On Thin Ice (32 page)

She didn’t want him to withdraw, but he did, pulling her down beside him, cradling her against him, his mouth at her ear, kissing her neck, biting her earlobe gently. His heart was pounding against her back, and he whispered in her ear. “And then, when you get carried away and come sooner than you planned, you just wait a little while and then start again.”

She was still shaking from the aftermath, her body covered with sweat. She caught his arms and drew them tight around her, keeping herself snug in the safety of his hard, hot body. “Again?” she murmured sleepily, her body still tingling.

“And again and again and again.”

He woke her three times that night, trying to work off the insatiable longing she seemed to bring out in him. She was as aroused as he was, as hungry, and each time she drove him further, until the last, at dawn, when they’d made love almost sweetly, a slow, tender mating as the first light came through the closed shutters and danced across the bed. It was cold then, and he hadn’t wanted to get up and stoke the fire, but she decided she needed to, and he caught her halfway across the room and tossed her back on the bed, covering her, the two of them laughing.

When had he laughed in bed? He couldn’t remember. When had he been with a woman, slept with a woman, fucked a woman who felt so perfectly right for him? When in his entire goddamned life had he ever made love before?

He looked at her, curled up in his arms, her hand beneath her chin as always. The bruise on her face stood out, and he wished there were some way to make it disappear. There wasn’t. All he could do was hold her, all he could do was love her.

For now.

“Hungry now,” Dylan announced. He was sprawled on one of the sofas in the great room of the farmhouse, watching a movie on the portable DVD player he’d managed to find. He had the earphones on, so his voice came out as a gentle shout, and Beth didn’t bother answering. She was already in the kitchen, cutting up leeks. She’d found some frozen chicken and defrosted it in the microwave, and she was busy sautéing it, drinking a glass of the wine that MacGowan had brought her, his hand brushing against her when Dylan wasn’t looking.

She’d smiled at him, and he’d started to move closer, then glanced at their chaperone and laughed. Later, his eyes said. Soon.

They hadn’t gotten out of bed until midday, and it was now getting dark, the night closing in around the old farmhouse. MacGowan had a fire roaring in the huge old fireplace, and she was dressed in his clothes, warm socks and sweatpants and sweatshirt. She liked them. She liked wearing his clothes, wearing him around her. When he sent her away she wasn’t going to give them back.

The kitchen was open to the great room, and MacGowan slid back in, rubbing up against her, moving her long hair out of the way so that he could kiss her on the back of the neck, the same place where he’d bitten her, and she felt a shimmer run through her body. She started to lean back, when she felt him freeze.

There were three sets of doors leading out from the great room. One of them opened, and a tall, blonde man walked in, the faintest trace of a limp barely slowing him, and his gaze went directly to MacGowan.

She knew who he was. He had the same, deadly look to his eyes that MacGowan had, carried himself the same way, but he came in without a gun. This could only be Finn’s boss, the man he’d sworn to kill.

“MacGowan,” the man said in a cultured British accent.

“Madsen,” Finn acknowledged. And a second later one of the kitchen knives was hurtling through the air toward the newcomer with deadly accuracy.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

The knife ended up embedded in the old wood cupboard, sinking deep. The newcomer didn’t look ruffled, though he’d ducked. “Losing your touch in your old age, MacGowan?”

Another knife went flying, and this time the man didn’t move in time, the knife slicing the arm of his coat. He looked down at it meditatively. “I happen to like this jacket.”

“You won’t need it when you’re dead,” MacGowan snarled.

Beth stood frozen in the kitchen, uncertain what to do, and MacGowan reached for another of the butcher knives.

She hit him, hard, with the leeks, so that vegetation went all over the kitchen. “Leave my knives alone,” she snapped, hoping it hid her terror. “If you’re going to kill him do it hand to hand.”

The look MacGowan gave her made her blood freeze. And then with a roar he launched himself at the newcomer.

“Dude!” Dylan protested, grabbing the DVD player and jumping out of the way as the two men went down in a tangle of furious, thrashing limbs.

Someone else had appeared in the door, and Beth looked up, prepared to launch herself at the newcomer if he came armed.

