Cold as Ice (22 page)

He almost smiled for the first time in days. "Of course. I'd expect nothing else."

"Enjoy your time off. I expect you back in two months, at the top of your game." She took a parting glance around the room. "Definitely needs a woman's touch."

Genevieve heard voices. She was scarcely Joan of Arc, and it wasn't the voice of God, that rich Texas drawl that oozed warmth and compassion. It was the voice of the devil, some huge, slimy, warty creature who stank of death and bourbon.

She drank that tea. She tried not to, but the patient, implacable Anh had stood over her, her English limited to "You drink."

And Genevieve had drank, because she'd had no choice, hoping she had misunderstood Takashi O'Brien's implied warning. But it hit her so fast she had only time to whisper, "Oh shit," as Anh caught her falling teacup.

She fought the effects, but it was like wrestling in marshmallow fluff—everything was white and thick and sticky, and when she tried to push it away it clung to her hands. The sheets were wrapped so tightly around her body she couldn't move. She could only lie there, mummified, hoping she was suddenly transported back in time to the couch in Harry's living room on the island, and she could somehow stop the inevitable.

But the voices told her otherwise. It was Harry Van Dorn's familiar voice, but the words were strange.

"She screwed him," he said. "I can see the stink of him on her. Get rid of her. I'm no longer interested."

"As you wish." It was his assistant's soft voice. Takashi—who'd warned her about the tea.

"On second thought," the voice that was and wasn't Harry said, "maybe there's some fun to be had. I don't get to play with a white woman very often—too many people ask questions when they disappear. But she's already been declared dead—I can do anything I want, take as long as I want, and I don't need to worry about repercussions. Why don't you keep her like this until I get back."

"Of course," Takashi O'Brien said, ever the obedient servant. "If you have no problem with Madsen's leavings."

Madsen? Who was Madsen, Genevieve thought uneasily. And then she remembered. She should open her eyes, tell them she could hear them, but someone had sewn her eyelids shut and put one-hundred-pound weights on them.

They were standing over her as she lay on the bed—she could tell that much even without being able to see. Harry made a sound of disgust. "You're right, Jack," he said. "You always are. I certainly don't want sloppy seconds, even if there is no trace of him.

"What would I do without you, Jack? You protect me from my mistakes. If it weren't for you, I imagine I would have stopped having fun long ago."

She didn't have to see to know that Takashi O'Brien was giving an obsequious bow, but Harry's laugh confirmed it. "That's what I like about you Japs," he said. "Always bowing and scraping, and you understand loyalty. You know who's master, and you'll die to protect me."

"Certainly."

"So you take care of the bitch. You can have a bit of fun with her, if you're not picky, but just make sure you get rid of the body so that it's never found. I've got a lot of irons in the fire right now and I can't have anything get in the way. There's a lot of money riding on my current project, and she's endangering it. One false move and the entire thing would come tumbling down, and I'm out billions of dollars. And I like money, Jack."

"Yes, sir."

Genevieve would have given anything to open her eyes and see his face. But the fog was still surrounding her, and she decided she didn't really give a shit. If Jack/Takashi was going to kill her there wasn't a whole lot she could do about it—not at this point. If he waited long enough, maybe she'd be able to roll out of bed and hide underneath it. But at that point she couldn't even manage to summon the energy to open her goddamn eyes.

Someone leaned over her, and gentle hands patted the covers that imprisoned her useless body. "I told you not to drink the tea," he said, his soft voice a welcome change from Harry's drawl.

But then he was gone, and she was alone, and since she wasn't dead yet she might as well go back to sleep. So she did.

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I
t was midnight, though she wasn't certain how she knew. There were no clocks in her luxurious bedroom, and her Patek Philippe watch had disappeared along with the clothes she was wearing. And the enigmatic note Peter had left her.

It shouldn't bother her. It was just a hastily scrawled note, with no signature, no tender words. But it was part of him, all she had, and she wanted it.

She sat up in bed, strangely alert. The drugged tea had worn off, leaving her with only a little
fuzziness. She slid out of bed and stood, a little weak but steady enough.

