“In case you hadn’t noticed in the last three years since your ungrateful carcass was dumped on me, I do listen to her. And I’d tell you this was simply the first time she was wrong, but I can’t even say that. She’s right, I shouldn’t be here, I can’t fix things. But irrational or not, I needed to come.”
“See,” Mahmoud said. “That wasn’t so hard.”
Peter growled low in his throat. Mahmoud drove him mad. Like all teenagers he was obstreperous, confrontational, superior and obnoxious. Peter had had no choice in accepting him into his household, and he’d kill anyone who tried to take him away. Mahmoud might have little use for Genevieve’s husband but Peter had long ago accepted the little monster as his son. Even if Mahmoud disagreed.
He sighed. “We were going on back roads so we couldn’t be traced. I told you, the CIA is watching for signs of Killian and Isobel, and we need to be careful.”
“They’re coming back?” Mahmoud kept his voice neutral, but Peter knew what he was thinking. Killian had been the first reliable male in the young Mahmoud’s life. It didn’t matter that Mahmoud had pledged to kill him as soon as he was old enough – in Mahmoud’s world that constituted a solid bond.
Besides, he’d passed that pledge on to Reno when he’d first arrived in England, and as far as Peter knew Killian was in no danger from anyone but the CIA. And of course any country where he worked undercover and managed to bugger up most of their operations.
Peter took a deep breath. The countryside smelled different in France, even in a winter-dead season. It smelled like fresh herbs and grapes and the hint of salt breeze from the sea over sixty miles away.
“I hope he’s not coming back. I told them to stay away – too many people still want him dead, and they’re willing to pay good money for his murder. In particular the CIA have a jones for him, and they’d go through anyone to kill him. Innocent or guilty, young or old, they’ll kill to get him. I warned him, and for our sake I think they’ll stay away. If he does show up you keep your distance.”
Mahmoud grinned. “Yes, abouya.”
Peter didn’t bother to ask him what that meant. He’d used it a number of times, and he had little doubt it was Mahmoud’s way of insulting him. “We’re going to have to walk, pal,” he said.
“You walk. I’ll stay in the car.” Mahmoud reached to the passenger door, but Peter grabbed his arm and hauled him back.
“You signed on for this, kiddo. You get to suffer along with me. What do you think, head back the way we came or go forward?”
“The last village we passed was too small for a mechanic. The last one with a gas station was more than 25 miles back. And don’t tell me someone will give us a ride. If you wanted seclusion you chose wisely. I haven’t seen another car in at least an hour.”
“Good,” Peter said. “That gives us time to bond.”
And he didn’t need a dictionary to translate Mahmoud’s surge of profanity.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
It was dark when Beth awoke and for a moment she was swamped with panic, disoriented, a scream rising in her throat.
She managed to stop it as memory came back. They were no longer on the miserable roll of the ship or in the constant movement of the car. They weren’t tied up, awaiting death. They had gotten away.
A farmhouse in France, he said. She vaguely remembered him carrying her, and she could feel her face heat. She had just let him. In fact, she’d curled up against him, putting her arms around his neck, seeking his heat, seeking his strength. God, she couldn’t allow that to happen again.
In retrospect, she couldn’t believe he’d let her come with him. Why? The sooner she got home the sooner he’d get his goddamned money. It didn’t matter that during their poker game he’d lost all his winnings for the simple chance of spending the night with her. One would hardly think her pathetic skills were worth hundreds of thousands of dollars, and she had every intention of paying him that money, and more.
So why was she here? Or to be more exact, why had he kept her here? She knew perfectly well why she had chosen to come. She had realized it when she was trapped in that narrow alleyway, and it was like Pandora’s box. Once opened, you couldn’t stuff the secrets back in. She thought she was in love with him.
