She had no choice but glance at him, but her eyes skittered away quickly. He had a stubborn jaw, high cheekbones, with a deceptive delicacy about his mouth, a sweetness she knew was a complete lie. And there wasn’t even a scratch on his gorgeous face. “I’m impressed,” she muttered into her stew.
He laughed. “Why, Sister Beth, I do believe you’re shy.”
That was too much. She glared at him, looking for what she remembered in his face, the mocking, flinty eyes. “I don’t do shy.”
“Now that’s a lie, sweetheart.” Before she realized what he was doing he’d reached across the table and caught her hand in his. There was a world of difference. His hands were large, burned dark by the sun, covered with scars and scratches. Two of his fingers had been badly broken at one point and hadn’t been properly set, and her smaller, paler, much more delicate hand seemed almost child-like caught in his stronger one. His thumb rubbed against the inside of her palm, and she felt heat move up her arm, and she wanted to pull away from him, but she looked up into the handsome face of a stranger and didn’t move, mesmerized.
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“I’m clean,” Dylan announced unnecessarily from the kitchen door, and Beth tried to yank her hand free. She couldn’t. “Dinner smells great.” He peered into the pot distrustfully. “Looks like ass, though.” He looked back at them. “What’s going on with you two? Every time I walk in the room you both look like you’ve been fucking. You decide to have a piece, dude?”
“You need to learn to respect your elders, lad,” MacGowan said in a lazy voice, still caressing her palm with his thumb, the slow, deliberate strokes sending a mass of contradictory feelings through her.
Dylan plopped himself down at the table beside MacGowan and dug in. He seemed to take MacGowan’s transformation in stride, but then, the elegant cheekbones, the seductive mouth would most likely leave a teenage boy cold. “You know, holding hands isn’t gonna get you anywhere,” he confided, his mouth full of food. “You’re not that old.”
MacGowan laughed then, and released her. “You make me feel positively ancient. If I have any trouble getting Sister Beth in bed I’ll ask your advice. Until then, shut the fuck up.”
Dylan chuckled. He glanced over at Beth, who’d snatched her hand back and stuck it under the table. “You look nice,” he said to her. “Not that you look all that different from when you arrived, just cleaned up a bit. I didn’t recognize MacGowan when I first saw him.”
“Three years,” MacGowan reminded him absently, his eyes still on Beth’s face. She wished he’d look somewhere else. She looked in his direction, avoiding his gaze, concentrating first on his shoulder, then looking at his long hair.
“He looks very different,” she agreed. “How long were you held captive? And how did they kidnap you?”
Dylan shrugged, but he looked a bit sheepish. “I was just bumming around the country with a couple of friends, having a good time, and the next thing I know I wake up and I’m in the mountains.”
“What he’s not saying,” MacGowan broke in, “is that he and a bunch of his rich friends commandeered his father’s private jet and came down here in search of drugs and a good time. The friends got hauled back to the States but our lad here managed to avoid capture and struck up a friendship with the wrong sort of people. People who sold him out to the Guiding Light. How long were you with us, kid? Three months? Four?”
Dylan seemed unoffended by this harsh assessment. “Six weeks and two days, dude. Until you got me out.” He sighed. “There’s a cantina in town, and I sure could use some . . .” he glanced at Beth, “. . . some feminine companionship. It’s a long time to go without . . . uh . . . feminine companionship.”
“Meaning he wants pussy,” MacGowan translated, “and he’s suddenly decided to watch his language.”
“It wouldn’t do you any harm either,” she snapped.
“But the thing is, kid,” he continued, as if Beth hadn’t said anything, “I don’t want you leaving this place. I have to go scout things out, see if I can find us a vehicle, and I need you to look out for Sister Beth.”
“I don’t need looking out for.”
He just looked at her, and once more she lowered her eyes to the stew. “I would have thought by now you’d realize that the only way we’re going to survive is to do what I tell you.” He pushed back from the table, and for the first time since she’d seen the new, gorgeous version of him she found she could breathe. “Dylan, since you didn’t cook and Beth needs to stay off her feet, you end up with KP. And then I want you both in bed.” He cast a menacing glance at Dylan. “Separately, kid. But take the room next to her just in case. I’ll be taking care of business.”
“You’re the one who’s going after pussy,” Dylan accused him.
“Three years, kid.” He headed for the door, then paused for a moment, looking back at her, and once more she felt the uncomfortable warmth of his gaze. “Watch out for Sister Beth.”
Vincent Barringer was feeling uncharacteristically annoyed. He always acted with deliberation and calm, but things had definitely not gone his way.
Sully had lost MacGowan. The Guiding Light had gotten a tip, and had gone after MacGowan before Sully could stop them, and his quarry had disappeared into the jungles without a trace.
They would have to wait until he showed up in a town. He had no choice, if he wanted to get out of the country he’d need to make it to a reasonably large city, and Sully’s informants would make sure Sully found out about it. It was just going to take a little bit longer.
In the meantime, his people in London had picked up what seemed like ghost transmissions. Messages that had come from a source they were unable to trace so far, but he was guessing had come from Isobel Lambert. Unfortunately he could only bring in his most trusted operatives – there was no budget for this. Killian had been written off long ago, though the file was still open, and would be until there was a verified kill.
Still, Barringer had to be careful whom he trusted. Thank God for Sully. If Sully couldn’t catch MacGowan, then no one could. And once he was in the hands of the CIA, Isobel would emerge, Killian at her side. The perfect target.
He felt himself calming at the pleasant thought. He’d been a crack shot when he was younger, a sniper in Viet Nam. Maybe he’d do the hit himself this time, though he’d much prefer handling it face to face. Anonymous death was frustrating for both the victim and the executioner. People needed to know why they were dying.
Even Killian deserved that much.
CHAPTER ELEVEN