Cold as Ice (31 page)

"Thanks, but I'll pass," she said. "And I don't have adolescent emotions. I just don't like being used."

"Who says the adolescent emotions are yours?" Madame Lambert said with a faint smile. "The tradeoff time is three o'clock this afternoon. They're expecting some fog up in the mountains, and it can be quite treacherous. In the meantime, you must be famished. Why don't you freshen up and I'll take you out for a late breakfast?"

"I'm not really hungry," she lied, still smarting from the "freshen up" comment. She did look rumpled, particularly compared to Madame Isobel Lambert's perfection, but then, a few weeks ago that perfection had been hers as well. Designer clothes and shoes, perfect hair and makeup, the quintessential corporate goddess.

Now she was rumpled, barefoot, tangled hair and no makeup. No defenses. "Food sounds great," she said wearily when the woman made no comment. "As long as I don't have to run into anyone who'd ruin my appetite."

"Peter's already on his way back to England," Madame Lambert said. "I'm afraid he didn't leave a message."

Genevieve knew her expression didn't change. She was already prepared for it—desertion was just one more thing to be expected. It didn't matter that she'd told him to go, he was still feeding her to the wolves and abandoning her so he wouldn't have to watch. Bastard.

She rose. "Give me half an hour and I'll be ready," she said in an even voice.

"That's fine. We're in no particular hurry." Madame Lambert made no attempt to move.

"Could I have a little privacy?"

"Don't be silly, child. Yon Americans are all so prudish. I promise not to look. But we're not letting you out of our sight for the next few hours."

"In case I change my mind?"

"You can always change your mind. Harry Van Dorn has just suffered a series of disappointments, and he's not about to leave anything to chance at this point. He'll be working on any number of ways to grab you. He'd much prefer not to have to barter—we've already screwed the pooch for him with his grand and glorious scheme, and he wants revenge. Killing Takashi and Peter isn't enough."

"What?" Panic swept through her, and she didn't even try to hide it.

Madame Lambert's smile was smug and reassuring. "He thinks Peter died on the island. If he knew he was alive he'd much rather have him than you."

"Then why don't you just let him go in my place?" It wasn't what she wanted, but surely Peter would have a better chance with Harry than she did.

"Because he's much more valuable when Harry thinks he's long gone."

"And I'm dispensable."

"I didn't say that. You can change your mind."

"Stop saying that! You know I won't. You might be able to live with the deaths of six children on your conscience, but I can't."

"Trust me, child, I live with far worse on my conscience," she said, reaching for her cigarettes again.

"On second thought, you can't smoke," Genevieve said. "I don't want to die smelling like an ashtray."

Peter would have come back with some cynical crack about cremation. But Peter wasn't there, and Madame Lambert wasn't Peter. She put the cigarettes back in her Hermès handbag—an item so expensive even Genevieve had denied herself—and snapped it shut. "As you wish," she said. "But I'm still not leaving you alone."

"Suit yourself," Genevieve said, and stomped into the tiny bathroom.

It wasn't until she'd finished with the longest shower she could manage that she realized she hadn't brought her clean clothes in with her. She grabbed the skimpy towel and walked into the room, throwing modesty to the winds. Madame Lambert wasn't going to have any prurient interest in her body. In fact, Peter probably hadn't either. It had all been part of his job.

Madame Lambert had made the bed and was lying on it, the pillows tucked behind her, her expensive shoes lying neatly on the floor beside her, and she looked at Genevieve with casual interest. The new clothes were folded neatly at the foot of the other bed, and Genevieve thought, fuck it, and tossed the towel.

"You're probably wondering what Peter saw in me," she said in a conversational voice as she pulled on the plain white panties and bra. "And the answer, of course, is nothing at all. He was doing his job."

Genevieve had marks on her, and she knew it. Not just the love bite on her neck, the whisker burns on her breast. Her whole body was covered with him, and no matter how often she washed she couldn't wash him away. He was inside her still, breathing through her skin, his heart making hers race.

"How very young you are," Madame Lambert said in an obnoxiously cheerful voice. "Like a teenager who's first discovered sex."