There were hundreds of reasons for her delusion, she reminded herself, sitting up and finding the small lamp on a table by the bed. He’d saved her life countless times, he’d fed her, bound her wounds, protected her, delivered her out of danger. Time and again he’d come to her rescue, and then he’d ended up making it abundantly clear that despite her lack of experience, she was most definitely not frigid. He’d given her something she had refused to believe existed. It was only reasonable that she’d want more, and she’d want it wrapped up in fantasies of love.
She was a practical, sensible woman. She could see her weakness quite clearly, understand how she could imagine herself to be in love with him. She’d get over it, once she was back in civilization, once she was away from him, she’d return to her normal, unbesotted self.
Fuck that. She was tired of being reasonable, being sensible, doing the smart thing, the wise thing, the safe thing. She saw MacGowan quite clearly – his sweetness and his savagery, his avarice and his generosity. The first thing he’d done when she’d met him was untie her and give her his precious bar of pure Colombian chocolate. He was a bundle of contradictions, and he knew as much about love as she did. Which was absolutely nothing.
She wasn’t such an idiot that she thought he loved her. He wasn’t the kind of man, didn’t live the kind of life where he could fall in love. The best she could hope for from him was … what? To be with him as long as he’d have her? Check. He’d brought her with him. To sleep with her? He’d done that literally countless times, curling his body around hers while she’d pretended she didn’t like it. To make love to her?
Men were supposedly simple creatures, her friend Jenny had told her. All you have to do is show up naked and they’re yours. She wasn’t sure if MacGowan was that predictable, but then again, one night probably didn’t even put a dent in three years’ abstinence.
She looked around her. The room was pretty, almost feminine, with soft colors and pretty country furniture. Her small duffle was sitting on a chair, and she realized she felt gritty, filthy, and she needed a bathroom quite desperately. If she had to run into MacGowan before she got cleaned up then so be it. He’d seen her looking worse, and she was still the only game in town.
She pushed out of bed and winced. She still had her t-shirt bandage wrapped around her hand, another sign of Finn’s seemingly reluctant care. She unwound it, then breathed a sigh of relief. The cut was looking remarkably healthy, needing nothing more than a solid band-aid when she was finished.
Thank god the huge bathroom was just across the hall. The toilet was in a separate compartment, and the room had clearly once been one of the bedrooms. There was an old-fashioned bathtub and a space age shower, and when she turned it on it was instantly the perfect temperature. With a sigh of pure bliss she stripped off her clothes and climbed under the water.
Someone had already used the shower – there was an open bottle of shampoo and a bar of soap. MacGowan most likely – Dylan had casual notions about cleanliness. She took the bar of soap and ran it across her stomach, watching the lather build up. That soap had slid across Finn’s stomach, his chest, all over him.
She moved it up to her breasts, and she closed her eyes, imagining the soap in his strong hands, touching her, caressing her, sliding it down between her legs. She covered every inch of her body, slowly, languorously, picturing his dark, intent gaze, the way he looked as he held himself above her, his eyes when he was inside her, and by the time she’d finished she was trembling.
She washed her hair, the grit and dirt from her face. Her cheek was tender, and she remembered the fists of that man, the rough fingers poking her roughly between the legs. She remembered MacGowan, his face against hers, his strong teeth taking hold of the duct
tape that covered her mouth and ripping it off, a look of unholy amusement in his eyes. He’d known she was going to have to go for the switchblade knife, and he’d been enjoying himself. He’d be laughing in the face of death when it finally caught up with him.
And she didn’t want to miss a minute that she could possibly spend with him. Okay, she may as well face the uncomfortable truth. It was no delusion, no fantasy. She was in love with him, because he was tough and brave and sweet and mean, tender and ruthless, a warrior when she’d spent her life a pacifist. It was inconvenient and doomed, but she loved him, and the least she could do was face it.
She pulled on her underwear, then reached for her jeans. They were dirty, and she shook them, then coughed as the dust flew from them. She hated having to put them on her clean body. She just had to hope she didn’t run into MacGowan when she dashed back into the hall wearing only her underwear and a towel.
But the hallway was dark and silent when she emerged, with no sign of MacGowan anywhere.
