Ice Storm by Anne Stuart Read Free Book Online

an appointed time, and it wouldn’t serve to be late. Mahmoud can wait.” The sleeping child stirred at the sound of his name, or maybe he hadn’t been sleeping at all. It didn’t matter. Serafin pulled back onto the narrow mountain road, and Isobel closed her eyes for a brief moment. It was going to be a long night. And there was no way she could keep from doing what she most wanted to avoid. Remembering.
    Then It had been almost a week before Mary Isobel Curwen fell in love with a man who called himself Killian. She’d fought it, of course. After all, the man had a girlfriend, a French fashion model, no less, and even if Mary Isabel were the type to poach other women’s boyfriends, she was hardly going to prove any competition. For one thing, she had a crazy mane of curly red hair, the bane of her existence. Plus she was curved rather than wraith- thin. Her last boyfriend had told her she looked better naked than with clothes on, but that was the kind of thing a single-minded boyfriend would say.
A French fashionist would have nothing but contempt for an American free spirit in gypsy layers. And one thing Mary had known for certain: Killian was one of the good guys. He wouldn’t simply take what was available. He wouldn’t betray his girlfriend. He would provide the casual friendship and ride that he offered, and nothing more.
It wasn’t his fault she’d fallen in love with him somewhere between
Brittany
and the
Loire
. Maybe it was because he’d been so easy to talk to, his slow, deep voice sliding into her bones like liquid silk. Maybe it was because he was abso-fucking-lutely gorgeous. She wasn’t used to beautiful men, and she hadn’t realized until seeing him in the bright light of day, halfway across the water on their way to France, just how good- looking he was. Gorgeous men made her nervous, but somehow Killian managed to dispel that. Despite his green eyes and his beautiful mouth, despite his tall, rangy body that moved with an unconscious grace, he still seemed easier to be around than ordinary men, and she did her best not to stare at him when he wasn’t looking. Why wouldn’t a French fashion model have an equally gorgeous lover? He treated Mary like a kid sister, and it made her feel safe, comfortable and deeply miserable. The one saving grace was that he had absolutely no idea how she felt. He was a good man, and he would never suspect that she was suffering the most ridiculously adolescent pangs of unrequited love she’d felt in her entire life. At least her dignity was safe. He figured he’d fuck her when they got to Marseille. She was more than ready—he’d played her like the expert he was, and by the time he got her on her back she’d be begging, miserably guilty and totally vulnerable. The way he needed her to be, if she was going to provide the cover he required.
She was almost too easy. He’d only stepped into that alleyway in
Plymouth
on a whim—in general he didn’t interfere with the local wildlife and their idea of sport, and whoever they’d set upon deserved what they got for being so fucking stupid.
It was a shame. If he’d been a different man, in a different world, he might have liked her. She was funny and smart, and had the most amazing freckles across her cheekbones and dusted above the rise of her very nice breasts. He was going to enjoy finding all the other places those freckles lurked when he got her on her back. Never let it be said he couldn’t appreciate the more pleasant aspects of his line of work.
She was totally besotted already. He knew that beneath her colorful layers and free spirit she was imagining a safe little life with babies and a man who came home every night. A man who looked like him. She had no idea what she was dealing with.
In the end, he was probably doing her a favor. A bit of a walk on the wild side, though if he carried it off perfectly she’d have no idea she was only a few steps removed from a world of death and violence, danger most