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He was taking forever in the bathroom. The shower had stopped awhile ago, but the water in the sink had been running steadily, and she wondered what the hell he was doing in there. It didn’t matter. It was only morning, and they weren’t getting out of this place before nighttime. She was going to have to spend hours trapped in this room with her worst nightmare. The longer he spent in the bathroom, the better.
She was so weary, but the last place she was going was the bed. She sat on the floor, her back against the wall, and rested her arms on her drawn-up knees. How did the song go—“I’ll sleep when I’m dead”? She felt half-dead already. But that meant half-alive, and it was going to take a hell of a lot to get past that other half. She closed her eyes, listening to the sound of the water, tasting the rich, creamy coffee on her tongue. Remembering things she wished she could have forgotten forever.
7
Then
“No room at the inn,” Killian said. “The entire town is booked. Some kind of religious festival, I think. We’ve got two choices. Push on, drive until we find a town with some space, or spend the night on the beach. The problem is, it’s supposed to rain, and apparently every town for miles around is booked solid for the weekend.”
Mary Isobel was exhausted, bone weary. It seemed as if they’d been in the rickety old Citroën for centuries, and lunch had been nothing more than bread and cheese and fruit. She was grumpy, she was hungry and she was in love. Not the best possible circumstances.
“How far would we have to drive to find a hotel?” she asked. It was already after ten, and a light rain had begun to fall, fogging the windows of the small car.
Killian shrugged. He’d been quiet all day. She knew it had to be Marie-Claire, and she felt that familiar-unfamiliar knot of guilt and longing. He’d used a pay-phone just after lunch, and though he’d said nothing, she could guess there was trouble. “Probably two or three hours on these roads. And then only if we’re lucky.”
“Do you want to head straight to Paris?”
He turned his head, looking at her out of those mesmerizing green eyes, clearly surprised. “Why would we do that? Neither of us is starting classes for another week, and we wanted to see Marseille.”
“I thought you might want to get back to Marie-Claire and patch things up. You’ve been quiet all day, and I know you’re thinking about her. You could leave me here and I’ll hitchhike to Paris. I’m sure I can find some cheap hotel to stay in until I get my student housing, and you’ve spent far too much time—”
“She’s not in Paris.” His voice was quiet, unemotional.
“Where is she?”
“In Austria, with someone named Wolfgang. Apparently she’s fallen in love.”
“Oh, Killian, I’m so sorry!” Mary Isobel said, her heart aching for him.
He looked out into the rainy night. They were parked on a side street of the small village, the motor running, and she watched his profile in the dim light. “I’m not sure I am,” he said. “We’d been drifting apart for months now.”
“But you loved her!”
“Maybe. Maybe it was just really good sex. It doesn’t matter—it’s over now. And you can find really good sex anywhere.”
She wasn’t going to argue with that. Maybe it was easy for him. He was tall, strong and gorgeous, and not cursed with a crazy mane of red hair and a few too many pounds. She’d never had all that much luck with men and sex.
But talking about sex with Killian was something she intended to avoid. Particularly since every time he touched her, brushed against her, her nerve endings sang and her stomach clenched and she wanted to cry or fling herself at him.
“And I don’t expect you’re in any hurry,” she said, trying to sound tranquil, and almost succeeding.
“No hurry,” he said. “Since I’ve fallen in love with someone else, myself. This just makes it a little easier.”
She’d been able to deal with Marie-Claire fairly well—after all, she’d been in place when Mary Isobel first met Killian, before she’d fallen deeply, hopelessly in love with him. But someone else, someone new, was a little harder to deal with.
She’d been around boys who were madly in love with other people, had listened to them pour out their hearts, oblivious to her. Killian was no boy, and he wasn’t about to do that. But they were friends. They’d talked about everything over the last two weeks as they’d traveled around France. Of course he’d want to talk about the new woman in his life.
Funny that he hadn’t mentioned her. He’d told Mary Isobel enough about Marie-Claire to make her sickeningly jealous. She didn’t want to hear about the new one. She knew he was out of her league—a good friend and nothing more—but that didn’t mean she wanted to listen to him.
“Oh,” she said, knowing she sounded idiotic. Not caring. “So we don’t bother with Paris. Where are we going to spend the night?”
“Let’s head for the Camargue. We both wanted to see it—how many times do you get to see French cowboys? If we don’t find a place to stay we can always sleep in the car.”
The rain grew harder, steadier, streaming across the roads as he drove into the night. The Citroën was small and boxy—she could always curl up on the backseat, but he’d have a harder time folding his tall, lanky frame into any kind of comfortable position in the cramped quarters. At one point she fell asleep—easy to do with the sound of the rain beating against the canvas roof of the car, the even click of the windshield wipers, the absolute peace and safety she felt beside Killian. As long as she was with him nothing bad could happen. He’d saved her once, and he looked out for her. She’d put up with the ache of longing in return for his friendship, which was as solid and real as anything in her life.
When she woke up the car had stopped. The night was black all around them, the rain still beating against the windows and roof. The lights of the dashboard provided only a small amount of illumination, and then none at all as he turned off the car.
“What’s up?” she asked, sleepy, unalarmed.
