Ice Storm - Anne Stuart [70]
Killian said nothing. For a moment she gazed at him, seeing him clearly in the bright light of day. Other women were noticing him, too. He was the kind of man women looked at, wanted. His gray-blue eyes were cool and flinty as they stared at her, his strong, lean body deceptively relaxed, his mouth…
She wasn’t going to think about his mouth. It hadn’t happened. She could arrange reality to what was bearable. It hadn’t happened.
He could have no idea what was going through her mind; she was too good at dissembling. And he seemed less than interested. He was surveying their surroundings with a casual air that belied his high level of alertness. She was just as cautious. If anyone made a move, she’d flatten Killian, taking him out of the line of fire. She’d come this far, and wasn’t going to let anyone get to him.
But the passengers from the ferry seemed more interested in disembarking than watching the odd-looking family. Killian managed to get them to the front of the line, and, despite their lack of luggage, the customs officials barely glanced at their forged papers. It was a security breach that could cause trouble in the future. She’d have Peter pass on the word, Isobel decided. It could keep Thomason busy.
The terminal was new and clean, and it took a sharp reprimand to keep Mahmoud from the cafeteria. Killian had them walk straight through the crowded building. There were short-and long-term car parks surrounding the facility, but he kept going, expecting her to follow him with Mahmoud taking up the rear.
She recognized the Bentley from a distance, and beside it, Morrison’s sturdy body dressed in a chauffeur’s uniform that would have infuriated him. His father had been a chauffeur, and he had class issues that flared up at inconvenient moments. She knew how to handle her people, and once they were heading out on the A38 she could soothe his ruffled feathers.
“There he is,” she said.
Morrison caught her eye and nodded almost imperceptibly, climbing back into the heavy car, preparing to come pick them up.
The blast hit them like a heat wave, several seconds ahead of the noise, and Isobel barely had time to fling her arms around Mahmoud, throwing him to the ground and covering him as debris rained down on her.
Not that the little beast was grateful. He was using all his deceptive strength to try to dislodge her, but despite her unimpressive weight she could flatten a full-grown man if she needed to. A tiny twelve-year-old was no problem.
Noise and smoke were everywhere. She could hear people screaming, crying, the crackle of fire, but she was busy trying to keep the squirming kid out of harm’s way when strong hands caught her shoulders and yanked her to her feet.
Her back stung, but she couldn’t afford to pay attention and keep hold of Mahmoud at the same time.
“I’m fine, thank you,” Killian said mockingly. He had a cut over one eye, oozing blood, but apart from that he seemed to be in one piece. “Let’s get the hell out of here before the police show up.”
“Morrison…” She tried to look past him, but Killian blocked her.
“You don’t need to look,” he said.
“Oh, bite me,” she snapped. “You’re forgetting who you’re talking to.” She pushed him out of the way, then paused.
It wasn’t pretty. The Bentley had exploded, sending shrapnel spraying through the crowd. There were at least seven people down, and she could thank heaven it was the off-season, or the body count would be far worse.
She recognized what was left of Morrison by the uniform. He’d been a good man, loyal and brave. He would have hated to die dressed like a chauffeur, she thought, dazed.
Killian had an iron grip on her arm, and the pain pulled her back into reality. In turn, she grabbed Mahmoud’s hand, hauling him after her. The place was in chaos, but ambulances and police were already on their way, and the sooner they got out of there the better.
They ran. Into the heart of the city, past people rushing in the opposite direction. “Hold on a minute,” Killian muttered, pulling them