Ice Storm
Behind her mask is a deadly secret…The powerful head of the covert mercenary organization The Committee, Isobel Lambert is a sleek, sophisticated professional who comes into contact with some of the most dangerous people in the world. But beneath Isobel's cool exterior a ghost exists, haunting her with memories of another life…a life that ended long ago. But Isobel's past and present are about to collide when Serafin, mercenary, assassin and the most dangerous man in the world, makes a deal with The Committee.Seventeen years ago Isobel shot him and left him for dead. Now it looks as if he's tracked her down for revenge. But Isobel knows all too well that looks can be deceiving…and that's what she's counting on to keep her cover in this international masquerade of murder.
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Ice STorm
Anne STuart
With huge thanks to my fabulous wizard of an agent,
Jane Dystel, and to my splendidly appreciative editor, Margaret OâNeill Marbury.
And a much-belated thank-you to Lynda Ward, whoâs
helped me innumerable times.
Bless you all!
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Prologue
Then
Mary Isobel Curwen had never shot a man before. She stood there, numb, unmoving. Sheâd never fired a gun before, and the feel of it in her grasp was disturbing. Her hand and arm tingled with the recoil, and she could smell the cordite, the blood. She wouldnât look at himâhe was down, unmoving, and there was nothing on this earth that would make her walk over to him and see what sheâd done.
Had she blown a hole through his head? His chest? Was he dead or just wounded? She knew she ought to checkâ¦. Sheâd had every reason to shoot him, but you couldnât very well let a man bleed to death, could you? she thought dazedly. Even if heâd been trying to kill you?
Or maybe you could. Maybe you could drop the gun, turn and run, as fast as possible, before he suddenly stood up and came after you, before one of his buddies came running to see where the noise had come from. Maybe you could take the gun with you, just in case.
She still had her backpack over her shoulder, which struck her as slightly crazy. She put the heavy handgun into it, noticing that her hands were shaking. Of course they were. Sheâd just killed a man.
He still wasnât moving, and she could see a pool of blood gathering beneath him. He was definitely dead.
How was she going to live without him?
It had begun to rain sometime during the last few hours. The streets were soaked, the lights glinting off the wet pavement as she ran out into the night, closing the heavy door of the abandoned building behind her without a sound. She was wearing loose sandals and wanted to kick them off, but you couldnât run barefoot when you were in the middle of a city. Even with a gun in your backpack and the man you loved lying dead in the dirt.
Running would attract too much attention. She shoved back her wild hair, trying to stuff the thick tangle into a knot. She straightened her shoulders and walked on in the rainy night, calm, composed, the scream buried so deep in her heart that it would never escape. By the time they found his body sheâd be long gone, and thereâd be nothing to connect Mary Isobel Curwen with a dead terrorist in a run-down part of Marseille. No one would ever know.
Except she would. And sheâd live with it, as sheâd learned to live with everything else life had handed her. Killian was dead. Long live Mary Isobel Curwen.
Without him.
1
Now
Madame Isobel Lambert was exhausted. It had been a draining weekend in the Lake Districtâsheâd played with her hostsâ obstreperous children, gone on long hikes, eaten too much rich food, drank too much red wine, wrestled with her conscience and killed two men. All that without a cigarette. She was not in a good mood.
There was no question that the men had deserved to die. Manuel Kupersmith and Jorge Sullivan were the lowest of the low, and beyond the reach of traditional justice. Drug dealers with a taste for torture and a well-financed sympathy for terrorists, theyâd covered their tracks too well. If sheâd had to, she would have put a bullet in each of their dark, twisted brains.
As it was, sheâd managed to sabotage their car, a nice, antiseptic kill. While she spent a social weekend with a member of parliament and his young family, it had been easy enough to wander past the inn where the two men had taken up residence, easy enough to sneak into the garage while the two were in bed. She knew a great deal about cars, and if her calculations were correct, the brakes would give out at the steep curve above the Lohan Cliffs and the car would end up on the rocks below. If the brakes failed too soon the car might hit a pedestrian; too late and they could run into the busy traffic of the neighboring town. Not something sheâd be happy about, but a risk worth taking.
In the end, her timing had been perfect. As her hosts drove her to the train station in Lohan Downs theyâd passed the police cars and the cordoned-off section of road, and her host had made important noises about road safety as Isobel breathed a silent sigh of relief. It was done.
She had the Sunday Times with her for the train ride back to London, and she finished the crossword puzzle in record time. Her flat in Bloomsbury was still and quiet as she let herself in, and she stripped off her clothes and headed straight for the shower, calm and impassive as always, ignoring her shaking hands.
She waited for the water to get hot, then stepped beneath it. And only then did she cry, silently, steadily. Not for the men. But for her own lost soul.
