Free Ice Storm by Anne Stuart Page A

handle this on your own and that I’m just in the way. It’s certainly how you’re operating. I seem to be along for the ride.”
    “What can I say? I’m a man who likes to be in control of a situation. As soon as we leave Algerian airspace I’m putty in your hands. In the meantime these are my contacts, my people. You’d be wise to trust me.” How many people had trusted the man calling himself Serafin, and survived? If she thought about that she’d be sorely tempted to put a bullet in his brain right now. She wouldn’t trust him, any more than she’d trust Killian. But then, she trusted very few people in this life, and wasn’t about to start widening that exclusive circle now.
    He reached for the second cup of coffee, took a deep swallow and set it back down as he rose. The passing years had changed almost everything but his height, and she took a step back, because she didn’t like it. Didn’t like the feeling of him looming over her. It reminded her of when she had liked it.
    “Do I make you nervous, Madame Lambert?”
    “No. I just prefer to keep my distance.”
    “Evil isn’t contagious.”
    “I thought you said you weren’t the most evil man in the world?”
    “I’m not. But that doesn’t mean I’m a good man.”
    “I don’t think anyone would argue with that.”
    “Not even my mother,” he said wryly. “It’s a sad thing, don’t you think?”
    “That your mother didn’t love you? Not particularly. Go take your shower.”
    “Yes, ma’am,” he said with mock humility. “The pastries are good, too.
Shiraz
is an amazing cook.”
    Isobel hadn’t even seen the honey-soaked pastries behind the coffee cups. “I’ll pass.”
She waited until he’d closed the bathroom door behind him, waited for the sound of the shower. There was always the chance that the coffee was drugged or poisoned and that he’d already taken an antidote, but right now her need for coffee was stronger than her reasonable paranoia. She reached for the second cup and sniffed it, then took a sip.
    It was rich, strong and creamy. Just the way she’d always liked it. In the last few years she’d tried to wean herself to black coffee, but this was an unexpected treat. Double cream, with just a dash of sugar. It had been years since she’d had it that way, years since...
She wanted to throw up. She set the half-empty cup back down on the table. It was nothing but a coincidence. Coffee was very strong in the Arab world. There was nothing unlikely about the way this was served. And yet she still felt sick.
He was taking forever in the bathroom. The shower had stopped awhile ago, but the water in the sink had been running steadily, and she wondered what the hell he was doing in there. It didn’t matter. It was only morning, and they weren’t getting out of this place before nighttime. She was going to have to spend hours trapped in this room with her worst nightmare. The longer he spent in the bathroom, the better.
She was so weary, but the last place she was going was the bed. She sat on the floor, her back against the wall, and rested her arms on her drawn-up knees. How did the song go—“I’ll sleep when I’m dead”? She felt half-dead already. But that meant half-alive, and it was going to take a hell of a lot to get past that other half. She closed her eyes, listening to the sound of the water, tasting the rich, creamy coffee on her tongue. Remembering things she wished she could have forgotten forever.

7
    Then “No room at the inn,’ Killian said. “The entire town is booked. Some kind of religious festival, I think. We’ve got two choices. Push on, drive until we find a town with some space, or spend the night on the beach. The problem is, it’s supposed to rain, and apparently every town for miles around is booked solid for the weekend.”
Mary Isobel was exhausted, bone weary. It seemed as if they’d been in the rickety old Citroën for centuries, and lunch had been nothing more than bread and