Free Ice Storm by Anne Stuart

at the back of the house were cool and dark, the windows shuttered, with fans turning lazily overhead. There was a sitting area with a cushioned bench and not much else, and a bedroom. One bed, and not a very big one at that. There were fresh clothes lying across it, including a dark blue burka that would disguise her completely. As long as she kept her mouth shut and her eyes demurely downcast. There were men’s clothes, too, and she scooped hers up quickly, not wanting her clothing to be too close to his.
    Serafin said nothing, but she could sense his amusement. “The bathroom’s over there. Take your time. We’ve got all day.”
    She headed for the bathroom door. “You’d better see if Samuel’s got other clothes for you,” she said as a parting shot, “I don’t think those are going to fit you.”
And his laugh followed her into the bathroom.
    She stripped off her clothes and stood under the shower, letting the hot water beat down over her weary, dusty body. She’d barely slept, and while she could manage for days without doing so, a few hours of rest would do wonders. Right now she didn’t have to stop and make sense of the situation she found herself in; her actions would be the same no matter what. Her mission was to get Serafin into
England
without one of his legion of enemies putting a bullet in his head, and she had no intention of failing. One foot in front of the other. He had just as much of an interest in getting out of this country in one piece as she had, and she could presumably trust any escape route he’d come up with.
Sometimes the smartest thing was to let go and let someone else control the situation. It was the hardest lesson she’d ever had to learn, but she’d learned it well. Though she didn’t have to like it. There were clean underwear, jeans and a T-shirt to wear under the burka. Isobel had contact lenses to make her eyes a muddy hazel, but even so the color might trigger some kind of warning, and she yanked her silvery-blond hair into a tight ponytail. She was better off under the enveloping robe—no one looked twice at Arab women in purdah, and with luck she’d never have to use the considerable firepower tucked in her waistband. She’d just follow Serafin at a discreet distance, like a good Muslim wife.
    She didn’t want to leave the bathroom, face him again. She recognized the emotion, accepted it and pushed open the door to the bedroom. Serafin was sitting in a darkened corner, and there was coffee on the table.
    “Bathroom’s free,” she said, trying not to stare at the coffee. She made it a practice never to take food or drink from an unknown source when she was on a mission, and she had absolutely no reason to trust Serafin’s friends. Samuel’s wife was far too familiar with knockout drugs, as Mahmoud’s unconscious body could attest, and Isobel had no intention of taking chances.
    They had no reason to want to drug her. There was no reason to lure an agent of the Committee here just to incapacitate him or her, and they hadn’t even been expecting her. Serafin had been expecting Bastien; her arrival had been a surprise.
    And sweet Jesus, the coffee smelled divine. It was almost worth courting death and disaster for one small sip. Almost.
    “
Shiraz
brought us coffee,” Serafin said.
    “No, thank you.” There was another chair at the table. She could sit there, close to him and the smell of coffee, or she could sit on the bed. She chose to stand.
“It’s not drugged or poisoned. I need you alert if we’re going to get out of here in one piece.” He took a sip of his own coffee, and Isobel wanted to weep. “No, thank you,” she said again, her voice perfectly expressionless. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll take a drink of yours as well. If it’s drugged then I’ll be the one to show symptoms first. Samuel has no reason to drug either of us. He’s here to help.”
    “But what about you? Maybe you think you’re better off without me, that you can