. This is going to be tricky enough—we don’t need an anomaly like you getting people’s attention.” He picked up