Genevieve paused in the act of zipping up her jeans. "Look, I'm putting my life on the line for you guys. I don't have to listen to condescending remarks while I do it."

"You're right. I'd just forgotten what it was like to be young and in love."

"You'll have to ask someone else. I've never been there."

Madame Lambert said nothing. But her catlike smile said it all.

God, but Harry hated children. Healthy, pretty ones were one thing, but these were pallid, sickly and obnoxious. They didn't know when to shut up, and during the twists and turns up Route 330 one of them threw up on the leather upholstery of his white limo.

It was the final straw. He hadn't been riding in the back with them, of course. He'd been up front with his driver, in a far less comfortable seat than he should have been enjoying, and the brats behind him never shut up.

"Can't you turn off the noise back there?" he demanded of the driver.

"Sorry, sir. This particular limo isn't soundproofed."

"Well, at least can you do something about the smell?"

The driver shrugged, not having the good sense to be afraid of Harry's temper. Not enough people were afraid of him, he decided, particularly not those people who'd managed to mess with his glorious Rule of Seven.

He'd gotten past that initial disappointment, priding himself on his resiliency. He had a new goal now—destroying the Committee and everyone in it, and he'd already gathered powerful reinforcements. The shadow group was a threat to everything he held dear—free enterprise, the right to enjoy himself however he pleased, democracy He was going to bring them down, every one of them, and then he could turn to rebuilding a new Rule of Seven, something even grander and more glorious.

Because this was personal. Not just the destruction of his carefully laid plans. The infiltration of his private life, with Jack-shit O'Brien and Peter Jensen. There was something so…underhanded about that. But then, what could you expect from people who didn't have the advantages he'd had. Weren't as gifted as he was.

He was going to enjoy himself with Genevieve Spenser. First, because Jack-shit/Takashi had tried so hard to have him keep his hands off her. Second, because it would make Peter Jensen turn in his grave. Hurting the woman would be the next best thing to hurting the man who'd betrayed him. Hell, it might be even better; this way he could get his revenge twice over.

But first he had to get rid of these noisy, puking, disgusting children before he grabbed a gun and shot them.

"Stop the car," he ordered.

And the driver slammed on the brakes.

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T
he Kevlar vest was too small, and Genevieve had the sudden, distressing thought that if Peter were there, if he'd been in charge of outfitting her, it would have been the right size. Of course, he'd known what size she was before he'd gotten her naked. Now he'd know even better.

She managed to fasten it anyway, then pulled her T-shirt and sweatshirt over it. Her boobs were squashed and she was having a hard time breathing, but none of it mattered. She sat in the back of the nondescript car, uncomfortably similar to the sedan Peter had showed up with, and let them drive her up the winding road into the mountains, twisting and turning.

She wondered if she was going to throw up again all over her Kevlar vest. It would serve the elegant Madame Lambert right if she puked on her designer shoes, but then some might get down into the vest and that would be very unpleasant. Not that she figured the vest was going to do a bit of good. If Harry's plan was to have someone shoot her, he'd have them go for a head shot. Lawyer's brains, she thought again, with a little shiver.

"Are you cold?" Madame Lambert asked. "It gets a bit chilly and damp up here, and there's supposed to be fog tonight. I can get you a blanket."

"I'm fine," Genevieve said in a tight voice.

"What about medication? Peter said you were fond of tranquilizers."

"Fuck Peter," she snapped. As a matter of fact, she hadn't thought of her blessed little yellow pills in a long time.
I guess when things get really bad I don't need them
, she thought.
They're just for minor annoyances, not life and death
.

"I believe you already did," Madame Lambert murmured. "I can get you whatever you need. It will just take a phone call and it'll be waiting for us."

She almost asked for Tab. She'd been careful with her last meal—her experience at Carl's Junior had taught her not to shove food into her face—but she'd had to make do with Diet Coke. Surely she deserved a can of Tab before walking into the valley of death.

