Mahmoud seemed impervious to the cold, scampering along after them like a child on holiday as they moved through the streets. It was hard to believe he was keeping Killian in his sights because he wanted to murder him, but Isobel didn’t doubt it. She wanted to murder him as well, and she wasn’t letting him get too far ahead.
She shouldn’t be letting him take charge—there was no reason to trust him, and now that she’d gotten him into England, he could just take off. If he had any sense, he’d kill the two of them first—or, at least he’d try.
Right then she wasn’t sure she could stop him. Her back was on fire; she was cold and wet and numb. She needed to pull herself together. She needed to find out who the hell had put the hit out on them. But for the time being, all she could do was trudge after him, wishing she still had her burka.
At one point he pushed them into an alley and left them, and she and Mahmoud had no choice but to stand there, shivering, not looking at each other. She should be hoping Killian hadn’t abandoned them for good, striking out on his own, but in fact she would have welcomed his disappearance. Enough was enough. She wanted him gone, she wanted him dead, she wanted her life back. If he didn’t return she’d get back to London on her own, with or without Mahmoud dogging her heels.
For forty-five minutes she stood there shivering, though her back was on fire. Her fingers were numb, her feet soaked, but Mahmoud just kept waiting, expressionless. And then he perked up, hearing something she was too miserable to notice.
“Serafin,” he said. The first word he’d spoken directly to her since the deserted village in Morocco.
He was right. The bright blue Jaguar was gorgeous and striking, and Killian was behind the wheel, looking impatient. He pulled up at the end of the alleyway and lowered the window.
“Get in the front seat, princess,” he ordered. “Mahmoud will ride in the back.”
The boy seemed to know the drill, for he’d already scrambled into the backseat and slammed the door behind him.
“Isn’t this rather a conspicuous car to steal?” Isobel said, stalling.
“I didn’t steal it, I rented it. The leak’s on your end, and they don’t know the names we’re using.”
“And if the leak’s on your end?”
“Then we’re toast. It’ll make the day more interesting. Do you want to put some money on it? I’ll give you excellent odds.”
“I think life or death are high enough stakes,” she said. “I can sit in the back with Mahmoud.”
Killian just looked at her. “It happened,” he said flatly, and she didn’t bother pretending she didn’t know what he was talking about. “Get over it, and climb in the front seat. It’s already growing dark, and at the least they have our descriptions. We need to get the hell out of here.”
She was a practical, unemotional woman. He was right, and she was cold. She got in the front seat, closing the door behind her, and he took off into the twilight, driving fast and well.
She heard a rustling sound, and looked back to see Mahmoud already chowing down on a bag of crisps. “You stopped for food?”
“I stopped for supplies. Take off my jacket and lie down.”
“Fuck you.”
“Take off the jacket, Isobel,” Killian said. He didn’t sound patient.
“I’m not…” She leaned back against the seat, then jerked erect as fire spread through her.
“You heard me. Take off the jacket and lie down.”
“There isn’t room.”
“Put your fucking head in my lap,” he snapped. “And stop playing games. I need to get you cleaned up and we can’t afford to stop. Take off my jacket before you get any more blood on it, and lie down. Unless you have a damn good reason not to.”
She had a million reasons not to, and she wouldn’t admit to any of them. She pulled the jacket off gingerly, trying to ignore the tiny shards of pain that sped through her body, and put it in her lap. Even in the dusky interior of the car she could see the blood.
“The shirt, too,” he said.
It was the T-shirt he’d bought her on the ferry, the one with Ibiza Is for Lovers emblazoned on the front. She pulled it over her head, carefully, not making a sound as her flesh screamed in pain. The back of the shirt was shredded, stained with more blood.
“I haven’t lost that much,” she said, not moving closer. “I’ll be fine until we reach London.”
“You have a dozen or more tiny pieces of glass sticking out of your skin, Isobel. Put your face in my lap or I’ll make you.”
He was the man who’d fucked her and hadn’t come. He was the man who’d used her, tricked her, treated her as one more weapon in his destruction of the world. He wouldn’t give a damn if her face was in his crotch, and neither would she.