by Anne Stuart
And as long as she hated him with such a fiery passion, all was well. She hadn’t gotten over him. She’d never get over him.
Not if he could help it.
Bastien Toussaint sank back on his heels, staring at the piece of wood in front of him. There was an American saying—measure twice, cut once. He’d measured seventeen times and cut twelve, and the damned piece was still just a hair too big. He opened his mouth to let out a long, colorful string of curses, and then closed it again. The baby was asleep, strapped into the perchlike contraption Chloe used for him, and he tended to sleep through everything, including saws, hammers and loud music. A blessing, since their first child, Sylvia, had chosen to disdain sleep for most of the first year of her life. And at age four months the baby was hardly likely to notice the difference between a “blast it” and the string of much more colorful invective Bastien had been toying with.
But he couldn’t bring himself to swear in front of his very young children. He was getting soft in his old age.
He rose, took the offending board back to the table saw and shaved one more sliver off it, then returned. It finally fit, needing just a few taps of the hammer to secure it into place.
Baby Swede was stirring, now that things were quiet. Ridiculous name for a Toussaint, but Bastien had gone along with it, because Chloe had wanted it. In honor of Stockholm Syndrome, she’d said. That unfortunate and highly unlikely scenario in which a hostage fell in love with her kidnapper. And he couldn’t argue with that, particularly with a very pregnant, very cranky woman.
He picked up the sling, gently, but Swede opened his blue eyes to stare up at him with that solemn expression he’d been born with. He looked like him, a fact Bastien found disarming.
Chloe was in the half-finished kitchen of their rambling house, and she raised an eyebrow when he came in. “How’s the Hundred Years War coming?”
“Carpentry takes time,” he said. “You can’t rush these things.”
She simply shook her head, knowing him too well. The work would be done in his own time, and meanwhile she managed with only two interior doors, on their bedroom and on the working bathroom, plus a door on every closet in the house. No door to the bedrooms, but the closets were complete, and fortunately no one asked why, when there were no kitchen cabinets, and only plywood flooring and Sheetrock walls. He wanted to do it all himself, needed to. Every other weekend Chloe’s family came up to help him, but in the end it was up to him to make the house secure. And he needed to do that, to make peace with himself.
Chloe moved past him, scooping up the baby and giving Bastien a fleeting kiss. “I know, dear,” she said.
It was close to dusk, almost time for him to quit for the day. He reached out to her, to pull her back, when suddenly the power went out, leaving them in the afternoon dusk.
Power went out often enough up in the mountains of North Carolina, but there was no wind storm, and the day was calm. There were only two possible reasons.
Someone might have hit one of the power lines with his car—an accident.
Or someone knew that most of Bastien’s elaborate security devices ran on electric power.
He froze, waiting for the familiar, comforting sound of the generator powering on. Nothing. The lights stayed off, just the one battery-powered emergency floodlight spearing into the room.
He was crushing Chloe’s hand, and she hadn’t made a sound of protest.
“Where’s Sylvia?” he mouthed.
“Down for a nap.” She could be as silent as he was.
“Take the baby and go to her room. Take her and get in the closet. Lock it and don’t come out until I tell you to.”
“But—”
“The closet’s fortified, remember? You’ll be safe.”
“But you…”
He simply stared at her and three years fell away, and she was looking into the face of a killing machine. The man she’d probably thought she’d never have to see again.
She simply nodded, vanishing silently into the shadows.
Leaving Bastien to the hunt.
He didn’t carry a gun—it upset Chloe, and his security system was top-notch. He hadn’t counted on them hitting the generator, too.
He’d grown dangerously soft. Nonetheless, Bastien had no doubt he could get his family out of this. He’d gotten out of worse situations, and it had only been his own skin. No one was going to touch his wife and children.
No gun, but he could improvise. He could kill someone with a wooden spoon if he had to, but there were plenty of knives in the kitchen, tools in the unfinished library. He wondered if the men who’d come after him had been properly warned what they were up against.
He was almost insulted there were only three of them. The first was skulking around the back door, looking for a way in. Bastien cut his throat and took his gun.
It was a heavy pistol—something Dirty Harry would use. It lacked finesse, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. Bastien would rather not use it—the sound might frighten the babies, and even though Chloe had nerves of steel he didn’t want to test them.
The second intruder was heading toward the stairs, and he was good, better than the first. The fight was short and savage, and Bastien broke his neck with a quick, ruthless snap.
One more. He was moving in the library where Bastien had just been working on the burled walnut paneling, fitting the pieces together with the painstaking precision that was driving Chloe crazy.
If the man moved fast enough he might make it up the stairs before Bastien could stop him. His family would be safe in that steel-lined closet, but the very thought of a killer getting anywhere near them made him furious.
He stepped out of the shadows, and the man spun around, firing, his semiautomatic sending a spray of bullets across the walnut paneling.
It was the last straw. One shot with the elephant gun in his hand and half the man’s head was gone.
Chloe was going to be pissed. He didn’t know how much they could hear, but he couldn’t let them come down to this mess.
