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“James was a romantic. An idealist. He came into the business trying to save the world, trying to do the right thing. He died because of it.”
“And because he wanted to prove himself to you. What would he have to do to make you love him?”
She answered him, because she knew he’d badger her until she did. “I did love him. Just not the way he wanted.”
“Not sexually.” It wasn’t a question.
“I’m not discussing my sex life with you,” she said.
His smile was cool and deadly. “We don’t need to talk about your sex life, since it appears to be nonexistent after James Reddy. Maybe even before.”
Isobel said nothing, trying to shut him out, that soft, insinuating voice other women would have found so seductive. Not her, of course. But other women.
He rose from the bed, and she braced herself for God knew what. He stood over her, too close, and she made herself look up at him, trying to judge him dispassionately. He’d been good-looking eighteen years ago.
He was flat-out gorgeous now; she could admit it without emotion. His endless legs encased in faded jeans, the khaki shirt that was worn but clean, the face that somehow only looked better with age. Gray-blue eyes she’d thought were green, warmer than the eyes of a butcher should be. When he was in his twenties she’d been passionately, devotedly besotted, thinking he was so impossibly handsome he’d never look twice at her.
He had, but for his own reasons. And now, impossible as it was, he was even better looking, with a lean, weathered, world-weary grace that would have melted a heart of stone.
But hers was made of ice, and all the lazy charm left her inviolate. He was just a man. A bad man, to be sure. But just a man.
He leaned over her, his hands braced against the bulkhead, trapping her, and he moved his mouth to her ear, whispering. “What are you so afraid of, Mary Isobel? You’re the Iron Lady, the Ice Queen, nothing frightens you. And you’re sitting there like I’m about to stab and rape you.”
She wouldn’t look at him. He was too close, invading her space so thoroughly that he was almost inside her. And she didn’t want to be thinking about that.
She wasn’t about to fight him, push him away, try to take the upper hand as she could have with just about anyone else outside of the Committee. Because it would give him an excuse to put his hands on her, and if he did, she didn’t think she could bear it.
“So tell me,” he whispered, his voice low, beguiling. “What are you afraid of?”
“Absolutely nothing.”
He smiled. “I’d almost believe you, if I didn’t know you so well.” His mouth brushed her ear, and she felt a shiver run through her body. “So why didn’t you love James Reddy the way he wanted to be loved? Why did he feel he needed to prove himself to you so badly that he ended up dying stupidly for it? He wasn’t a stupid man, but he died for no good reason, because of you.”
“Shut up,” she said, fierce.
“Just answer the question, princess.” His breath warmed her ear, tickled it. She was cold, wet from her run on the deck, and she hadn’t even realized it. Cold from the center of her being, radiating out in icicles. “Answer the question and I’ll leave you alone. What was the problem between you and James? Exactly what was the sexual dysfunction Dr. Kellogg diagnosed?”
It had gone beyond any reasonable control. There was nothing she could hide, nothing she could hold back, and the fact that it had gotten this bad, reached such a devastatingly naked level, almost made her stronger. Of course he knew.
She jerked her head up. “To use the old-fashioned term, I’m frigid. If you were able to get into my records to find a diagnosis, I’m sure you could find out that much, as well.”
His expression was cool, assessing. As if he wasn’t exposing her mercilessly. “My contacts got into the insurance records, not the doctor’s notes. Trouble having an orgasm, princess? Some men simply don’t know how to provide one. You didn’t seem to have any problem with me, but then, you were drugged most of the time. Maybe you’re just too uptight to have sex unless someone else is in control.”
She was the past the point of caring. “Total lack of sexual interest or desire, Killian.” It was the first time she’d called him by name, and the sound of it was strange, intimate in the small cabin. “Presumably as a result of the trauma I suffered the night I killed you. They suggested I take testosterone as one way of creating a libido, but I figured I was aggressive and dangerous enough without added hormonal help. I’m exactly what you said—an iron maiden, an ice queen, and totally devoid of sexual feelings. Not even for a good, good man like James Reddy. And I prefer it this way, even though I still mourn his death. It’s one less vulnerability I have to deal with.”
Killian moved back, and the faint smile on his face would have bothered her if she wasn’t already past that point. “You have other vulnerabilities,” he said. “Including monumental self-deception. You’re lying to yourself, and you have been for years.”
“Oh, that’s right, I’ve just been waiting for your touch. Mourning your loss all these years, unable to love anyone else. I never realized I was such a tragic heroine. I’m so glad you pointed that out to me. Now I should be able to heal and live a full, rewarding life.” She smiled sweetly. “Killing people like you.”
He moved to the door, and she had a brief, hopeful moment where she thought he might leave her. But then he simply double bolted the lock, so it would take her longer to escape, longer for someone to come in and save her. Save her from what?
“So you haven’t responded to gentle, adoring men, Isobel?” It was the first time he’d used her new name, and the atmosphere in the cabin was suddenly charged with something strong and inescapable. “So let’s see if you like violence.” And he reached for her.
15
She didn’t hesitate. She was too good at what she’d done for years, and she was motivated. The last time she’d had sex was the night James had left, the night before he died. She’d made herself do it, had put on her best performance, but James wasn’t fooled. She hadn’t tried again.
She wasn’t going to let this man touch her.
