Ice Storm by Anne Stuart Page A

Peter’s horrified expression. “You know you’re always welcome, and you can ride into
London
with Peter each morning. He’s arranged for an apartment in Kensington, but I know you’d rather be with us.”
    Reno
was looking just as aghast. “I like cities.”
    “But you really should—” Genevieve began to protest, until Peter interrupted her.
    “You’ll like the apartment. And besides, I don’t think you’d enjoy it out in Wiltshire very much. Genny and I spend all our time in bed.”
    His wife kicked him, hard, avoiding his bad leg, and then realization obviously set in. They’d have a hard time making babies with a curious houseguest wandering around.
Reno
lifted his sunglasses and gave Genevieve a cool, assessing look, one that Peter immediately wanted to wipe off his pretty face. “Taka promised me an apartment if I did this. Or do you think you need to babysit me?”
    “I didn’t know it was you,” Peter grumbled. I thought it was some nerd named Hiromasa Shinoda.”
    “I am some nerd named Hiromasa Shinoda. I just don’t go by that name,” he said loftily. “Are you going to take me somewhere to eat? I’ve been on a plane for thirteen hours.”
Peter knew his wife very well. She was about to open her mouth to offer him a home-cooked meal, and the sooner he ditched
Reno
the better.
      “We’ll drive into
London
and take you to your apartment. There are several sushi places nearby.”
    “Fuck sushi”
Reno
said. “I want fish and chips. And beer.”
    “Great,” Peter said. “At least you’ll be a cheap date.”
    “Don’t count on it.”
Reno
said.
    And Peter wondered how long it would take him to kill his old friend Taka. And how much he could make it hurt.

5
    It seemed as if she’d been riding in a car with Killian for most of her Life. After she’d shot him he’d haunted her dreams, and now, suddenly, she was back with him, almost twenty years later. The same, and yet everything was different. He didn’t know who she was. And for the first time she knew exactly who and what he was. They were climbing higher into the mountains; the air was thin and cold, and she hadn’t brought warm clothing. She’d dealt with cold before. She didn’t shiver—it would alert him, a sign of weakness. She simply concentrated, letting the cold sink into her bones and radiate outward. It would take longer to warm up, supposing she eventually got the chance, hut it kept weakness at bay. The sleeping child was impervious. The man beside her was wearing a heavy jacket, his concentration focused as he navigated the narrow, rutted roads. She glanced over at him, at the steering wheel, and for a brief moment wished she hadn’t.
    His hands were still the same. He’d always had the most beautiful hands—long-fingered, graceful. When she’d been young and stupid she’d thought he had the hands of an artist, a lover. They were the hands of a killer, stained with invisible blood.
She glanced down at her own hands, lying in her lap, then looked away.
“Do you have any particular reason for taking us across a closed border when I already made plans for our pickup in
Mauritania
?” she asked in an idle tone.
“I have my reasons.”
    “Then why did you bother insisting someone come and rescue you? It seems as if you’re more than capable of getting yourself where you want to be.”
    “I don’t need help getting out of here. I need help entering
England
, getting properly settled. My money’s out of reach and half the world wants me dead. You and your organization are going to see that I live a long, comfortable life somewhere far away from the people who want to kill
me.
”
    “I doubt that’s possible,” she muttered. His mouth quirked in a smile. In the darkness it was the same mouth. She looked away. “You think people will always want to kill me?”
“I think it’s likely. Even if your new cover is impenetrable, and you’re some retired businessman in the
Netherlands
, you’ll still manage