Ice Storm by Anne Stuart Read Free Book Online Page A

normal people couldn’t even imagine. If he played his cards right she’d have a passionate fling with a man who would then, with a great show of reluctance, leave her to go back to his fictional French mistress. She’d go on to the Cordon Bleu in Paris, never realizing the assassination of General Matanga, head of the Coalition Armies trying to liberate a small country in West Africa, had been carried on right under her nose. And that Killian had washed his hands clean of the blood and then put them on her.
    In a way it was a shame. Matanga was a decent enough man, the Coalition Armies were filled with citizens, not mercenaries, and ethnic cleansing was frowned upon. But Killian’s employers had other plans for that war-torn area of
Africa
, and Matanga was counter to it, so he had to die. And it was Killian’s job to do it. Plus tie it to a group of heroin smugglers in Marseille, destroying Matanga’s reputation as well as his life.
Killian had everything planned, with a reasonable margin for error, because he was a man ready for the unexpected. Mary Isobel Curwen was unexpected, something he was using to excellent advantage. Word had gone out that he was coming into
France
, though no one knew what he looked like, what name he went by or what his current mission was. He was in so deep that he’d be hard to make, but with a hapless young woman beside him it would be almost impossible. They would have expected him to come from the south, but instead he’d crossed the Channel on a ferry, then driven his battered Citroen with the engine of a race car down the
Loire
Valley
, the girl by his side, when everyone knew Killian only worked alone. They’d make Marseille in a few days, their last stop before heading north to
Paris
. Maybe he wouldn’t wait that long. He’d slept with his arms around her one night on the beach: the youth hostels with their cloistered dormitories, the ones that had provided such excellent cover, had been full so they’d camped. He’d been the perfect gentleman, the brotherly type, offering her warmth and a shoulder to rest on. And while he’d kept the greater part of his brain busy going over the details of his upcoming job, he’d allowed one small part to savor the smell of her skin at the nape of her neck. She used rose-scented soap, something delicate and sweetly, wildly erotic. No, maybe he shouldn’t wait for Marseille. The sooner he nailed her, the blinder she’d be, and she’d never notice when he disappeared into the night. She’d believe his easy answers. All he had to do was make her come, and she wouldn’t think at all. He was good at that. He glanced over at her. They’d left the outskirts of
Montpellier
several hours ago, and they were heading for the Camargue, the ridiculously Texas-like section of
France
, full of horses and cowboys and dry landscape. There was a youth hostel in the tiny town Les Armes, and they could spend another cloistered night. Or he could make his move now, and they could end up at some cozy little inn, in a cozy little bed, with him inside her. She was curled up in the seat beside him, her head against the window, staring out at the passing landscape. In fact, she’d been a good traveling companion. She had an open mind, a willingness to try anything, a sensual delight in the wonders of
France
. If she brought all that to bed with her it might be better if he left her alone. It could prove a distraction. No, that was bullshit. Nothing distracted him when he was on a job, not even the sweetest piece of tail in the world. And she wouldn’t be that good—her sexual experience was limited. They’d talked a lot, about anything and everything, and right now he knew almost as much about Mary Isobel Curwen as she did herself. Out of place in her father’s new family, at loose ends, she’d come to
Europe
to discover the world and discover herself, and during the two weeks they’d been together she hadn’t called or written anyone. His kind of