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She held out her hand. “Thank you for helping me.”
He looked at her hand for a moment, a smile quirking his mouth. She could see him better in the light—his hair was long, tied in the back with a leather loop, his face narrow and intelligent looking, his mouth the only anomaly. It was a rich, beautiful mouth in an otherwise austere face, particularly when he was smiling.
He took her hand and bowed low over it in an exaggerated gesture. “I live to serve. My name’s Killian, by the way.”
“Is that your first or last name?”
“Take your pick. I’m Thomas Henry Killian St. Claire, but I don’t care much for the other ones. And you are…?”
“Mary.”
He waited patiently, still holding her hand. “Mary Isobel Curwen,” she said finally, snatching it away.
“Well, Mary Isobel Curwen, it’s been an honor to have been of service. If you decide you want a ride to France just let me know.”
“I don’t think so. I’m fine on my own.”
“Of course you are. I’ll be at the ferry tomorrow morning—I’ve got a battered orange Citroën. If you want a ride, just show up. No strings attached. I’ve got a French girlfriend who’d cut my throat if I even looked at another woman. I’m just offering a ride to a fellow American.”
“I’m fine,” she said again.
“Suit yourself. I’m taking the ten o’clock ferry. In the meantime, stay out of dark alleyways, okay? France has even more of them.”
“I will.”
She half expected him to argue, but he simply walked away from her, down the deserted street, hands in his pockets, a man at ease with the world.
She watched him go. The whole evening had taken on a surreal feeling, and the sooner she got in the shower and into bed, the sooner she’d get past it. By ten tomorrow he’d be on his way to France and she would have forgotten entirely about him.
By ten o’clock she was sitting beside him in the disreputable orange Citroën, driving onto the ferry and wondering if she’d lost her mind.
She’d been a weakness, one Killian couldn’t afford to have. He’d only been passing through Plymouth, trying to find a good cover to get into France to complete his mission, and the noise in the alleyway was none of his business. He’d accepted long ago that he couldn’t save the world.
But something, probably simply the shitty luck that had currently plagued him, made him turn around and head back into the alleyway in time to stop some of the street rats from raping some stupid tourist.
He’d shot one, just because he’d wanted to. He could have gotten rid of them without the gun, but the sight of those pathetic, evil hoodlums annoyed him. They’d scattered, including the one he’d winged, and he was even more annoyed he hadn’t killed him. And then he focused his attention on the woman.
He’d put on his best American student affability, reaching out a hand to pull her upright. She was slight, medium height, looking a bit shell-shocked. Just an idiot woman who’d wandered into the wrong place at the wrong time.
Pretty, too, if he’d been in the mood to consider such things. She had a mess of red hair, and he’d never particularly liked redheads. In the moonlight he could see she had unbelievably blue eyes—almost turquoise—and the kind of mouth that could distract most men.
It didn’t distract him. Maybe playing Sir Galahad hadn’t been such a stupid idea, after all. She’d provide the perfect cover—no one would be on the lookout for a couple of American students bumming around France.
He’d said all the right things, of course, and she’d taken him at face value. He couldn’t fault her for that; most people looked at him and failed to see the wolf that lurked beneath his calm exterior.
He wasn’t going to be able to take the easy route and sleep with her. The best way to get a woman to do what you wanted was to fuck her, but Mary Isobel Curwen had nearly been raped. She wasn’t going to want any man putting moves on her for quite a while. If he needed to seal the deal later, before he’d finished his assignment, then he would, but it was always better if he kept things simple. Sex tended to make a woman possessive, or at the very least, curious. Curiosity was a liability in his line of work.
But a platonic, protective friend was another matter, and she fell for it. It was child’s play—just the right amount of asexual charm and nonthreatening promise, and she was sitting next to him in the beater of a car that hid an engine that could outrun a Ferrari. She’d never know what hit her.
The wind was up and the ferry crossing was rough, but his newfound cover had a cast-iron stomach, and she stood up on deck, the wind whipping her wild red hair around her pale face, her eyes bright, lively. Another point in her favor—she wasn’t easily frightened, either by storms or gangs of rapacious teenagers. As long as she stayed docile she’d be just fine.
She wasn’t quite the perfect partner. If he’d been able to custom-order one he would have picked someone a little plainer, with dark hair, someone a little less complicated, who would enter into a sexual relationship without a lot of baggage. He liked sex, but he never let it get in the way of an assignment, and someone like Mary Curwen would definitely demand more than a vigorous workout. She’d get involved, making things a great deal more dangerous, so she was off-limits.
It would have been more convenient if she weren’t so smart. That was mistake number one—thinking a cooking student would be less of a threat than someone attending the Sorbonne. Just because she’d been foolish enough to wander out alone didn’t mean she couldn’t put two and two together. He’d have to be careful.
Thinking it would be easy to keep his hands off her was the second mistake. And he wasn’t sure which was worse.
But Killian was a man who took what was handed to him and worked with it. Mary Isobel Curwen, American student, had fallen into his lap quite nicely, and he had every intention of taking full advantage of her.
