On Thin Ice (19 page)

He picked up a piece of the discarded habit and ripped it noisily. “When I grunt loudly you shriek,” he said with barely a breath of a sound.

That wouldn’t be hard, she thought, keeping her eyes closed as he moved between her legs. A moment later he was lying on top of her, emitting a loud, groaning noise, and she belatedly remembered to squeak.

“Is she tight,
jefe
? I bet she’s tight.”

“Shut up!” he called out in Spanish. And then she felt a vicious pinch on her arm and she let out a really good cry. “You like that, don’t you, bitch?” he called out, making another guttural moan.

She opened her eyes, looking up at him. She could feel him against her, between her legs, iron-hard, and for some reason she felt her fury ebb. It was MacGowan, who had saved her time and again, and he was saving her once more.

He put his head down again, against her ear. “I’m going to move, and make a lot of noise. You need to play your part or we’re not getting out of this. Don’t be a baby – your virtue will still be intact.”

He didn’t even seem to notice that his hard chest was against her breasts. She hadn’t realized he had a light dusting of hair, and it pushed against her nipples in unspeakable, unmistakable arousal.

“If you’re being so damned noble why do you have an erection?” she said in an icy whisper.

She saw his grin in the shadows. “Three years, babe.” And he began to move.

She shrieked obediently. She hated this, hated the parody of rape, and yet she clutched his arms, wanting to assure herself he was there. Her fingers moved up his biceps as he thrust against her with loud, ferocious grunts, like a pig in heat, and she wasn’t sure whether she wanted to giggle or weep. She caught his shoulders in her hands and held on, the force of him shaking her, and she realized with sudden shock that she wanted him inside her. Despite everything, this hideous parody was bringing an atavistic longing, and she lifted her knees, cradling his hips.

He turned his head to look at her, and for a moment they stared at each other. “Bitch,” he called out in Spanish. And then he kissed her.

Her response was instant. She arched up against him as a shiver of desire started deep within her, and she kissed him back, touching him with her tongue, mating with him, wanting him, wanting him so badly, his safety, his strength, his fierce power that had become sexual, and she wanted to throw herself into it, to melt and die . . .

“Shit,” he whispered. And then louder. “Shit, shit, shit,” in Spanish, and she felt the wet heat of him on her stomach, as he sank his head on her shoulder, shaking.

For a long time he didn’t move. To her surprise she realized she was cradling him, her arms around him, her hands stroking his smooth back, a soothing aftermath. She had done this for her other lovers, but to her overwhelming shame these twisted minutes, when he hadn’t even been inside her, were still more sexually charged than any intercourse she’d ever endured.

A shadow filled the door. “My turn,
jefe
?”

“Get the fuck out of here.” His voice was rough, and the man moved away without argument. MacGowan looked down at her, a rueful expression on his face. “You can scream at me later,” he said, rolling off her, taking the torn piece of cloth and wiping her stomach. She knew a moment’s shock at the indecent use of a nun’s habit, and then realized he was looking at her breasts.

“Stay here,” he said, unnecessarily as he pulled on his jeans. He reached down and picked up the gun. It was large and black in the shadows, oddly elongated, and she’d seen enough TV to know it had a silencer. It was now, she thought. Whether they were going to live or die.

She should have ripped her panties off herself.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

He had no choice, MacGowan thought. The feigned rape had distracted the men – they never saw what was coming. He did what he had to do, quickly, efficiently, and one of the men cried out before he died, and he wanted to kick him. That sound would distress Beth, who had already been through enough. He’d come in hoping to spare her, and then he’d come all over her like the animal he was. She had every right to be disgusted with him.

He dragged the bodies into the kitchen, dumping them on top of each other. They’d left a smear of blood behind, and he cursed beneath his breath. He didn’t want her to see it, but there wasn’t time to clean it up.

He went back into the tiny room. She was sitting up again, huddled into the corner, hugging herself. He’d ripped the clothes off her, and she had nothing to wear.

“Stay there,” he said in his normal voice.

She looked up, in his direction, not meeting his eyes. “Are they . . .?” She couldn’t finish the sentence.

