She glanced back at the empty eyes and blank face of the lost child. “And what did you tell him?”
“That you’re my business. If you needed killing I’d see to it, but right now, you’re more valuable alive.”
“I’m thrilled to hear that.”
“I’m sure you are.” They’d reached an abandoned storage building, and he pulled the Jeep behind it, turning off the engine. “Darling, we’re home.”
Her body was cramped and stiff from the long ride, but she made no attempt to climb down. “And when is our plane?”
“Tonight, if we’re lucky. Otherwise, tomorrow night at the latest. Trust me, I’m ready to get back to the world of hot running water and single malt whiskey.”
“And where will we be until then?” The light of day was strong and clear, bringing blessed respite from the elusive cover of night. She could see him clearly—the puffy face, the balding head, the blackened teeth and middle-aged paunch.
“Samuel’s house is quite well-equipped for this part of the world, and he has reasonable guest quarters. We’ll be able to freshen up there, and if it becomes too dangerous we can always find a hotel and spend the night.”
She bit back the impulse to say “lovely.” She shouldn’t care enough to be hostile. She’d made her reputation as the Ice Queen, a cool, emotionless creature that nothing touched. Every time she reacted to him she was betraying all her hard work.
Besides, it didn’t matter. So she’d known him a lifetime ago. He’d been a bastard back then and was a triple bastard now. All that mattered was getting the job done, seeing it through to the end. And she had every intention of doing so.
A tall, thin Arab appeared out of the shadows. “My friend, I barely recognized you,” he said in greeting.
“Samuel.” Serafin climbed out of the Jeep and embraced the man. Isobel looked behind her, to see Mahmoud watching the two carefully, his hand on the weapon. They were going to have a hard time divesting him of the gun. Isobel was looking forward to watching the ensuing battle. She was keeping well out of it.
“This is the lady?” Samuel said, glancing toward her. “She looks like her passport photo. Unlike you, my friend. We’re going to have to do something about that.”
“How did you get a picture of me?” Isobel asked coolly. There were very few of her in existence—she was almost as hard to pin down as the Butcher himself.
“Samuel has the best resources,” Serafin said. “Come along, princess. We have a bit of a walk before we get to his house.”
“Please don’t call me that.” It was a weakness, admitting it bothered her, but if he called her that one more time she was going to scream.
“You don’t like it? What shall I call you?”
“Madame Lambert. Or even ‘hey, you.’ I’ve never been a princess in my entire life.”
He tilted his head, watching her. “Oh, I don’t think that’s true. I imagine you were quite the fragile little flower when you were young.”
That stung, though it made no sense. She cultivated her agelessness, considering it a triumph when people assumed she was well past her youth. But for him to say it…
She wasn’t as immune to him as she’d thought, damn it. If it kept up like this she was going to have to shoot him out of self-preservation.
“You have a vivid imagination,” she said in a tight voice. Mahmoud had already scrambled out of the Jeep, keeping close to Serafin, the gun cradled in his arms.
“We need to get under cover quickly,” Samuel said, clearly impatient. “You can argue once we’re safely inside.”
“We’re not arguing,” Isobel said.
“Just a lovers’ quarrel,” Serafin said easily.
That settled it—she was going to kill him. As soon as humanly possible. Maybe she could push him out of the airplane as they flew over the Mediterranean. Or wait until they got back to England, found out everything they needed to know, and then let Peter finish him off.
Except she wouldn’t do that to Peter.
Maybe Serafin would be the first mission for Taka’s mysterious cousin. Or maybe they’d just let him live, fat and rich and untouchable.
In the meantime there wasn’t a thing she could do but follow the two men, like a good Muslim wife, ten paces back, with the lethal child taking up the rear. Assuming Serafin had no more surprises to inflict on her, they’d arrive back in England by the next morning, and she could pass him on to Peter. Never have to see the man again.
Twenty-four hours, she promised herself. And then she could breathe.