She glanced down at her clothing. More of the lacy clothing Harry seemed to provide for all his guests, willing or unwilling. If she went to the drawers she'd probably find the same absurd collection of thongs and demi bras designed to turn an A cup to a C cup. Since she was already a firm C, the idea of such infrastructure was alarming.

She crossed the darkened room slowly, but with each step she felt a little stronger moving toward the bank of windows she hadn't noticed before. The house was on a bluff overlooking the ocean, but which ocean was a mystery. There were boats, but without glasses she couldn't even begin to guess their size, much less their nationality, and she turned away, frustrated. She could feel a burning, knotting feeling in her stomach, and for a moment she was afraid the drugs in her system were reemerging in a particularly unpleasant fashion.

And then she realized she was hungry. Starving, in fact. She couldn't remember how long it'd been since she'd eaten. Harry had said she'd been in an induced coma for some thirteen days, which meant her sole sustenance had been given intravenously. She reached up and touched her hair. It was clean, as was the rest of her body, and she wondered if the impassive Takashi was responsible for that. He'd be as efficient and impersonal as anyone, but she didn't like the idea of any male messing with her while she was naked and unconscious. She was a little picky about such things.

No mirrors, not even in the adjoining marble bathroom. Clearly this was no place for the model-perfect women Harry usually entertained.

It didn't matter—as long as she was clean she could manage just about anything.

She heard someone approaching, and she dived back into bed, pulling the covers up around her again and closing her eyes. She knew instinctively that it wasn't Harry; even without looking she could feel the miasma of evil that emanated from the man she'd been determined to save. The sick creep who'd ordered her death.

Why the hell did everyone want to kill her? First the attack in upstate New York, then Peter Jensen, then Renaud. At least with Peter it had been nothing personal, more a matter of simple expediency, the polite son of a bitch. And in the end he hadn't done it, no matter how practical and simple it was.

And now good old Harry Van Dorn wanted her dead, and his henchman would doubtless be ready to carry out his orders at once because…

Why? Was she a victim of bad timing over and over again? Or maybe it was the fact that she never took the smart or easy way out, throwing her lot in with Harry Van Dorn. She knew there was something dodgy about him—her instincts had screamed it while her brain was trying to reason with her. And yet she'd gone blundering ahead.

And no one deserved to be executed by a vigilante Committee, no matter how bad they were. Or so she thought, rescuer that she was.

Big mistake. Was he coming to kill her now? If so, she could, and would, put up a hell of a fight, even though she hadn't even the slightest chance of winning. She'd never been the kind to give up, even when it was the smart thing to do.

She recognized the voices—Takashi O'Brien and Anh conducting a muted conversation in a language she couldn't begin to understand. And then O'Brien spoke to her.

"Ms. Spenser? Are you awake?"

She considered faking it, but he was far too observant. Besides, she didn't want to be there with her eyes closed and suddenly find her throat cut.

But no, he wouldn't do that. Harry had told him not to leave a trace, and cutting her throat while she lay in bed would be a messy business.

How long did someone live after their carotid artery was severed? Could they run around like a decapitated chicken, spraying blood? Or did they slip quietly into Ophelia-like oblivion?

She didn't intend to find out. Her eyes blinked open, and she kept them dazed and deliberately unfocused. She'd been right about her two intruders, but there was no knife, or any other weapon, in sight.

And except for the omnipresent cup of tea. Had she imagined Takashi's warning? God knows how she'd been able to think straight, given what she'd been going through, the drugs she'd taken the past couple of weeks.

"You drink," said Anh in English.

If the tisane wasn't poison it was at least a powerful enough drug to knock her halfway to Sunday. She let her eyelids flutter closed, once more murmuring a very convincing "sleepy."

Anh was small and skinny, but strong, and she slid her arm behind Genevieve's back and pulled her upright, without any particular help from Genevieve. "You drink,"
Anh said, insisting.