He worked fast, getting most of the blood and bone cleaned up, sprinkling sawdust from beneath the table saw over the mess once he’d dragged the bodies out. There was no disguising the bullet holes in the paneling, but at least he could spare his loved ones the worst part.
He hated to make them wait, in the darkness, not knowing, but in the end it was better this way.
He dumped the bodies at the edge of the woods, making sure no one else was wandering around. Just three of them to take him out. Whoever had sent them had made a very grave error.
He switched on the generator, then raced up the stairs two at a time. Chloe fell out of the closet, into his arms, pale but in control. Sylvia, his fierce and passionate young daughter, was for once perfectly calm, and Swede was asleep.
Bastien had blood on his clothes, but at least he’d washed the hands he put on his wife. She didn’t flinch.
“I took care of him,” he said, wanting to keep the body count down for her peace of mind.
“Him?” she echoed skeptically.
“Them,” he admitted, regretting that he hadn’t been able to question any of them, to find out who’d sent them. There was nothing on their bodies to give him any clue. “How long will it take you to pack?”
“With your help, maybe half an hour. Where are we going?”
“To get help. From the only people I trust.”
Chloe looked down at her somber daughter. “We’re going to visit Uncle Peter and Aunt Genevieve, sweetheart. Go get your favorite toys.”
Sylvia moved over to her toy shelves with that unnerving calm, and Chloe looked up into his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” he said, feeling helpless for the first time in the last brief, bloody hour.
She kissed him on the mouth, and if her eyes were bright with unshed tears, she ignored them. “I’m not,” she said. “You did what you had to do.”
He held her so tightly that the baby woke up with an annoyed squawk. Re
sting his forehead against Chloe’s, Bastien let out a long, shuddering breath. And then he pulled away.
“Let’s just go,” he said. “We can buy things on the way to the airport.”
She nodded. And ten minutes later they were speeding down the road, into the darkening night.
14
After two hours of Mahmoud puking, first into the toilet, then dry heaves into a trash bin, a towel and the rapidly emptied fruit bowl in the cabin, Isobel decided she wasn’t going to wait any longer. The storm had picked up, the huge ferry was responding to the waves with enthusiasm, and night had fallen. No sign of Killian—with luck he’d been washed overboard, leaving her stuck with Mahmoud. Even a psychopathic child soldier was preferable to her nemesis, but not one racked with nausea.
He was too weak to fight her when she scooped him up. He was nothing more than skin and bones, and she cursed Killian under her breath. If he was going to keep the damn kid with him out of some twisted form of penance, he might at least see he was properly fed.
Mahmoud tried to punch her as she juggled him in her arms. He was probably seventy-five pounds—light for a human being, damned heavy if you weren’t used to it. Isobel pumped iron, practiced yoga and ran. He was still a strain.
The nurse’s office was located on a lower deck. The few people who were out and about weren’t looking particularly happy with the rough seas, but they didn’t pay any attention as Isobel carried her small charge onto the elevator.
When the door slid open Killian was there, and she stepped out, dumping Mahmoud in his arms and stretching her shoulders. “He needs a doctor.”
Killian looked down at the bundle. “I take it he doesn’t like boats?”
“You could say that.” Mahmoud began retching again, dry sounds, and the few people who’d been waiting for the elevator got on quickly, moving out of their way.
The medical office was surprisingly empty, given the decided roll of the vessel. A woman in a white uniform was on duty, sitting behind a desk as Killian shouldered his way in. “Seasickness, I presume,” she said in English, rising.
“He’s been throwing up for the last three hours,” Isobel stated.
“You should have brought him down sooner. He might be dehydrated.” She looked them over. “Is this your son?”
“God, no,” Killian said. With a British accent that made Isobel jerk. “We’re Mary and Jack Curwen, aid workers from England, and we’re bringing this poor child to his new family there.”
“Set him down on the table.”
Mahmoud was too sick to protest. He lay on the white-sheeted cot in misery as the woman looked him over. He made a feeble attempt at batting her hand away when she felt his forehead, but a sharp word from Killian in Arabic made him deceptively docile.
“I’ll need to keep him overnight,” she said. “He is dehydrated. He’ll need an IV to replenish his fluids, and careful monitoring. Just fill out the paperwork and you can come get him in the morning.”
Isobel glanced at Killian, expecting a protest on his part, but he didn’t argue. “Fine,” he said. “You’ll call us if there’s any problem?”
“Of course.” The nurse gazed up at them, strong disapproval in her eyes. “You might at least have washed and fed the poor boy before bringing him onto the boat.”
Isobel’s sting of guilt was entirely unexpected. She was glad when Killian replied, sounding calm and reasonable. “We did feed him. Quite a bit, as a matter of fact. Which is why he’s been so ill. As for bathing him, that’s easier said than done. Feel free to attempt it—you might have more luck while he’s feeling so ill. But I wouldn’t count on it.”
Killian went over to the desk, rapidly filling in the forms with lies, then glanced at her. “Would you rather stay with the poor lad, darling?” he inquired.
In fact, she was tempted. She didn’t want to go back to that quiet little room with the double bed, where she’d be alone with him.
“Sorry, no visitors. I’ll alert you if I have any problems. We arrive at noon tomorrow—come by around ten and he should be clean and ready to go.”
