Cold as Ice (26 page)

Maybe he'd just left her for a little while, long enough to make sure they'd gotten away, and he'd be back. Or maybe he was simply calling in reinforcements, handing her off to someone who didn't want to strangle her every other minute.

That would be the best possible scenario, she told herself. That Peter Whoever-He-Was had gone, and some sober bureaucrat was about to show up to take her to a nice cozy safe house until someone figured out how to stop Harry. A place with high thread-count sheets and lovely food and…

She was out of her mind. Harry's sheets had been the best money could buy—she was better off with the scratchy white crap she'd wrapped herself in.

She wanted to go home. Back to her beautiful, sterile apartment, back to her designer clothes and her Chanel makeup and shoes that cost too much and hurt her feet. She may not have been happy there, but she'd been safe.

She lay back on the bed, wrapping her sheeted body in the quilted bedspread as well, curling up into a pathetic little ball of misery. She was tired, she was frightened, and yes, damn it, she was hungry again.

And she was alone.

She closed her eyes so she wouldn't cry. Crying only made it worse, and it served no earthly purpose. There was nothing to cry for—she was away from Harry Van Dorn, who'd casually ordered her torture and death, and she was abandoned by Peter…Madsen, that was the name! Abandoned when he probably would have rather killed her as well.

Sooner or later someone would come and get her, someone safe and solid. All she had to do was wait. And not feel so bereft.

It would have been better if she hadn't fallen asleep. It lowered her defenses, made her emotional and vulnerable. The sound of a key turning jarred her into wakefulness, and the moment Peter walked in the door she flung herself at him in relief.

Unfortunately, he didn't know relief when it hit him upside the head, and he slammed her face down on the carpet, her arm twisted behind her back, his hand like a manacle on her twisted wrist.

Hong Kong was quarantined. Harry's ship, filled with infected pigeons, had been detained twenty miles out at sea, with a Hazmat team covering every inch of it. His captain had just time enough to warn him before they burst into the engine room. But not time enough to free the pigeons.

Harry threw the phone across the room so that it crashed into a glass-fronted cabinet, and there was broken glass all around. He began to pick up and throw anything he could reach—a lamp, a pile of books, a heavy bronze award attesting to his humanitarian efforts in the third world, a cat.

The cat managed to land on four feet and scamper away to safety. Harry liked cats. He liked their "fuck you" attitude, their haughty style. The only drawback was they ran too fast when he wanted to get his frustration out on something. He hadn't yet been able to kill a cat, and he'd been trying for years.

Everything else crashed with what should have been a satisfying violence. But Harry was beyond satisfaction.

The phone rang. Unfortunately the handset lay smashed against the marble floor, but he knew the number by heart. He pushed the speakerphone, barking his name.

It was his second in command in London. Somehow hearing the words spoken out loud instead of in the privacy of his ear made it even worse. He pulled the base of the telephone from the wall and threw it, and it shattered in a pile of plastic and wiring, with a disembodied voice still apologizing for fucking him over.

Harry walked across the room and kicked the phone into silence. It was all falling apart, everything he'd planned and dreamed and worked so hard for. The Rule of Seven lay shattered—there was still a faint hope he could carry off the nuclear accident in Russia but he suspected that had been aborted as well—the place was just too remote for him to have heard as yet. Or maybe Vlad had been terminated as well.

And there was no name, no face he could put on his deadly rage. All his resources could track down only the vaguest of information about the Committee, and it wasn't enough. Peter Jensen aka Madsen was dead—there'd be no satisfaction from gutting him. And Takashi had already taken care of the girl, her body long gone, in so many pieces no one would ever be able to put Humpty back together again. He giggled softly, and then his rage returned.

There had to be some way to get to the Committee, to exact his revenge. The Rule of Seven was smashed, but there was always another day. As long as he found a way to show his enemies just how dangerous he could be. As long as the so-called Committee existed, they would try to stop him. Therefore the Committee must be dealt with.

He needed to do something, anything, to show he wasn't the patsy they took him for. Something bloody and brutal and undetectable enough that they wouldn't be able to stop it. Something that would make them think twice before they tried to get in his way again.

