Ice Storm - Anne Stuart [55]
Isobel tried to fight him, but he was bigger and stronger than she was. And he knew all the moves she normally would have made, forestalling her, so that it looked as if she was pawing at him back, in the throes of a passion that couldn’t be denied.
Then he released her, and she sank back down in her chair, pale, shaken, her shirt half-open, as the enthusiastic cheers continued. Killian made a mocking bow in the direction of the crowd, and sat beside her. There was no sign of the PDA.
“You son of a bitch,” she whispered.
“You enjoyed it, princess,” he drawled. “Don’t pretend you didn’t.”
She wasn’t going to grace that with a response. Her entire body felt suddenly electrified, fragile, ready to explode. “What did you do with it?”
“I tucked it down my pants. Feel free to search for it at your leisure.”
She turned away from him, trying to control her rapid breathing. She wasn’t going to do this. Wasn’t going to go there. She was strong, cold, an automaton, decades removed from the stupid girl who’d fallen in love with a murderer.
But the longer she was with him, the more that fool returned, and she could taste him on her mouth now. And it was good.
Apparently he didn’t expect an answer. “We can board now. We’re not sailing for an hour, but I figure the sooner we get past customs the better. Are you ready?”
Mahmoud had been ignoring them, still shoveling food in his face, and he finished by reaching out and taking the last sweet roll on Isobel’s plate. Even if his command of English was practically nonexistent he understood Killian’s tone of voice, and he rose, tucking it inside his ragged clothing.
There was nothing she could do but follow. And when Killian’s back was turned, when no one from their appreciative audience was watching, she rubbed her hand against her mouth, to wipe the feel of him away.
It didn’t work.
So he shouldn’t have kissed her. He knew that, had known going in that he needed to keep his hands off her until he’d finished his mission. And then he could have her. Assuming she hadn’t managed to kill him, as she was no doubt fondly fantasizing about.
He might lie to everyone else, but he never lied to himself. He had every intention of getting her into bed; after eighteen years he was still thinking about her. But he couldn’t afford to rush it.
He’d needed her PDA, though, and it had given him just the right excuse. She wouldn’t know that he’d been looking for that excuse since she first walked into the ruined house in Nazir.
It hadn’t taken him long to get used to her new face. He’d seen photos of it often enough over the intervening years. Stephan Lambert had done an excellent job on her, and the ageless perfection of her classic features worked well in her line of work. Most people would never guess she was thirty-seven. But then, there was no one left from her past life. She’d been reported dead, her family in the U.S. had mourned and then gone on with life. No one had asked any questions.
Which was one reason why he’d chosen her in the first place, to act as his cover. Her connections were tenuous at best—there were no close friends, no doting family for her to get in touch with. No one knew she’d spent the last two weeks of her former life traveling around France with a seemingly harmless graduate student. There’d been no way to trace her, and no way to trace him.
She wasn’t happy about the room he’d booked on the ferry; it came with a double bed and a banquette that opened into a twin, but he wasn’t about to make her life easier by telling her about it. Particularly since he knew she was going to make him share the bed with Mahmoud, who probably had lice, while she took the single.
Too bad. They’d made it onto the boat with little problem, and he noticed there were shops on