To her surprise it was a young man, maybe Dylan’s age, clearly of middle-eastern origin, watching the ensuing melee with resignation. His eyes met Beth’s. “Hey,” he said in greeting.

“Hey.” Her voice was weak.

Dylan had set down the DVD player, eyeing the newcomer like a junkyard dog surveys someone who’s invaded his turf. At least, that’s what she guessed he looked like, since she’d never seen a junkyard dog, or a junkyard, in her life.

Dylan circled around the two of them, coming up to the newcomer. They were about the same height, though Dylan was younger, and the unknown boy was slim and elegant and cynically amused by the battle. “Who are you?”

Dylan wasn’t charmed. “Who are you?” He had to raise his voice to be heard above the grunts and breaking furniture.

“Mahmoud.” He jerked his head toward the battle. “That’s my father.”

The words must have penetrated the haze of battle. For a moment the man named Madsen lifted his head to stare at the boy in astonishment, long enough for MacGowan to get in a blow hard enough to knock him away from him. For a moment Madsen didn’t move, then shook his head.

That’s was all MacGowan needed. He launched himself again, and Beth had had enough. “Stop it!” she shrieked. They paid no attention. Oh, sure, they could react when the kid said something in a normal tone of voice, but her screams were nothing.

“Try a jug of water,” Mahmoud suggested. “Either that or a frying pan.”

“A frying pan’s probably a better idea,” she snapped, heading back to the kitchen to fill a saucepan with the coldest water she could find. She stomped back over to the men and flung it.

MacGowan rose with a roar, lashing out, catching her on the side of the head, and she went flying, ending up on the floor against the sofa, the breath knocked out of her.

For a moment MacGowan simply stared at her with horror. A moment later he was beside her, pulling her into his arms, murmuring endearments. “Baby, I’m so sorry! Speak to me, Beth, tell me you’re all right. Did I hurt you?”

She finally managed a deep intake of breath, coughing, and he hugged her so tightly she almost couldn’t breathe again. “Darlin’, don’t ever step into the middle of a fight again. I could have killed you.” He was kissing her, and she decided being tossed across the room was worth it.

She looked at him and managed a woozy smile. “Don’t worry about it. I’ve had worse. Are you still going to kill him?”

Madsen had pulled himself to a sitting position. His mouth was bleeding, one eye was rapidly swelling shut, but he seemed to be in one piece. The cut on MacGowan’s head had opened up again, he had a bloody nose and a split lip, but he seemed surprisingly cheerful.

“Nah. He’s not worth it.”

“You cocksucker,” Peter snarled. Then glanced at Beth. “I beg your pardon.” Then looked at the boys. “Jesus,” he muttered.

“I think they’ve all heard the word before,” MacGowan said. “What the fuck are you doing here, besides almost getting yourself killed? And who’s the kid?”

Madsen glanced at Mahmoud. “The kid, apparently, is my son.”

MacGowan raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t know?”

“I knew. I just didn’t think he did.”

“Adopted,” Mahmoud clarified. “I come from a long line of Arab warriors who would make mincemeat out of Madsen. But he’ll do.”

He clearly wasn’t endearing himself to Dylan, but that was the least of Beth’s worries. She started to get up, but MacGowan still held her, his strong arms cradling her. “I’d better get back to dinner,” she said, not really wanting to move. She glanced at the newcomers. “I assume you’re staying?”

“They’re staying. This place is hell and gone from civilization.” He didn’t look happy about it.

“Thanks for the hospitality,” Madsen said sardonically. “Considering it’s me who arranged to have this place ready for you. And you need some ice for that eye.”

“So you do. Up your arse.”

Madsen smiled, a blazingly charming smile. “Piss off.”

“You still haven’t told me why you came here.”

“Why, to discuss the terms of your future employment. I suppose you’re going to want back pay for those three years. I was thinking we might call it vacation time.”

“How about paid sabbatical, you big stupid git?”

“We can work out the details. Are you coming back to work with us?”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

“I don’t suppose you have anything decent to drink here?” Madsen asked.

“You’re in charge of the place – you should know.”

“I just wondered if you’d already managed to drink everything in sight, you Irish sot.”

“Fuck you.” This was said in the most genial of tones. “There’s Guinness in the refrigerator.”