He needed a sign. He firmly believed in divine guidance. After all, wasn't he one of the chosen ones, to whom all things are given? He could do any number of things to find a clue—but that would require having someone come and read the signs. And he couldn't afford to waste the time.

He closed his eyes and focused his entire body, tight and angry, like a child desperate for a toy train at Christmastime. "Give me a sign," he said out loud. "Show me what to do."

This time it was his cell phone, and he pulled it from his pocket and snapped it open eagerly. Ask and ye shall receive.

It was Donahue. He'd done his usual sweep of the garage, and found two of his men in the back of his Porsche, dead. There'd been blood on the ground as well, not belonging to the two men. And a couple of strands of long, blond hair clinging to the damp wall.

Takashi had told him he'd disposed of her body through the underwater entrance, piece by piece, and Harry had been so taken with the notion that he'd wished he'd asked for pictures.

Now he knew he should have. Because Takashi O'Brien, his right-hand man for the last three years, had betrayed him.

And Genevieve Spenser was still alive.

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L
et me up," Genevieve gasped into the carpet fibers that held God knows what. "You're hurting me."

Peter released her, stepping back and slamming the door behind him, locking them in. "Serves you right. When are you going to learn to trust me?"

She sat up, pulling the sheet more snugly around her, leaning back against the foot of the bed and cradling her hand. "Never," she said flatly. "But the fact is, I wasn't trying to attack you. I was afraid you weren't coming back, and I was relieved."

He stared down at her. "Never jump a man, no matter how relieved you are, unless you're certain he's not dangerous. And you know that I am."

Yes, she knew. She'd seen him kill a man not many hours ago, and knew he would do so, again and again, without a second thought. The idea should have horrified her.

But she was way past that point. She was just grateful that he could kill to keep her safe. "Sorry," she muttered.

He'd been carrying a bunch of plastic bags and he'd dropped them on the floor when she'd jumped on him. He proceeded to pick them up again, not looking at her. " 'Sorry'?" he echoed. "You're actually apologizing? What kind of drugs did Takashi feed you?"

She should have known he'd mock her. "What's in the bags?" she asked, changing the subject.

He turned. She was sitting at his feet, not a good position, psychologically, and she tugged the sheet up higher.

"Supplies. Including some clothes for you. There was an all-night Wal-Mart down the road. I know their clothes are not your usual style, but they're more secure than that sheet. And what have you got on your foot?"

She glanced down, having forgotten. "A pillowcase," she said sheepishly, pulling it off.

"Your feet were cold?"

She shook her head. "I was trying to break the window."

He said nothing for a moment. "I assume that's how you hurt your hand?"

He was an observant bastard, she thought. "Just bruised it a bit," she said, reaching her hand up and flexing her fingers. Or trying to. They felt stiff and swollen.

"Get on the bed," he said.

There was a sudden uncomfortable silence in the room as both of them remembered the last time he'd said those words to her. And then he broke the spell. "Don't get your hopes up," he added. "I just want to look at your hand."

She did get to her feet, but not on the bed. "You don't need to look at my hand—it'll be just fine. Where are the clothes?"

He tossed one of the larger bags to her, and she made the mistake of trying to catch it with her bad hand. It dropped on the bed, but at least she'd managed to swallow her cry of pain.

"I assume you're going to take over the bathroom for another hour and a half," he said, dropping the rest of the stuff on the other bed. His bed, presumably. She was nothing special, he'd said.

"Just long enough to get dressed. I'm sure you're just dying to primp."

"What I'm dying to do is get these clothes off me and clean my wound. It's a lucky thing I managed to steal a jacket from the front office—I could hardly walk around Wal-Mart with a bullet wound. Though if I could anywhere, L.A. would be the place."

She'd forgotten all about his wound, and she felt conscience-stricken. "Do you need any help?"

"No, thank you," he said, sounding horrified. "I can manage a field dressing as well as anyone, and if the bullet hit anything vital the wound would be hurting a lot more and I'd be doing a lot less. Just go in the bathroom and change into your clothes so I can get on with it."

