Read Online On Thin Ice by Anne Stuart - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Anne Stuart
Tags: Suspense
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struggling when he caught her, panic filling her body.
He hauled her to the surface, clamping an arm around her shoulders to keep her above water as he headed toward shore. She took a deep, harsh gulp of air and then began puking water, and he tilted her so she wouldn’t suffocate. He was more than ready to clock her one if she struggled, but even in her panic to breath she seemed to recognize he wasn’t going to hurt her, and by the time he’d hauled them both onto grass she’d stopped coughing up water and had begun to breathe more normally. No mouth to mouth, he thought reluctantly, sprawling on his back while he tried to slow his own labored breathing. The cold water had been bad enough – dragging her body had just about done him in.
He stared up into the late afternoon sky, then closed his eyes again. He’d killed three men today. Izzy, Ramon the sadist, and the new kid who’d arrived yesterday with Miss Priss. It had been a long time since he’d killed anybody, and he may never have killed anyone as young as the one he’d just shot in the head, thanks to the woman lying beside him. He owed her for that. He’d felt the kid coming at him, and he’d been perfectly ready to stop him when she’d interfered. And why the hell had she done it?
The sky was dark, overcast. November was a month of rains – that was all he needed to make this day perfect. A bloody rainstorm with mudslides. And Hans Froelich’s backstabbing had cut his profit in half. He was going to have to climb back up the cliff and find Dylan, when he’d been secretly hoping he could dump the little monster. It was beginning to look like Beth Pennington was going to end up paying cold hard cash.
He wanted to laugh. As if a piece of ass was worth the kind of rescue money someone like Beth Pennington could afford to pay him. He didn’t need to let her know that. Things worked better if he kept her scared enough to do what he told her to.
That didn’t mean he might not still get a piece of her. If he just put a little effort into it he could have her eating out of his hand. Saving a woman’s life was a powerful aphrodisiac. And he could be down-right irresistible if the mood struck him, for which he thanked his Irish heritage. Not his da, that murdering braggart. But the friends and neighbors who’d tried to look after him when his da went to prison for knocking his wife about once too often, just a bit too hard.
There were times when he wondered if she were still alive. Last time he’d seen her she’d been hooked up to machines, only kept alive because it was a Catholic country, his father locked up in Maze prison. A real republic hero, his da was, dying during the hunger strikes, so that people forgot why he was put in prison in the first place. He still couldn’t hear the accidental clang of trash can lids without being covered in a cold sweat.
Ah, but that was in the past. What mattered was now. He sat up, glancing over at her, wondering if he was going to have to fend off her teary gratitude.
Not likely. She was glaring at him, bless her. “You could have killed me,” she said, her voice raw from the water she’d puked up.
“You’re welcome.” He shoved his mattered hair away from his face and narrowed his eyes. Bloody hell. The icy cold water had plastered her loose shirt against her body, and her nipples were hard, pushing against the cloth. He could warm them, he thought, wondering what she’d do if he tried it. “You’re alive, aren’t you? That little piece of shit would have taken your head off with that machete in another moment. What did you do to make him hate you so much?”
“Nothing. I was his teacher.”
He laughed without humor. “That explains it then. He was too fucking young to die. I owe you for that.”
“He killed Father Pascal. As the old man was praying. And he raped and killed Tia Maria, who helped with the laundry and the cooking. She was in her fifties, a grandmother, and the last thing
He hauled her to the surface, clamping an arm around her shoulders to keep her above water as he headed toward shore. She took a deep, harsh gulp of air and then began puking water, and he tilted her so she wouldn’t suffocate. He was more than ready to clock her one if she struggled, but even in her panic to breath she seemed to recognize he wasn’t going to hurt her, and by the time he’d hauled them both onto grass she’d stopped coughing up water and had begun to breathe more normally. No mouth to mouth, he thought reluctantly, sprawling on his back while he tried to slow his own labored breathing. The cold water had been bad enough – dragging her body had just about done him in.
He stared up into the late afternoon sky, then closed his eyes again. He’d killed three men today. Izzy, Ramon the sadist, and the new kid who’d arrived yesterday with Miss Priss. It had been a long time since he’d killed anybody, and he may never have killed anyone as young as the one he’d just shot in the head, thanks to the woman lying beside him. He owed her for that. He’d felt the kid coming at him, and he’d been perfectly ready to stop him when she’d interfered. And why the hell had she done it?
The sky was dark, overcast. November was a month of rains – that was all he needed to make this day perfect. A bloody rainstorm with mudslides. And Hans Froelich’s backstabbing had cut his profit in half. He was going to have to climb back up the cliff and find Dylan, when he’d been secretly hoping he could dump the little monster. It was beginning to look like Beth Pennington was going to end up paying cold hard cash.
He wanted to laugh. As if a piece of ass was worth the kind of rescue money someone like Beth Pennington could afford to pay him. He didn’t need to let her know that. Things worked better if he kept her scared enough to do what he told her to.
That didn’t mean he might not still get a piece of her. If he just put a little effort into it he could have her eating out of his hand. Saving a woman’s life was a powerful aphrodisiac. And he could be down-right irresistible if the mood struck him, for which he thanked his Irish heritage. Not his da, that murdering braggart. But the friends and neighbors who’d tried to look after him when his da went to prison for knocking his wife about once too often, just a bit too hard.
There were times when he wondered if she were still alive. Last time he’d seen her she’d been hooked up to machines, only kept alive because it was a Catholic country, his father locked up in Maze prison. A real republic hero, his da was, dying during the hunger strikes, so that people forgot why he was put in prison in the first place. He still couldn’t hear the accidental clang of trash can lids without being covered in a cold sweat.
Ah, but that was in the past. What mattered was now. He sat up, glancing over at her, wondering if he was going to have to fend off her teary gratitude.
Not likely. She was glaring at him, bless her. “You could have killed me,” she said, her voice raw from the water she’d puked up.
“You’re welcome.” He shoved his mattered hair away from his face and narrowed his eyes. Bloody hell. The icy cold water had plastered her loose shirt against her body, and her nipples were hard, pushing against the cloth. He could warm them, he thought, wondering what she’d do if he tried it. “You’re alive, aren’t you? That little piece of shit would have taken your head off with that machete in another moment. What did you do to make him hate you so much?”
“Nothing. I was his teacher.”
He laughed without humor. “That explains it then. He was too fucking young to die. I owe you for that.”
“He killed Father Pascal. As the old man was praying. And he raped and killed Tia Maria, who helped with the laundry and the cooking. She was in her fifties, a grandmother, and the last thing
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