“There would be,” he said gloomily, getting to his feet. He walked over to MacGowan and held out a hand. Finn just looked up at him for a long, thoughtful moment before taking it, letting him pull him to his feet.

“Sorry, mate,” Madsen said in an undertone.

As far as Beth was concerned it was a pretty mild apology for three years of hell, but it seemed to satisfy MacGowan. “All right, then.”

She never would have thought it possible that she would find herself sitting at a table a few hours later, surrounded by men and boys, a bottle of wine passing between the grown-ups and missing the petulant boys entirely. The chicken and leek dish had ended up respectably, and there was a curious camaraderie around the table, as if two of the them hadn’t been determined to kill each other a short while ago. They’d retired to their respective corners and taken the ice packs she’d made up, all the while Dylan and Mahmoud circled each other. If she carried the dog analogy farther she would have said they were sniffing each others’ butts. Or if they were grown males she would have suggested they pull out a tape measure to compare.

They went off to their own corner, and she could hear the occasional term drifting back to her in the kitchen as she cooked.

“Pussy,” said Dylan.

“Wanker,” said Mahmoud.

Beth smiled.

The dinner was long gone, every spare speck of food scraped from the plates. At least there had been Ben and Jerry’s in the freezer, a fact that astonished her but kept the four bottomless pits busy as the night wore on. She would have left them to wash up, but MacGowan had reached out a lazy hand and pulled her back down, moving her chair closer to his as he did so. She could feel Peter’s curious eyes on them, but he said nothing, and slowly, gradually Beth began to relax. The candles were burning down, the boys were off in a corner arguing, the fire was putting out heat, and she knew in a little while MacGowan would take her hand and lead her back upstairs to his bed. And she knew she’d follow him, to hell and back.

It was after midnight. He turned to her and smiled, and then, to her astonishment, he leaned down and kissed her hand. There was a sudden crack as the window behind his head shattered, and then Madsen jumped him, slamming him against the floor.

She sat still, looking down at them in amazement, thinking, “not again,” when MacGowan reached up and hauled her down beside him, as Madsen crawled across the floor to where Dylan and Mahmoud were sitting, shoving them down as well.

“Sniper,” Madsen said.

“Ya think?” MacGowan’s voice was laconic.

“Guiding Light or CIA?”

“I’m guessing CIA. La Luz is falling apart, and by now they would have given up on us and looked for something a little easier. The CIA keeps sending people.”

“Word has it they thought Isobel would come out of hiding to intervene to keep you from killing me and she’d bring Killian with her. As if you could,” he added with a snort. “I can’t figure out why they’d change their minds and decide to kill you. Apart from the fact that anyone who knows you would want to kill you,” he added.

“Fuck you.” MacGowan was just as civil. “I think they’re a little annoyed that I kept killing the people they sent after me.”

“All of them?”

Beth had had enough. Finn pretended he didn’t give a shit when someone died at his hands, but she knew different. “Go to hell,” she snapped. “Most of them needed killing.”

“Only most of them?”

“Don’t push me, Madsen,” Finn snapped.

There was silence, broken only by the crackle of the fire. “We’re going to have to go find him, you know,” Madsen said.

“I know.”

“Why?” Beth said, incensed, panic filling her. “You go out there he’ll just shoot you.”

“We stay here and he’ll shoot me,” MacGowan said. There was that light in his eyes again, that one that thrived on danger. “Dylan, you and Mahmoud stay here and make sure Beth is safe.”

“Go to hell,” she said furiously. “I’m not some pathetic female to be kept locked up …”

“And Beth, keep an eye on the boys and make sure they’re safe,” he continued smoothly, as if she hadn’t interrupted. “None of you are professionals, and you’ll only be a liability out there on the hillside.”

He was right, but it still angered her. “Wait until morning.”

“It doesn’t work that way, sweetheart,” he said. “Stay down.” He moved away from her without a backwards glance. “Can you make it up the hill with that bum leg?” he asked Madsen.

“Fuck you and the horse you rode in on,” Madsen snapped. “I can outrun you any day of the week, you fucking sod.”

“Is that any kind of example to set for your son?” MacGowan chided lightly.