She hurt. Her entire body ached, as if she’d run for a very long time. The only part of her that didn’t hurt was between her legs, and that held its own particular fury.
There was nothing of him to wash away. He couldn’t have used a condom—it had happened too fast. And she couldn’t remember him climaxing. She’d been too caught up with the overwhelming sensations to even think about the man who was providing them. Didn’t want to think about him. She’d been swept away, and he hadn’t even come.
She washed thoroughly, including her hair. The auburn roots were just beginning to show beneath the blond; she’d need to get to her hairdresser as soon as she got back. That, and see how the new recruit, Hiromasa, was doing. She’d pass Killian off to Peter, or perhaps to someone else the Committee provided. Harry Thomason had never been a particularly effective interrogator—he tended to let his inherent violence get in the way. And violence wouldn’t work on a man like Killian.
She wasn’t going to think about it. There was a pile of fresh clothes on the banquette, clearly for her, and while she would have liked to ignore them, her own clothes, torn and stained, were an even greater reminder of something she was determined to forget. It had happened; she couldn’t change that. But nothing on this earth could make it happen again.
She was sitting on the banquette, cross-legged, making a list on the pad of paper she’d found in the little desk. She was crippled without her PDA. She looked up when he walked in, steeling herself.
“I need my PDA,” she said, her voice flat.
He gazed at her for a long moment, standing in the open door of the cabin, and she felt a moment’s fear that he was going to talk about what had happened in that room, on that carefully made bed.
But he didn’t. “When we get to London,” he said. “I don’t trust your people.”
“I do.”
“But I’ve got the PDA,” he said. “We need to go pick up our little orphan or the nurse might report us for abandoning him.”
Dealing with Mahmoud would at least provide a distraction. She pushed herself off the banquette, half expecting Killian to touch her, to say something. But he could have been a polite stranger, moving out of her way, walking beside her, but not close, as she headed for the elevator and the infirmary.
Last night’s storm had vanished, leaving the water calm as the huge ferry plowed through it. People were out on the decks, children were playing in the sunshine despite the chill, lovers were kissing. They lived in an alternate reality, she thought numbly. One she could never find again.
Mahmoud was sitting up, looking disgustingly healthy and surprisingly clean. He was wearing shorts and a long-sleeve T-shirt and sandals, his hair was washed and combed, and he looked oddly like a child, not the savage creature he really was.
“You were able to get him washed…” she said, grateful, and then her words trailed off. The nurse was filthy, bruised, her hair a tangle, scratch marks on her arms. She wouldn’t have looked worse if she’d met Mahmoud on the battlefield.
She glared at Isobel. “He’s stronger than he looks.”
“We warned you,” Killian said mildly in that perfect Oxford accent. “Come along, my lad. We’ll be docking in a few hours, and I imagine you want to fill that empty belly of yours.”
“Just clear liquids and a little toast,” the nurse warned.
Killian looked at her. “I’m not about to get in a wrestling match with him in public. I expect he’ll eat what he wants, and his new family can deal with his stomach. If he starts throwing up again it’ll be someone else’s problem.”
“Serve the little brat right,” the nurse muttered, clearly devoid of charity that morning.
Killian said something in Arabic, and Mahmoud slid off the cot to follow him out the door. At the last minute he turned and directed a string of words to the nurse that sounded far from complimentary.
“He’s thanking you for your kind assistance,” Killian translated helpfully. He was clearly lying.
“Hummph.”
And to Isobel’s shock, Mahmoud grinned—a normal, naughty-little-boy grin. He caught her expression of surprise, and it vanished immediately, turning him back into the sullen little creature she was used to. But at least he was clean.
Killian was right—Mahmoud ate enough for the three of them, finishing the practically untouched food on her own plate, scarfing down Killian’s last piece of toast. Isobel could only hope he wouldn’t get carsick once they landed in Plymouth. It was a long drive to London, and she didn’t fancy being trapped with a puking child. Whoever came for them would probably bring the Bentley—elegant and stately and armor-plated. Just in case. If Mahmoud started heaving again she’d put him in the front seat with Peter. She’d suffered enough on this particular mission.
At least it was almost over. Last night hadn’t happened; it was locked in a little box and thrown overboard into the icy blue-green Atlantic Ocean. She’d pass Killian on to Peter, go home and break something.
They ate in silence, Killian perfectly at ease, leaning back in his chair drinking coffee, and watching as they pulled into Plymouth harbor. “We’ll be one of the first off the ferry,” he said. “We need to get through customs and be on our way. I’ve got a couple of ideas for transport to London, but I need to check out the lay of the land.”
She really didn’t want to speak to him. But she was being silly—anything that had happened was immaterial, imaginary. “I’ve already arranged for someone to pick us up.”
“What?” She hadn’t seen that cold anger before. He usually covered everything with an easy charm that made her crazy. “You couldn’t have. I took yo
ur PDA.”
“I called before you groped me in the cafeteria,” she said, ignoring the fact that she was bringing up a subject that could lead to dangerous places.