It seemed a good time to vacate, but Chloe wouldn’t hear of it, and Genevieve had always had a weakness for babies. “Wait until we know Peter is on the mend,” she’d said. “Wait until the baby stops crying all the time. Wait until Sylvia sleeps through the night.” And “Wait until Bastien tells us what’s going on.”
It would be a cold day in hell for the last, Genevieve thought. When she finally announced she was going back to New York, no more delays, Bastien simply told her that her apartment had been sold and her belongings packed up and put in storage, by order of Madame Lambert. The only thing sent on to her in North Carolina was her passport.
It was that simple.
He would probably always walk with a slight limp. He no longer needed a cane, and it had only been three months since Harry Van Dorn had riddled him with bullets. He’d come a long way in a short time, but there was nerve damage in his thigh, and all the hard work and therapy in the world wasn’t going to change that.
He wouldn’t work in the field again. From now on he’d be behind a desk, gathering intel. The Iceman would exist no longer, the best closer in the business would work no more. He’d retired from the field, his last mission a spectacular failure on his part, at least. For some reason it didn’t bother him. He’d paid for his screwup, Genevieve was alive and happy and back at work, he expected, having recovered from her brief sojourn in the world of death and intrigue. She would have recovered from her infatuation quite quickly, he expected, the moment she got back into her Armani and Blahniks.
He’d been in London three months—a month in hospital, another month in rehab and a month stuck in his empty, sterile apartment—until he finally got leave to go out of town. He’d put it off too long; he had to put the Wiltshire house on the market. It was part of a world that he’d never live in. Fires in the hearth, babies on the rug, gardens with the scent of wild roses filling the air. Not for him. He’d become another Thomason—cold and efficient, but not quite so ruthless. Madame Lambert wouldn’t work forever, even though she looked far younger than she had to be. There was always room for advancement in the bloody Committee.
He couldn’t drive his car. It was a standard, and working the clutch was a little more than he was up to, so he rented an automatic and headed out into the country on a bright, warm summer day that seemed to mock his bleak mood.
He stopped for lunch on the way, for some reason putting off getting to the house. Once he arrived he’d need to call the real estate agent, go through the place and see what needed work, see if someone could come in and do something about the overgrown gardens. He’d meant to do that earlier in the spring, but things had taken a strange turn. But life was back to normal, his icy control was back in place, and he could move forward as he’d meant to all along, before things had gotten sidetracked.
He turned into the winding driveway, frowning. The weeds that had choked the paving stones were gone, the hedges neatly trimmed. Had he hired a gardening firm and not remembered? It was always possible, considering it had been a rough few months.
The back door was unlocked, another unnerving occurrence. He wasn’t worried about unpleasant sur- prises and he was no longer worthy of being terminated. Not worth the trouble of setting up a hit—he could live out the rest of his life any way he wanted it.
He stopped dead in the hallway. The place was spotless—sunlight sparkling through the tiny windowpanes on either side of the door, fresh flowers on the table. There were car keys lying there, but he hadn’t seen another car. Then again, he hadn’t looked in the garage.
Good God, had Madame Lambert sold the place behind his back? He wouldn’t put it past her since she’d already told him he didn’t belong here. The table in front of him looked familiar, but it could belong to someone else. He walked through into the study, to see that his grandfather’s huge desk was still there. With a sewing machine on top of it.
Left turn and down two steps to the kitchen. He could see new dishes in the glass-door cupboards, and someone had installed a dishwasher. He stared at it in amazement, then looked out the kitchen door to the gardens beyond.
They were beautiful. The flowers were a riot of color, waving in the soft summer breeze, and he could smell the scent of wild roses. He’d been dreaming about that, but he couldn’t remember there being any wild roses nearby.
He turned the corner and saw them both at once. The newly planted rosebush that somehow, miraculously, was blooming, the flowers giving off a heady scent.
And the woman kneeling in the garden, her back to him, a straw hat covering her head, shielding her face from the bright sunlight.
He didn’t move, didn’t say a word, but she must have sensed his presence, because she turned around, push- ing the hat off her head so that her blond hair tumbled down around her shoulders. And she actually blushed.
“Oh,” Genevieve said. “I didn’t realize you were here.” She got up hurriedly, stripping off her gloves and brushing the dirt off the flowery dress she was wearing. “I know I probably look ridiculous, but I couldn’t figure out what English women wore when they gardened, and Laura Ashley seemed oddly appropriate, except that I think I’ve ruined three different dresses…” Her nervous babble trailed off.
He took a couple of steps toward her, so she could see his limp, and stopped.
She didn’t know what to say. For the first time in his memory words had finally failed her, and it was all he could do not to smile. He just stood there, watching her, waiting.
“Well,” she said in a brisk voice after a moment, “I’m glad you finally decided to come home. I’m not sure if I’ve got enough for dinner, but I can always head out to the grocers. What are you in the mood for?”
He didn’t answer, simply because his answer would have shocked her.
She came closer. “Aren’t you going to say something?” she said. “Ask me why I’m here? Tell me to go away?”
“No,” he said.
“Why not?”
“Because this is where you belong.” And he reached for her, in the bright summer sunshine, and she came into his arms, into his heart, into his life. Forever.
Also by
Anne Stuart
THE DEVIL’S WALTZ
BLACK ICE
INTO THE FIRE
All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all the incidents are pure invention.
All Rights Reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Enterprises II B.V./S.à.r.l. The text of this publication or any part thereof may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, storage in an information retrieval system, or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the prior consent of the publisher in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
MIRA is a registered trademark of Harlequin Enterprises Limited, used under licence.
Published in Great Britain 2011.
MIRA Books, Eton House, 18-24 Paradise Road,
Richmond, Surrey, TW9 1SR
© Anne Kristine Stuart Ohlrogge 2006
ISBN: 978-1-408-92908-7
63-0111
Anne Stuart, Cold as Ice
(Series: Ice # 2)
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