She glanced at the long, narrow hallway. The door next to hers was closed, the rest of them open. As usual he must have decided sleep was a luxury, not a necessity. She’d probably find him downstairs somewhere, planning something bloody.
She closed her door, then looked over at her satchel. She really couldn’t stand the feel of her jeans anymore, and if worse came to worst she’d wash them in that claw-footed bathtub. In the meantime she’d have to find something else to wear.
The satchel was too small to hold another pair of jeans, but there was a pair of shorts and a sundress. Her room was cool, though heat was coming from somewhere, and November in France was hardly the place for sundresses, but she could borrow a sweatshirt from Dylan for added warmth.
She pulled the dress over her head, then shivered. She had no shoes – maybe Dylan had a warm pair of socks she could use as well. It would help if she were at least physically comfortable before she faced MacGowan again.
Belatedly she realized there was a second door in her room, and it was ajar. She went over to it, her toes curling on the bare floor, and tapped softly. “Dylan?”
There was a sleepy mmph which she took as an invitation, and she pushed it open, stepping into the darkness. The warm light from her room barely penetrated into the shadows, and she could see the outline of a bed, rumpled, and the shadow of a man standing beside it.
“I didn’t wake you, did I?” she said in a quiet voice. “I need a sweatshirt and a pair of socks. I’m freezing.”
He didn’t move. She came into the room, impatient. “I don’t want to bother MacGowan – I’m hoping he’s asleep somewhere and he needs all the rest he can get.”
He moved then. A shaft of moonlight came in the closed shutters, and she realized her mistake. No one moved the way MacGowan moved.
“You’re not bothering me.” His voice was low, and she could feel it vibrating through her body, between her legs. Oh, shit. “You could get back in bed.”
“What?” Okay, was it really necessary that her voice squeak like that?
“While I build you a fire in your room,” he clarified.
“There’s no fireplace.”
“Okay,” he said agreeably. “Get in my bed and warm up while I start one here.”
Grandma, what big eyes you have, she thought. She was doing this, she thought. No more panic. And without another word she walked over and climbed into his rumpled bed.
More trouble. It smelled like his skin, combined with the same soap and water she had used. It was still warm – he must have gotten up when he heard her moving toward the door. Warm with his heat. She curled up, snuggling under the covers, unable to help herself.
“That better?” he said in a pleasant voice, moving toward what she could now see was an old-fashioned fireplace.
“Yes.” He was wearing jeans and nothing else, and as he squatted down to load wood and kindling into the fireplace she could see the strong, beautiful line of his back. Even in the shadows she could see the scars. He wore his choice of work on his skin like a uniform. She wanted to touch him, wanted to kiss each of those scars, the bullet wounds, the knife wounds. She swallowed.
He worked quickly, efficiently. She lay on her side, watching, not wanting to put her wet hair on his pillow, and when the blaze was bright he turned back to her and frowned.
“Your hair’s wet. It’s no wonder you’re cold. You could catch your death,” he said severely.
What a strange phrase, catch your death. She wasn’t going to die with him around. “I couldn’t find a blow dryer.”
He opened his own door to the hallway, then returned a few moment later with a fresh towel. “No hair dryer,” he said. “Mostly men come here, and when they do they don’t care about their hair. Sit up.”
Before she realized what he’d decided to do he sat down on the bed, holding out the towel.
She tried to take it, but he kept hold of it. “Just lean over,” he said, and she was in no mood to argue. He wrapped the towel around her head, and she could feel his long fingers on her scalp, rubbing slowly.
She made a strangled noise. Good god, she’d fuck Attila the Hun for a head massage. This wasn’t going to help her stay cheerfully distant from him.
From beneath the covering of the towel she could see nothing but his flat stomach and his lap. And there was no missing the fact that he was finding the massage equally … stimulating.
“That’s enough,” she said in a hoarse voice, pulling away to slide into the middle of the bed. It felt huge after all the narrow bunks she’d been in. Way too big for one person.
