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It was too much to hope he hadn’t noticed her retreat. And responded. He came toward her, and she told herself she wouldn’t back up, but her feet moved, anyway, until she ended up against one of the blanketed walls, and there was nowhere else to go. He was standing too close to her, and she couldn’t remember ever being so intensely aware of another human being. “That means no one would hear you scream,” he said softly. “No one would come to your rescue. You’re just as trapped as I am.”
“Yes.” Her voice didn’t waver, her gaze was clear and steady, and even if her heart was racing there was no way he could know that.
He put his hand against her neck, cradling her throat with his long fingers. “Your pulse is too fast, Isobel. Are you afraid of me?”
“No. I don’t feel anything at all.”
He moved his face closer, his mouth hovering just over hers, and it took everything to keep her lips from trembling. “Are you lying, princess?” He was stroking her throat, the roughened pads of his fingertips brushing against her soft, vulnerable skin. “I think you’re lying to me.”
He could tighten his hand, crush her larynx and she’d drown in her own blood. He could move his mouth a fraction of an inch closer and kiss her.
Or he could step back, away from her, releasing her from the prison of his cool gaze. “If we’re finished for now I think I’ll take a shower,” he said, dropping his hand.
“There should be new clothes in the bedroom. Our people are good about such things.” Her voice was only slightly husky—most people wouldn’t notice. She didn’t make the mistake of thinking Killian was most people, but her control was good enough, considering the circumstances.
“I’d suggest you join me, but I can imagine your reaction.”
“I’ve already had a shower.”
She waited until the door to the small bathroom closed behind him before she sank down on the couch. Then jumped up a moment later because it was still warm from his body heat.
“Snap out of it,” she muttered under her breath. She was out of control, reacting to stupid things, and Killian was playing her like a master.
In the last eighteen years she’d come up against some of the most monstrously manipulative people in the world. People who made a fictional character like Hannibal Lecter seem merely eccentric, and never had she faltered. This had to stop, right now. She needed a break, but it wasn’t coming. With the organization compromised, everyone had gone to ground, and there was no way she was drawing Peter into a tricky situation like this one. She had nothing to lose. Peter had Genevieve, who’d somehow managed to be his salvation.
Isobel was still reeling from the discovery that Hiromasa Shinoda was Reno. The Committee’s operatives could blend in in almost any situation—Reno stood out like a brightly colored parrot, flame hair and all, and any other time she would have sent him packing. But right now he was watching over Mahmoud, keeping him safe, and she couldn’t think of anyone better suited for the job. Peter would have probably strangled the boy.
She sat back down in one corner of the sofa, curling her legs up beneath her and leaning her head back. She was so tired. She hadn’t dared sleep last night; Killian was so unpredictable that there was no telling when the drug she’d given him would wear off, and when that happened she’d expected him to be royally pissed off. So she’d dozed, off and on, telling herself that eventually she could rest. For now she had to stay on full alert, drinking cup after cup of coffee. It was no wonder her hands shook and her heart raced. It had nothing to do with him.
He was taking his time in the bathroom, probably trying to find a way to escape, but that was one area she could feel completely secure about. Unless he was going to dig through plaster with a toothbrush, he wouldn’t find any way out. This safe house was a prison as well as a haven.
The wind had picked up outside; despite the soundproofing there was no way they could totally obliterate the noise of the wind whistling through the old house. It was probably raining again. November in England was cold and wet. She’d lived here so long she’d almost forgotten how bleak it was. The desert sun would have been a reprieve, if she hadn’t been on this particular mission.
She could smell water and soap and shampoo when he opened the door—pleasant, normal scents in a crazy world. And then he walked into the small living room, wearing nothing but a towel around his hips.
She was speechless. Not because of his near nudity—she wasn’t that innocent. And not because of the undeniable beauty of his long, wiry body. She already knew she liked the way he looked. She’d accepted that almost two decades ago.
It was the scars. A knife wound above his right hip, crescent-shaped and deep. The tear bisecting his chest, his skin still faintly pink where the incision had been. The abrasion marks on the right side of his throat, as if someone had tried to strangle him. Or used
a rope.
He must have known what she was looking at in silent, hidden horror. “Like what you see?” He mocked her, turning slowly so she could get the full picture. Whip scars across his back. His elbow must have been smashed at one point—it had healed badly, though it didn’t seem to give him any trouble.
His knee had been destroyed as well, and replaced at some point—she recognized the long scar. And along the back of his right shoulder were scars that could only come from bullets. It was a wonder he was alive.
“I do make a pretty picture,” he drawled. “But unless you’re taking off your clothes as well, I think I’d better get dressed. Where are the new clothes?”
“In the closet.” She’d seen people who’d been tortured. Seen people who’d died from it. What she couldn’t understand was how Killian had managed to survive such a brutal life.
He dropped the towel, tossing it at her, and headed back into the bedroom. Somewhere she found her voice. “Don’t be so damned predictable,” she said. “I’m surprised you bothered with the towel in the first place.”
He appeared back in the open doorway, but by now had a pair of black jeans on and was zipping them up. “I wanted to make it more interesting for you.” He’d brought a shirt with him, pulling it from the plastic sleeve and shaking it free. As he unfastened the buttons, she watched, trying to keep the question from forming.
But it came out, anyway. “Where’s the scar?”
He glanced at her, still holding the shirt in his hand. “What scar? My body is a veritable road map of pain, princess. Was there a particular one you were interested in, or just a global tour?”
“Where I shot you. I thought it was center body mass.”
