Ice Storm - Anne Stuart [77]
She was texting, and in the faint glow of the tiny screen he could see her face. She was frowning, biting her lower lip as she concentrated, and she had no idea he was watching her as well as the heavy traffic. She sighed and turned the machine off.
“Do you think I need to toss this one, as well?” she said.
It was the first time she’d asked his opinion in an equable tone. Maybe she was beginning to realize they might be in more trouble than she’d thought.
“If you’ve turned it off they shouldn’t be able to trace it. Just turn it on if you need to use it again. What’s up?”
“Change of plans. We had a safe house in Golders Green all set up for you. Very secure—there’s no way in hell anyone could get in there.”
“But someone did?”
“No. We’ve had to put someone else there, and you’re too volatile a contact. We don’t want to risk her life.”
“Her?”
“Peter’s wife. You’re at least half-right—someone’s targeted the Committee, and we’re all at risk. Personally, I think it’s simply because people are determined to get at you, and we’re in their way, but in the end it doesn’t matter. Peter’s wife can’t stay in their home in the country, so he brought her in and put her in the Golders Green house. And we’re not going to risk putting you there as well.”
“Who don’t you want to risk, me or Genevieve?”
“Genevieve,” Isobel said flatly. “I’m not even going to ask how you know her name—you’d just lie. At this point I don’t give a rat’s ass whether someone blows you to pieces or not.”
“You should. You’re with me. Unless you have some romantic notion of dying by my side.”
Her low growl was absurdly sexy. He’d made the worst mistake of his life last night. Not fucking her—that had been smart and well-planned, throwing her entirely off balance. But not finishing. Coitus interruptus might be fine for sharpening the senses, but some of his senses were entirely meshed with hers. It wouldn’t have made any difference if he’d come. And he’d be feeling a hell of a lot less distracted.
Maybe. Or maybe not. She’d always had the ability to distract him; through the last eighteen years he hadn’t been able to let go of her. If he’d climaxed inside her body he’d just be wanting to do it again.
“All right, no Romeo and Juliet fantasies,” he said lightly. “Nevertheless, keeping me alive would be the smart thing to do. Once I’m dead, what’s to stop them from wiping you out entirely?”
“Wrong. Once you’re dead they’d have no reason to come after us. Problem solved.”
“And you without a gun,” he murmured. “I don’t think you’d get very far in hand-to-hand combat, but I’m more than happy to let you try.”
“Just drive.”
“Where?”
“Head north of London. Peter will meet us.”
“And he’ll have a gun,” Killian said. “Are you going to shoot Mahmoud, too? Because he’s going to be pretty pissed off if you kill me before he has a chance to do it.”
“No one’s killing anyone, no matter how tempting,” Isobel said.
“At least not tonight,” he said.
And Isobel said nothing at all.
“Get up.”
Reno ignored the voice. The plump blonde lying next to him squealed, jumped up with the sheet wrapped around her, leaving him stark naked in the bed, and ran out of the room. Reno turned over, slowly, to look up into Peter Madsen’s ice-blue eyes.
“What’s up?” For a moment he wondered whether Madsen would put his hands on him. It would be an interesting battle—Reno didn’t underestimate his opponent for one moment, despite his bad leg and the ten years age difference between them. There was no guarantee of the outcome, and Reno tended to fight dirty. He expected Peter Madsen did, as well.
“Get out of bed. And get rid of the girl. Who is she, by the way?”
Reno shrugged. “Just someone with a taste for the exotic,” he said. “There are more of them around here than I can count. In English or in Japanese.”
“Did you ever stop to consider that sleeping around might compromise our security?”
“I know what I’m doing,” he said lazily, climbing out of bed. The girl emerged from the bathroom, fully dressed,