He sat back, dropping the towel on the floor, but he didn’t get up. It was too dark to read his expression, and besides, she was afraid to. He was too close, she was too vulnerable. Tomorrow, when she’d finally managed a full night’s sleep, she’d be able to figure out what she wanted and how she was going to take it without getting hurt too badly. All she needed to do was hold herself together for as long as she was with him. She could fall apart when she was alone.
But he didn’t move, and the warmth of the bed and the room was melting away resistance and self-preservation. “So,” he said finally, and she could hear the distant trace of Ireland in his voice. “We’re doing this.” It wasn’t a question, and yet she thought he wanted an answer.
She gave him the wrong one. “Doing what?”
He laughed. “Don’t play games, Sister Beth. I’m talking about sex. Fucking. You’re in my bed, all drowsy-eyed and ready, and I’ve got a hard-on that’s going to kill me from those soft sounds you were making. What do you think I’m talking about?”
She felt a moment’s flash of irritation. “Your condition isn’t my fault, so don’t blame any noises I make for it. And I got in your bed to get warm.”
“Sure you did.” He put a hand on either side of her, imprisoning her there as he looked down at her. “Would you have climbed into Dylan’s bed just as easily?”
“Ew.”
“Exactly.” She expected a triumphant smile, but he still looked cool, intent. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“You didn’t ask me.”
“Are we doing this?”
Fuck. She wanted to be seduced, overwhelmed, have all choice swept away. But that wasn’t MacGowan’s style. He wanted full cooperation.
Well, this time he was going to get it. “Yes.”
He simply nodded, thoughtful. He cupped her face with one hand, his fingers gentle against her tender flesh. “How much does this hurt you?”
“It looks like hell, doesn’t it?” she said. “It’s not too bad. Wait a few days until it turns yellow.” Wrong thing to say, she thought. He probably wasn’t going to be around in a few days.
“It’ll look very pretty on you.” He leaned forward, and his lips feathered her cheekbone, his long hair brushing her skin, and she wanted to cry.
She’d have more than enough time to cry later. He moved back just a bit, his hair still around them, and she put her own hand
s up to cup his face. “Come to bed.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
He rose, and Beth watched him, wondering for a brief moment whether this was some new game he was playing, whether he was going to walk away. He went to one door and locked it, then closed the adjoining door and locked that one as well. Then he turned and leaned against it, watching her.
Suddenly she was nervous. “I’m really surprised you still want me, considering how bad I was the other night.”
“You thought you were bad the other night?” His voice was mild. “You didn’t enjoy yourself? I didn’t realize you were that good an actress.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. It was … a revelation. It just couldn’t have been much fun for you. I’m not really used to sex.”
“I know.” His slight smile took the sting out of the words. “It’s not performance art, Beth. It’s just bodies. Touching.” He reached for the snap on his jeans, and she forced herself not to look away.
She needed to say this, to get it out in the open. “Yes, but some people are better at touching than others. Like you. And some people aren’t comfortable …” she swallowed as he shoved his jeans down his legs and kicked them away. “… aren’t comfortable with other people’s bodies.”
“Come on, Beth. The worst is over. You’ve already had me and you liked it. Stop worrying.”
He lifted the covers and she scooted over quickly as he climbed into the bed. It was no longer nearly as wide as she’d thought it was, and he lay on his side, watching her out of eyes that would haunt her until she was an old, old woman. “I want to give you pleasure,” she said in a whisper. “I know I can’t give you as much pleasure as you gave me, but I want to …” He stopped her mouth with his, a slow, leisurely kiss, his lips soft, warm, touching hers lightly, and then harder, so that her mouth opened, and she took his tongue inside her. She could feel the last of her fears and doubt slip away beneath the slide of his tongue, and he was seducing her, teasing her with his kiss. She felt as if she were melting into the bed, and she kissed him back, letting him taste her, losing track of where and who she was, all that existed was their mouths.