Ice Storm (Ice 4)

“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?

She stood up, pushing the table back so hard that his drink would have spilled as well if he hadn’t grabbed it in time. Ignoring the curious looks directed at her, she ran out of the bar and onto the deck, into the furious blast of the rain and whipping wind.

She kept going. The deck was wet beneath her feet, slippery, and the ferry was lurching like a majestic old drunk, but the railings were secure, and if she fell into the goddamned Atlantic she wouldn’t care. She was muttering a litany of curses under her breath as she ran, knowing she was weeping as well, knowing that the rain would wash away all trace of her tears and he’d never see them. For a brief moment she could let herself go.

She ducked into an alcove, out of the direct fury of the storm, and reached in her pocket for the cigarettes. Her hands were shaking as she knocked one out, only to find it broken. She pulled another two, also crumpled, and dropped them on the deck, finally finding one in reasonably good shape.

No matches. No lighter, no nothing. She needed that cigarette so badly she’d kill for it, and she was stuck out in the middle of nowhere on this huge ferry with no matches and no one to beg one from.

She sank down on her heels, turning her wet face to the bulwark. Her hair was soaking, her clothes were drenched and it was cold, so cold. She was shivering, and she didn’t care. She just needed a few minutes to pull herself together. Then she’d go back, pick up a pack of matches in the bar and face Killian with her usual cool dignity. She only needed a few minutes.

A second later the minimal light was blocked out, and rough hands were hauling up her. “Come on, princess,” he said in a gruff voice. “You’ll catch your death out here.”

She could push him overboard, using the element of surprise. He was stronger than she was, but he wouldn’t be expecting it, and he’d disappear into the icy waters. And right then it was the only thing she could think of that would stop the blaze of pain spearing through her body.

“Don’t even think about it,” he said, reading her mind. “If I go over that railing you’re coming with me, and I know you don’t want that. You’re freezing to death already. Come on.”

She wouldn’t move. He’d pulled her upright, but he couldn’t very well drag her the length of the boat, back to their cabin, without someone taking notice. She’d fight him with all the dirty tricks she was so good at and…

He knew all her dirty tricks. He disabled her struggles in a matter of seconds, wrapped his arms tightly around her and marched her down the long stretch of rain-lashed decking. She couldn’t struggle, couldn’t fight back. She could do nothing but move when he moved her, her feet obeying him, not her. She would have screamed at him, but common sense finally hit her. She couldn’t afford to bring any unwanted attention to them. She had to handle him on her own. Even if, for one brief moment, she wasn’t strong enough.

He pushed her into the elevator and the door shut, closing them in, alone together. He released her, and she tried to hit him, but he simply grabbed her wrists in one hand, so tightly that the bones seemed to grind together, and it took all her will not to cry out in pain. The elevator door opened, and he half carried, half dragged her down the deserted hallway to their cabin, unlocking the door and shoving her inside before he followed her into the darkness, slamming the door behind him.

“Grow up, Isobel,” he said in a cold, merciless voice. “I knew everything about you, and you aren’t the sort of woman who gets hysterical at the drop of a hat.”

“I want a separate room,” she said. “I can’t be here.”

“You are here. You took the mission, and it’s not like you to flip out over trivialities. You’re the Iron Lady, beyond fear or pain. So calm down.”

She hated him. Hated him with a raw, bleeding passion she hadn’t felt in years. Her armor had been pierced, and while she knew he couldn’t tell she’d been crying, he still knew that he’d finally managed to get to her enough so that she’d run.

She wiped the rain from her face, disguising the tears. “I need a cigarette.”

“These?” He’d somehow managed to get his hands on the crumpled pack of cigarettes she had been pursuing like the Holy Grail. “Forget it.” And he crushed them in one hand.

It was the final blow. Isobel let out a shriek of rage and jumped him, trying to get her hands on what remained of the pack. Big mistake. A moment later he had her slammed up against the wall, pressing his body against hers, holding her immobile.

“Let’s establish a few ground rules, shall we?” he said. “If you try to hurt me, you’re just going to have my hands on you, and I know you think that’s the last thing you want. So I know all about you—get over it. I haven’t gotten to where I am due to faulty intel. I’ve made it my business to keep track of you since you ended up at Stephan Lambert’s. I know you were recruited by the Committee shortly before Stephan died, and he didn’t want you to work for them. I know you’re smart and strong and ruthless.”

“Everything I wasn’t eighteen years ago,” she said in a cold voice. He was touching her in too many places: his hips against hers, pinning her to the wall; his chest pressing against hers, so she couldn’t breathe; his hard hands trapping her wrists so she couldn’t fight back.

She’d forgotten how much taller he was. Perhaps not as tall as Peter, but enough so that at such close proximity she felt rattled. Which was exactly why he was doing it. She was aware of him, suddenly, strongly, when until now she’d been able to keep a mental distance.

“You were smart enough,” he said, and she could taste the whiskey on his breath. “Just no match for me.”

“That’s not the case anymore.”

She could see his faint smile in the dim light. “I agree. You’re a perfect match for me.”

She tried to kick him but her legs were trapped, tried to hit him but might as well be handcuffed. She tried to slam her head against his but he saw it coming, so instead she sank her strong white teeth into his neck.

You could kill someone that way. If you had the strength and the stomach for it you could rip out their carotid artery and have them bleed out in a matter of minutes.

She could taste blood, but a moment later he moved her away from him, holding her at arm’s length, his eyes glittering in the darkness. “I should warn you that I find biting to be highly erotic.”