“Dead, or close to it. They won’t bother us. I need to find you something to wear.”

“Yes.” Her voice was lifeless, expressionless. Good. Shock would make things easier until they got aboard the Martha Rose. Dylan was already there waiting for them, unless he’d decided to exert his independence. If so, fuck him. He’d killed too many people for his little chicks, and he couldn’t do it any more.

He found an ancient, flowery dress in one of the other rooms, brightly colored and much too big for her, but it would provide some cover, and the cheap flip-flops would protect her feet, at least until they got to the ship. He threw it at her, but she didn’t move, simply sat there in stunned disbelief.

“There’s no time for this, Sister Beth,” he said, knowing kindness wouldn’t help. “I tried to get rid of as many of them as I could, but that doesn’t mean some of them might not come back to see what fun they might be missing. Put on the fucking dress.”

She fumbled with it, awkward, and he came over to her, impatient. She flinched, which ticked him off even more, because he knew he’d screwed up, but he hauled her up anyway, his hand rough, and pulled the dress over her head. He didn’t want to see her breasts. Small, soft, perfect breasts with pale nipples in the shadowy room. He wanted to put his mouth on them, he wanted to rip off those sensible panties and really take her. He made do with monosyllabic noises, shoving the flip-flops at her.

“Let’s get the hell out of here,” he said, heading for the door. If he moved her quickly enough she wouldn’t look in the tiny kitchen and see the bodies of the three men. She wouldn’t notice the blood smeared on the floor, or the stink of death in the air.

But the blood was the first thing she saw. She looked around her in a cold panic and saw the feet sticking out of the kitchen doorway, and she started to scream.

He had no choice. He slapped her, for real this time, hard enough to shock her out of her hysterics, not hard enough to hurt her. Her scream was cut off, and her eyes glittered with unshed tears and what he knew was fierce hatred. “We don’t have time for squeamishness,” he snapped. “Once we’re on the freighter you can scream all you want.” He reached for her arm, but she tried to avoid him, pissing him off even more.

He caught her in a hard grip, yanking her against him. The dress was huge on her, the neckline gaping, and he cursed, pulling it back over her shoulders so the sight of her breasts wouldn’t distract him. “Put your head against my shoulder and pretend you’re in love.”

The sound she made in response to that was reassuring. Her contemptuous disbelief was the sound of someone who was pulling herself together, and he wanted to pull her closer, to kiss her again. He didn’t.

“Vamanos,” he said in Alcista’s rough baritone. And they headed out into the stifling afternoon heat.

The heat wrapped around Beth like a shroud, thick and liquid. MacGowan had her clamped to his side, and if anyone looked too closely she sincerely doubted they would mistake them for lovers. In the late afternoon sunlight she took a good look at him. He hadn’t even bothered with a disguise; it was more the way he had carried himself. He was still underweight from his time in the mountains, but as Alcista he seemed hulking, menacing, a thick-set brute of a man. He was someone else now, not the Bull but not MacGowan either. He had the sunglasses covering most of his face, dirt smeared on his face, and his hair was slicked back with something that made it look almost black.

“Stop looking at me,” he growled, mashing her head back against his shoulder.

Son of a bitch, she thought, trying to summon up a righteous rage. He’d . . . he’d . . . the memory of his arousal under those awful circumstances was appalling. The fact that he’d . . . finished was even worse. She should be furious, and of course she was. What she couldn’t understand was the strange hint of something else in her reaction to his disgusting behavior. A feeling, almost, of tenderness.

She didn’t like sex. She didn’t make a habit of admitting that – women looked at her with pity and men decided they had a mission to change her mind. Not everyone was cut out for passion, and she knew her blood ran cooler than most people. Her emotions were reserved for friends, for children.

There was no question she’d fantasized about MacGowan. Even if she knew from experience that lovemaking wasn’t for her, she could still toy with the idea that if she were different, if things were different, if she were ever to take a lover, it would be someone like MacGowan. Someone tough and tender, someone with high cheekbones and flinty gray eyes and a lean, strong body.

It was no wonder that she felt a stray tendril of reaction from their simulated sex. Well, not simulated on his part.