Rather than have her pour the scalding liquid down her throat and over her
chest, Genevieve reached up and took the cup in both hands. Anh stood over her,
eagle-eyed, until Takashi said something to her, drawing her away from her post by the bed for a few precious moments.

It was all Genevieve needed. She leaned over the bed, lifted the heavy silk dust ruffle and tossed the contents of the cup under the bed onto the thick carpeting. By the time Anh turned back she was obediently draining the last drop, shuddering delicately in reaction to the faintly acrid smell.

While Anh's back was to her, Takashi had been watching. Now was the moment of truth, Genevieve thought as she handed the cup back to Anh and slid down on the bed.

He said something in that strange language, and Anh nodded, clearly satisfied. Genevieve tried to remember how long it'd taken for the drugs to kick in last time, but it was a blur. She expected it had been pretty fast, so she closed her eyes and forced her body to relax, not moving when Takashi came to stand over her.

"Ms. Spenser?" She made no response. And even though she sensed his hand approach her face, she forced her muscles to remain slack, and she didn't flinch when he touched her face, lifted her eyelids and let them drop again.

"Sound asleep, Ms. Spenser?" he said. "And you'll stay that way for the next twelve hours while I decide how to get rid of you. In the meantime, we won't have to bother you and you'll be left alone."

It was simple enough to glean the warning from his statement, and she remained obediently still.

He turned to Anh, issuing a string of orders, overriding the woman's objections with ruthless determination, and then they were gone.

Her eyes shot open, and she sat up again. It seemed she had an ally in her executioner. Maybe she'd get out of this mess alive after all.

And if she did, Harry Van Dorn was getting his head handed to him, the murderous creep.

She tried the door to the rest of the house with great care, in case Anh was
stationed outside, but as she expected it was locked tight. The windows were all
sealed, the air artificial, and there was no way out. She had no choice but to
put her trust and her life in the hands of Harry Van Dorn's executive assistant.
And hope Harry had made as big a mistake in hiring Takashi as he had with Peter.

It seemed unlikely. Harry had said Takashi had been with him for over three years—that was way too long for anyone with a hidden agenda.

But she had no choice but to trust him. She was trapped in this hermetically sealed room, and her only hope lay in Takashi O'Brien's long, elegant hands.

She had a horrible feeling she might be royally screwed.

Peter Madsen wasn't used to being a white knight. There were those in the Committee who specialized in getting important people out of dangerous situations, but that had never been his particular area of expertise. He brought death, not life, to those who deserved it. At least he bloody well hoped so.

And here he was, risking everything for the sake of a stupid girl who kept getting into trouble. If Genevieve Spenser had just followed his implied directions she'd be safely home in New York, her sojourn in the Caribbean a nightmare she'd rather forget. She would suffer a convenient case of short-term amnesia, brought on by the finest drugs money could buy, and she'd never remember a thing. And more than likely, no one would bother to ask.

But he'd fucked that up by letting himself get distracted. Once she'd stepped in harm's way she should have been the least of his concerns. And instead, whether he wanted to admit it or not, she'd overshadowed everything, the mission, Harry Van Dorn, his own safety. And he had ended up compromising everything.

Thirty-eight was too damn young to be having a midlife crisis. But then, his line of work aged you, he thought. Made you stupid when you needed to have all your wits about you.

Leaving him with the task of cleaning up some of the mess he'd made.

He didn't give a rat's ass about Harry Van Dorn. Someone would see to him, someone who wouldn't get distracted by something as ridiculous as a cantankerous lawyer.

So here he was, halfway across the world, acting on his own with none of the
Committee's formidable resources. And he wasn't even going to stop and consider
whether this goddamn rescue mission was simply clearing up some of the mistakes
he'd made, or something more personal.

The passageway was cold and clammy, the stone walls sweating, the carved steps rough beneath his feet. It would be funny as hell if he took a pratfall and broke his neck. A perfect slapstick ending to a joke of a life.

White knight to the rescue, he thought, moving deeper into the bowels of the earth. The last thing he wanted was to see Genevieve Spenser again. The last thing he needed. Yet here he was.