“God bless you,” Killian murmured, looking saintly. “Come along, my love. Let the nurse take care of this poor boy.”
He whisked Isobel out of the cabin before she could protest, his hand under her arm, strong, almost imprisoning. At least she had several layers of clothing on and didn’t have to feel his skin against hers.
“You want something to eat?” he asked. “At least one of the restaurants is open.”
“Not particularly. Spending three hours with a vomiting child isn’t conducive to building up an appetite.”
“Then just a drink, while we get someone to clean up the room,” he said, steering her into the elevator.
There were a thousand protests she could have come up with. The ferry was far from full; it was off-season, or he wouldn’t have been able to book a room so easily. There’d be empty cabins available, as well as reclining seats for passengers who didn’t want to spend money on a room. The last thing in the world she wanted to do was go back into that tiny cabin with him.
But she couldn’t leave him alone. They were probably perfectly safe on this boat as it plowed across the stormy Atlantic, but there had already been too many mistakes. She wasn’t letting him out of her sight until she could hand him over to the Committee for debriefing. It wouldn’t come soon enough, probably by tomorrow night, but in the meantime she was just going to have to put up with him.
“All right,” she said. “One drink.”
Only one of the ferry bars was open, and there were a mere handful of people inside. Smoking.
She took the seat Killian handed her into, and waited until he brought back the drinks.
Seven months was the longest she’d ever gone without a cigarette. She’d done it cold turkey this time—no patches or gums or nasal sprays. And she’d never dare try hypnosis—she knew too many secrets that could have leaked out.
No, she gritted her teeth, snapped at anyone who came near her and went without cigarettes. She’d only gained five pounds that last time, and she’d done her best to make sure those pounds were solid muscle, turning in her nicotine addiction for an addiction to pumping iron. She thought she’d gotten to the point where she no longer even wanted one.
She’d been wrong, that time as well as now. She could smell the fresh smoke. That was one problem with Europe: it was too damn easy to smoke. In America they made it so inconvenient it was almost better not to bother. Though of course her rebellious streak always kicked in, making her crave them even more.
But this time she’d sworn it was for good, more than half a year ago. They were making life unpleasant. She was free of them. Her breathing had started being affected, the taste lingered in her clothes and hair.
So why was the scent of tobacco dancing over to her like something out of an old cartoon, undulating and beckoning? And why the hell had she stolen the mashed pack of cigarettes from the dead pilot’s pocket?
A moment later Killian was back, carrying two drinks. He put one down in front of her, and she eyed it doubtfully. It was a gin and tonic, with one cube of ice and a slice of lime, not lemon. She’d been drinking them for ten years now—long after their time together. How had he guessed?
His own glass held unwatered whiskey. Scotch, probably. He hadn’t changed in all these years, even if she had.
“They called maid service from the bar. Our room should be ready by the time we finish our drinks.”
Our room. She didn’t like the sound of that. She picked up her glass, taking a sip. Tanqueray gin, her favorite. Enough was enough.
“How do you know so much about me?”
His smile was lazy. “Tricks of the trade, princess. I’m surprised you aren’t equally well informed. For what it’s worth, I like single malt Scotch at night, dark beer in the afternoon. I don’t like gin, hate vodka and despise martinis. If I drink too much I get short-tempered and lustful. In your honor I’m moderating my alcoho
l intake.”
“Thank heavens for small favors. You didn’t answer my question.”
“You know perfectly well that you can find out anything you want about someone if you know where to look. My life has depended on being able to access the right information at the right time.”
“And how does knowing what I drink affect your life?”
“Let’s just say I was curious.”
“When did you find out I was alive? You thought I was dead, didn’t you?”
“When did you find out I was alive?” he countered.
“I asked you first.”
“Tough.”
She took another sip of her drink. It was strong, and she hadn’t had much sleep or much to eat. It wouldn’t affect her judgment, but she needed to pay attention. “Five days ago,” she said. “When Peter told me you wanted to be brought in. I went through some intel and saw a picture of you—of Serafin, actually. But I knew it was you. It must have been quite a shock to see me after all these years.”
He said nothing, toying with his glass, and her eyes were drawn to his fingers. Long, elegant, clever fingers. Which had touched her. Brought her exquisite pleasure. Killed countless innocent people.
“When did you find out I was alive?” she asked again, annoyed.
His eyes met hers for a long moment. “I always knew.”
She spilled her drink. Clumsiness had never been a particular failing, but his simple words shocked her so much that she jerked, and the glass tipped over, spreading gin and tonic and ice over the white tablecloth. “You’re lying.”
“And it was no shock when you appeared in Morocco. I knew there was no one else available but you. Bastien Toussaint’s retired. Peter Madsen’s still recovering from that shoot-out in California, Taka O’Brien is tied up in Japan, and the other agents are under such deep cover that even I couldn’t find out where they were.”
“Thank God for small favors,” she muttered. “I still don’t believe you.”
“James Reddy.”
So much for cool invulnerability. Isobel knew she was turning white, knew the shock was clear on her face, and she didn’t give a flying fuck. How could he know about James? What goddamned right did he have?