Not that she was going to let him know that. She would spend the next day or two in offended dignity, enough so that he would never bring the subject up. And Dylan . . .

She yanked her arm away from him, coming to a dead stop. “Where’s Dylan? Did they kill him?”

“He’s already on the ship.” He tried to pull her back against him but she managed to skitter out of his way, yanking up the shoulder of the dress before it dropped perilously low.

“Is he all right?”

He looked at her. He’d been dragging her through a series of narrow alleyways, all of them deserted. This one was littered with trash and old boxes, the flies were buzzing loudly in the quiet afternoon, and it smelled like rotting meat. Rotting meat, she thought, picturing the dead men in that stifling apartment, and she almost threw up. “Now isn’t the time to hold a conversation,” he snapped. “He’s fine, but we won’t be if we don’t . . . fuck.” The final word was low and vicious, and she flinched.

It was insane, that words would still affect her after all the things she’d seen. But at that moment she was teetering on the ragged edge of control. One more curse, one more yank on her arm and she’d shatter. “Would you mind?” She was astounded at how icily calm she sounded. But then, she’d been perfecting her controlled mask for years. “I think I’ve had enough cursing for the day.”

He moved quickly, coming up to her fast, pulling her into his arms like a lover suddenly overcome with desire. In the middle of a trash-strewn alleyway. His hand was between their bodies, and she felt the heavy metal of the gun in his hand. It was cold – how could it be cold in this heat? He put his mouth to the side of her face, by her ear, and to an observer it would have looked as if he was kissing her. “When I tell you to, run,” he said in an undertone. “Even if I fall, just keep running. If I don’t catch up with you I’ll send someone else.”

She was as cold as the gun now. “What’s happened? Where are you going?”

He didn’t answer, simply turned, shoving her behind his back as he faced the figure at the end of the alleyway. There was a moment of silence, and she had the sudden image of two gunfighters facing off at high noon. “Long time no see, MacGowan,” the man said. American, and she knew she should feel relief. She didn’t.

“Sully. What are you doing here? Part of the welcoming committee?” He sounded cool, unconcerned. He wasn’t hiding the gun he held.

“You might say so. Put the gun away, Mac. I didn’t come alone, and I don’t necessarily have to take you alive.”

There was a pause. “What I’m wondering is why you have to take me at all? What’s the CIA want with a renegade Irishman? And don’t tell me it’s intel on the Guiding Light. This country doesn’t have oil – you have no interest in messing with their politics.”

“So cynical, MacGowan,” the man called Sully chided. “I hate to break it to you, but we don’t give a flying fuck about you. You’re simply the means to an end.”

“What end? No, let me guess. You want Serafin. What have I got to do with it?”

Sully grinned. “No one ever accused you of not being fast on the uptake. Isobel Lambert has always been loyal to her people, and she left you in the lurch when she ran off with our operative. She’s not going to stand by and let you kill Peter Madsen. She’ll want to make it right.”

“It was hardly her fault. Madsen should have followed through.” MacGowan’s voice was hardly more than a growl.

Sully shrugged. “None of my concern. If we knew they had you stashed in the mountains for the past three years then the Committee should have known as well.”

“The CIA knew I was a hostage?” Beth shivered at the tone in his voice.

“None of our business,” the man called Sully said.

“You didn’t think you should inform the Committee? Since we are, ostensibly, working on the same side?” Macgowan’s voice was deceptively casual, like a snake about to strike. Didn’t the man know how dangerous MacGowan could be?

“Not my concern. It worked out well in the end. We have you as bargaining tool and . . .”

MacGowan moved abruptly, sending Beth sprawling onto the filthy pavement. A shot rang out and she felt something go whizzing past her head as she fell. And then a volley of shots, as Sully went down, and he was lying at eye level, a bullet hole in the middle of his forehead. Staring at her, out of blank, dead eyes.

MacGowan dragged Sully’s body into a corner, covering it with discarded cardboard boxes. They’d find him soon enough – in this heat the smell would start quickly. He cursed beneath his breath. This was so fucking useless. Sully hadn’t needed to die, not until he took the first shot at Beth, and then there’d been no choice. He was so bloody tired of death.