Ice Storm - Anne Stuart [95]
But in the end he’d let her go. Because he didn’t want to love her any more than she wanted him to.
Their lives were ones to be lived alone. Solitary, empty. No room for other people.
The room smelled of sex, creating a thick, drugging atmosphere, and her body hurt. She slid out of his arms, carefully enough that he didn’t waken, and made her way to the small, rusty shower, closing the door and turning on the water full blast. They hadn’t been able to upgrade the plumbing, not without involving outsiders, and as she’d told Peter with macabre humor, they’d then have to kill them. But the water was hot and plentiful, and she let it stream down over her as she cried.
And then Killian was there with her, crammed into the metal cubicle, holding her, pressing her head against his shoulder as she wept, her face against the place where she’d shot him.
She thought they’d have sex again, and she wouldn’t have argued, though her legs were so weak she could barely stand. But he only held her, taking the cloth and washing her body with a slow, exquisite tenderness that had nothing to do with sex.
He kissed her gently, brushing the water and tears from her face. “It’ll be all right,” he whispered, meaningless words of comfort.
She didn’t believe him. It didn’t matter. Taking comfort from him was even worse than loving him, and after a moment she made herself push away from him, step out of the shower and grab a towel.
She expected him to follow. She expected him to take her back to that bed, and she would have gone.
But he didn’t. He stayed in the shower, and through the glass door she could see him leaning against the wall, the water beating down on him, his eyes closed. He looked…defeated. Just as she felt.
There was fresh underwear in the closet. Her clothes were still on the living room floor, and she didn’t want to put them on. Not the tailored trousers, not the cashmere sweater, not the leather heels. She didn’t have any choice. She dressed quickly, twisting her wet hair up into a tight bun at the back of her head. There was a mirror, and she didn’t want to look. But pride made her.
No one would think she was ageless. She looked exactly like what she was: young and stupid again. In love with a monster.
She heard the signal from the hidden doorway, and she snapped to attention, pulling the mask of Isobel Lambert back over Mary Curwen’s lost face.
By the time Peter made it into the room, there was no sign that poor girl had ever existed.
“Sorry,” he said. “Were you awake?”
He had blood on his clothing. “What happened?”
“They took Mahmoud.”
“Who did?” Her last moment of weakness vanished, replaced by an icy rage. “Did they kill him? Whose blood is that on your clothes?”
“As far as I know, Mahmoud’s still in one piece. They’re holding him for ransom. In exchange for Serafin, in fact. And it’s Reno’s blood.”
She could feel the ice spreading through her veins, stinging, numbing. “Did they kill him?”
“No. He’s got a gash on his forehead and a broken arm. Maybe a concussion, but there was no way we could keep him in hospital. We figured it would be easier to keep an eye on him if we had him with us—otherwise he could be nothing but trouble.”
“‘We?’”
“Bastien’s here. He brought Chloe and the children—they’re staying in the Golders Green safe house with Genevieve. Someone tried to take them out, back in the States.”
“No one could get through the kind of security he had set up there,” she said, her voice flat. “No one even knew where he was, outside the Committee.”
“Exactly.” Peter pulled a small piece of equipment out of his pocket and set it on the table. “The kidnappers left a GPS with instructions. Killian’s supposed to follow it, alone, and they’ll let Mahmoud go.”
“Why would they think he’d do that?”
“Why would he insist on bringing the kid halfway across the world with him? It doesn’t matter why, only that he hasn’t let go of him and isn’t about to.”
“Were you able to download the information from the GPS?”
“Not yet. But Bastien figured out the coordinates.