She wanted to call his bluff, strip off the sheet and take her time putting the new clothes on, but there were some things even she was afraid of. Whether she was afraid of what he'd do, or what he wouldn't do, she couldn't be certain.

She grabbed the bag, holding the sheet around her, and marched to the bathroom, doing her best to ignore him as he sat on his own bed and began to peel off the stolen jacket gingerly.

He'd shown a decided lack of imagination when he'd been at the discount store, and she could only be glad. Plain cotton underpants and bra, two sets, a pair of jeans, a couple of plain T-shirts and a zippered sweatshirt. Socks and sneakers as well. She hadn't worn clothes like these since she'd lived in upstate New York. She'd forgotten how comfortable they could be, even starchy and brand new. For the first time in years she felt like herself.

He'd even brought her a toothbrush, toothpaste and a comb and brush. She could almost be grateful, if she weren't so busy being annoyed at how exact he'd been on guessing her measurements, including her size ten feet. She managed to get the comb through her tangles, and simply braided her hair once more. Long hair was great when you had a stylist on Park Avenue and time enough to fuss with it. Not so good when you were on the run for your life.

She stepped back into the bedroom and stopped, frozen.

He was sitting on his bed, shirtless, dabbing at the raw, bloody streak on his shoulder with cool efficiency, and Genevieve couldn't move. It wasn't as if she hadn't seen him without his clothes on—he'd stripped down when they'd had sex on the island, and he'd had no particular modesty walking around when he'd dragged her from the swimming pool.

Ah, but then she'd been distracted by what was below his waist.

He had broad, slightly bony shoulders, with the kind of lean, muscled body that radiated health and strength. He was tanned from the tropical sun and undeniably gorgeous, and she was sorry as hell she had to see that.

"Do you need help?" she asked. The last thing she wanted to do was touch him, touch that tanned, golden skin.

"I can manage. I brought you some food. Saltines and ginger ale. I've heard it's excellent for morning sickness."

"I'm not pregnant," she snapped.

"I'm delighted to hear that. I certainly didn't think you were. However, it's the cure for an upset stomach either way. And I got you a bucket of ice. Stick your hand in it and it'll bring down the swelling."

"Then can I touch you?"

He laughed. Her request seemed to surprise him, it certainly shocked her. "Don't try it unless you have something extremely kinky in mind," he said.

That shut her up. She went back to her bed, plumping the limp pillows behind her, and sat down, shoving her hand into the plastic ice bucket. There were few things she hated more than putting ice on an injury, but she had more sense than to argue.

"Serves you right," he said, carefully applying a disinfectant to the furrow on his shoulder. He was having a hard time bandaging it, and her own fingers were icy, but she sat back and said nothing. When he was finished he stood up, and examined his handiwork in the mirror. She could see the trace of faint scratch marks along his beautiful back.

"What happened to your back?" she asked. "An old wound? Scars from being tortured?"

"You did," he said.

And she remembered. Holding on to him, digging her fingers into his skin as she arched into a frenzied, uncontrollable response, and she felt the color flood her face.

"Oh, God," she muttered weakly.

"Don't worry about it," he said in his cool voice. "My fault. I was the one who made you come."

He wasn't making the situation any better. She was nothing special, she reminded herself. Maybe he was used to having women claw his back, the marks still showing countless days later. The very idea made her sick with a kind of primitive rage that couldn't have anything to do with jealousy.

"How long do we have to stay here?" She could be proud of how unaffected her voice sounded, even though she could feel the heat on her cheeks.

It wasn't getting any easier. He stood up, unfastened his jeans and stepped out of them, totally oblivious to her reaction. At least he was wearing some kind of underwear—pale blue, a cross between boxers and briefs. His cock was also pushing against the fabric. He glanced down at his obvious erection, then back at her.

"Does getting shot turn you on?" she said, struggling for a way to defuse the situation.

"Not particularly," he said, flipping the covers back on his bed and stretching out. He was just as pretty lying down as he was standing up, and Genevieve was not happy.