"I'm fine," she said. They were climbing higher and higher into the mountains, and a light fog was rolling in. There must have been some kind of massive forest fire in the last few years. Twisted black stalks of dead trees covered the hillsides, making it look like a strange sort of cemetery. She kept her eyes away from the road; the driver was going way too fast for the conditions, and she was nervous enough. Was she ready to die on this strange, barren hillside? Was she going to have any choice?

The fog was getting thicker the higher they climbed. Madame Lambert was busy with her BlackBerry-like device—a duplicate of the one Peter had used. Modern technology and the spy world, Genevieve thought. Except they weren't spies, were they? She didn't know what the hell they were, and she didn't care.

"Supposing you manage to kill Harry?" she said. "What then?"

"Then it all gets covered up very neatly. We have the full cooperation of certain branches of the U.S. government, and no one will ever know he didn't die in an unfortunate car wreck on one of these twisty roads. They have rock slides all the time—sometimes boulders the size of a Volkswagen bug come down on the road. One could squash Harry, and even his good friend the president will have no idea what really happened."

"Squash a bug with a bug. Sounds fitting," she said. "And what about me with all my unfortunate knowledge? Aren't you going to have to squash me, too?"

"You read too many thrillers, Genevieve," Madame Lambert said. "You aren't going to say a word to anyone. For one thing, no one would believe you. For another, you'll want to forget these past few weeks, put them completely behind you. And there's one more thing."

"And that is?"

"You won't want to endanger Peter. You wouldn't blow his cover, no matter how wounded you are."

"Are you talking potential physical wounds? Because I promise you I have no emotional scars at all."

"Of course you don't," Madame Lambert agreed in her cool voice. "And there'll be no physical wounds. You're well protected."

There wasn't enough Kevlar in the world to protect her from the damage Peter Madsen had already done to her. "Bring it on," she said wearily. "I'm ready."

"That's good," her companion said. "Because we're here."

Peter was cursing the fog with steady, pungent curses. He'd staked out a small spot overlooking the wide circular driveway by Harry's lavish mansion, and Mannion, who'd been part of the original team to take Harry hostage, was with him, squinting at the text message while Peter tried to see through the gathering fog.

"You suppose Van Dorn can even control the weather?" Mannion said after a moment. "I wouldn't put it past him."

"He's got enough money," Peter said grimly. The billowing fog moved and writhed like a living thing, giving him a tantalizing glimpse of his target and then covering it again. He set the rifle down and leaned back against the tree, closing his eyes for a moment.

"There's no movement down there," Mannion said. "Aren't they supposed to be here by now? Maybe they're hoping the fog will clear."

"It could just as likely get worse, and Madame Lambert knows it," Peter said. "They'll be here soon."

Mannion punched a series of buttons, then smiled. Smiles sat strangely on Mannion's rough, battered face, but they were never without good cause.

"What's up?"

"They found Takashi. In one piece. He's pretty messed up, and they're not sure he'll make it, but you know our boy. No pantywaist billionaire is any match for a born-and-bred Yakuza."

"That's something," Peter said, returning to his post. The dark black sedan was sitting there, and he was pretty sure the engine was running. Sound carried strangely in the fog, but every now and then he heard the rumble of an engine. Did Harry have the children in the car? Or had he betrayed them and already killed them?

They'd gone into this knowing there was a good possibility that Harry would renege on his end of the bargain. A thwarted billionaire was a dangerous thing, particularly one of Harry's twisted temperament, and he'd like nothing better than to fuck them over. He thought he was inviolate—he could get away with anything, no matter how heinous. His grip on reality was slipping, which made him even more dangerous.

The fog shifted, and he could get a clear view of the car. No sign of any children, no sign of anything. And then he heard another car approach, and he didn't need Mannion to inform him that Genny had arrived.

He didn't want her to do this. He should have told her that, but something had stopped him, and now she might die because he'd been too fatheaded to say anything. The car pulled up to the heavy iron gate and waited. Waited. Peter's mouth was dry.

Mannion had enough sense to keep quiet. He kept his attention riveted on the scene below, not glancing at the machine in his hand.