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Two weeks until his rendezvous in Marseille. Two weeks to bum around France, setting up an innocent front for anyone who happened to be on the lookout for him, and there were doubtless any number of people who wanted to get to him before he could complete his assignment. He always worked alone—no one would ever expect him to have a woman in tow.
Two weeks to keep an unfortunately bright woman in the dark as to who and what he was, without even the benefit of sex to keep her distracted. It was going to be a long two weeks.
But worth it in the end. He’d make his meeting, complete his assignment and then disapp
ear, and she’d never know her charming American buddy had just assassinated General Etienne Matanga, the best hope for peace in his small African nation.
She never could figure out why she’d woken up early that morning, shoved her clothes and books into her knapsack and made her way down to the ferry. The Citroën had been easy to find, and Killian had been leaning against the car, waiting for something. Waiting, it seemed, for her. He’d looked up when she approached, and simply opened the back door for her to throw her knapsack in.
“I’ve got a thermos of coffee,” he’d said by way of greeting. “Black as the devil, hot as hell, pure as an angel, sweet as love.”
She just looked at him. “I don’t like sugar.”
He shrugged. “Well, if we’re going to be traveling together we’ll have to compromise. There isn’t really that much sugar in it.”
“I thought you said ‘sweet as love.’”
“I find love bittersweet, don’t you?”
She opened the thermos and poured some into the cap, taking a tentative sip. “I’m not sure I find love at all,” she replied. The coffee was good—hot and rich with just a trace of sweetness. “And who says we’re traveling together?”
“That’s up to you. I’ve got two weeks to kill before classes start. My girlfriend’s stuck in Berlin on a photo shoot, and I’m just going to drive around the south of France. You’ve got a few weeks to kill as well, and you’re welcome to join me, no strings attached. Maybe I’ll even give up sugar in my coffee if you’ll pitch in for gas.”
“Your girlfriend’s a photographer?”
He shook his head. “She’s a fashion model.”
That clinched it. No man with a fashion model girlfriend could have any ulterior motives in messing with red-haired Mary Curwen. He was absolutely right—she had three weeks until she could get into the cheap apartment waiting for her, and the fun of wandering on her own had permanently vanished last night in the alleyway.
“Lucky you,” she murmured.
He laughed. “Hey, what about lucky her?”
He was right about that. Now that Mary Isobel could see him in the light of day she realized he was good-looking. Maybe beyond that. He was well over six feet tall, with long legs clad in faded jeans. He had a narrow, clever face and green eyes. And he was taken.
“Lucky her,” she agreed with a smile. “You’ll make very pretty children.”
“If I can ever talk her into ruining her figure,” he grumbled. “Got your passport? They’ll be checking them.”
“Of course.”
“Hand it to me. It’ll go faster if they know we’re traveling together.”
The nonchalant request bothered her. There was no reason for it, but it bothered her anyway, even as she put the dark navy passport in his outstretched hand. But he smiled at her, a warm, dazzling smile in the sunlit morning, and she knew she was being ridiculous. He was a fellow American, looking for company and someone to share the gas expenses, and she had nothing else to do for the next few weeks.
So she smiled back at him. “Very practical,” she said, as he pocketed her passport. And she took another sip of the hot, dark coffee and ignored her misgivings. The worst mistake of her life.
3
Now
The Moroccan sun was blazingly bright, a shock to the system after the dark rain of a London winter. Isobel Lambert drove very fast over the rutted roads. She was blessed with an unerring sense of direction, something that had saved her life on numerous occasions, and she knew she’d make her destination by nightfall. She ignored the fact that she didn’t want to; she wasn’t ready to face who and what was waiting for her in a tiny North African village at the edge of the desert.
At least he wouldn’t have the faintest idea who Isobel Lambert was. She didn’t know how he’d survived that night, but since he clearly had, he’d know that she, too, should have died. He would have forgotten all about the gullible young woman he’d used and tried to kill, even though she’d turned the tables and shot him. And he’d never connect cool, pale Isobel Lambert with the wild child he’d spent two short weeks with a lifetime ago.
And thank God that was who she was. An elegant, ageless automaton, with no desires, needs or emotions. Those had been scrubbed out of her over the long years, and after the initial shock of recognition, she could view her current mission with equanimity. Josef Serafin would be out of commission, and the world would be a marginally safer place.
The winter sun was blazing down on her open-topped vehicle. But the Jeep was the fastest, most rugged conveyance she could find, and if someone managed to track her, or Serafin, even an armored tank wouldn’t keep them safe.
