Читать книгу Cold As Ice - Anne Stuart - Страница 10

Ms. Genevieve Spenser was rapidly becoming a pain in the ass, Peter thought. He ought to finish what she started, toss her unconscious body over the side of the boat and let the fish have her. In the end he doubted it would matter. As long as they found identifiable traces of Harry Van Dorn’s body in the rubble of his island home the authorities would be satisfied. They wouldn’t go to that much trouble trying to ascertain if his pretty little lawyer was there too.

Unless, of course, they suspected foul play. He highly doubted that—he was an expert at his job, and he seldom made mistakes. Harry Van Dorn had done a magnificent job of convincing the world what a decent, charming, humanitarian fellow he was, and most people outside of a select few would have no idea just how overdue retribution was. It was Peter’s job to see to it, and if Harry’s death was supposed to look like an accident then it would. And those were his orders.

He shifted the dead weight in his arms. It would be far easier to dump her over the side than figure out what to do with her. Things had gone too far—the unpalatable fact was that she was going to have to end up dead anyway. Why complicate matters by putting it off?

Having her found on the island would be neater, and when it came to his job he tended to be fastidious. The thought would have astonished his mother. He’d never been the orderly type, and chaos had suited him very well for many years.

But his job required precision, attention to the smallest detail, a cool detachment that nothing could permeate. Ms. Spenser was undoubtedly going to die, whether he liked it or not, but now wasn’t the right time.

He could have left her on the deck and had Renaud haul her into the cabin where he could keep an eye on her, but he never delegated work he could do himself. Besides, Renaud had his limitations, and he liked to hurt women. There was nothing he could do about Ms. Spenser’s upcoming fate, but there was no reason why she should have to suffer. After all, he was a civilized man, he mocked himself.

He hauled her limp body over his shoulder. She wasn’t that bad, not compared to some of the dead weight he’d carried in his thirty-eight years. Odd, but when someone was simply unconscious they weighed less than when they were dead. It made no sense, but it was true.

Or maybe it was the weight of his conscience when he had to dispose of someone. Except that he had no conscience—it had been surgically removed along with his soul years ago.

Still, maybe he retained a trace of sentimentality. Otherwise he wouldn’t hesitate with the interfering Ms. Spenser, and he wouldn’t feel the random regret about her future or lack thereof. He wasn’t used to regret at all.

He dumped her down on the huge bed in the main cabin, next to Harry Van Dorn’s unconscious body. She had long, pretty legs, and it was hard to forget the distracting taste of her mouth. He still hadn’t figured out why he’d kissed her. An aberration, a momentary indulgence…he wouldn’t let himself do it again.

He stared down at her for a long moment. He’d killed women before, it was inevitable in his line of work. At times the female of the species could be a lot deadlier than the male. But he’d never been forced to kill someone who’d simply gotten in the way. And he didn’t want to start now, no matter how goddamn important it was.

Of course, one could argue that the world would always be a better place with one less lawyer. But looking down at Genevieve Spenser’s unconscious, undeniably luscious body, he wasn’t completely sure he could make himself believe it.

Genevieve came awake very slowly, letting the strange sensations wash over her. She was conscious of an odd sense of relief, quickly washed away by an unshakeable sense of entrapment. She was lying in a bed next to someone—she could hear his steady breathing, feel the weight of his body next to hers— and her panic increased. The room was shadowed, the only light at the far end, and she blinked, trying to focus, trying to get her brain to work.

She was lying next to Harry Van Dorn, and her immediate reaction was fury. Until she noticed he wasn’t sleeping, he was drugged. And her hands, ankles and mouth were wrapped in duct tape.

She struggled to sit up, making a muffled noise behind her makeshift gag. There was someone at the far end of the cavernous room, reading, but she couldn’t see him clearly, and he didn’t look up when she struggled to a sitting position, didn’t pay attention to the noises she was trying to make.

She reached her bound hands up to try to tear away the gag, but the tape ran around the back of her neck, and her fingers couldn’t gain purchase on the slippery stuff. She made another angry sound, and the man in the shadows looked up for a moment, clearly noting that she was awake, and then went back to his book.

It had been a very difficult few days, to put it mildly, and Genevieve had no intention of simply lying back down and being ignored. She swung her legs over to the side of the bed, but it was higher up than she’d thought, and she went sprawling onto the floor.

The hands that pulled her up were strong and impersonal. She’d already figured out who it would be before she saw him, and she glared into Peter Jensen’s cool eyes, putting as much emotion and fury into her expression as the duct tape would allow.

His faint smile didn’t help her temper. “It must be hell to be a lawyer and not be able to talk,” he said mildly. Her ankles were bound so close together that she could barely stand, and it was only with his help that she remained upright. She yanked herself away, and he let her go, not moving as she collapsed at his feet. If her mouth was free she would have bit his ankles, she thought in a red haze of fury, trying to get to her feet again.

He pulled her up once more. “Don’t be tiresome, Ms. Spenser,” he said. “Behave yourself and this will all be a lot easier on you.”

She wasn’t in the mood to believe him. For a moment she thought he was going to put her back on the bed, but instead he half dragged her across the room to where he’d been sitting and dropped her down on the small sofa. She reached up and clawed at the gag again, and he made a long-suffering noise. “You won’t like it if I take it off,” he said. “It’s going to hurt.”

She kept pulling. So he pushed her bound hands down, into her lap, reached for the duct tape and yanked.

She thought her scream would have filled the cabin and even woken her drugged client, but the only sound that came out was a choked gasp as the duct tape was ripped from her face, taking a few strands of loose hair with it.

He tossed it in her lap. “Sorry,” he said, sitting across from her and picking up his book.

“Sorry?” she echoed in a hoarse voice. “Sorry for what? For kidnapping me, for drugging me, for wrapping me in duct tape, you son of a bitch!”

“I have another roll of tape and I’m not afraid to use it,” he said lightly. “Behave yourself, Ms. Spenser.”

“You think this is funny?” Her voice was getting stronger now. “You have a pretty sick sense of humor.”

His faint smile wasn’t reassuring. “So I’ve been told. I’ll leave the gag off if you sit there and be quiet. I have work to do.”

“You’re an idiot.”

That got his attention, though it failed to ruffle him. In the dim light his eyes looked very dark, almost empty, but she’d managed to catch his attention, and he put the book down. “I am?”

Her brain was going very fast. “I know you didn’t expect to have me on board when you carried out your nasty little scheme—you tried hard enough to get rid of me. But now that I’m here, don’t you think you ought to make use of me?”

He leaned back against the chair, watching her. “And how would I do that? Are you offering to join our merry band?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Any fool can see what your plan is.”

“Enlighten me.”

“You’ve kidnapped one of the world’s richest men. Clearly you did it for the money—you don’t have the look of a wild-eyed terrorist. Therefore you need to negotiate the terms of the ransom, and I’m your woman.”

“Are you, indeed?” he murmured. “And why don’t you think I’m a wild-eyed terrorist bent on some bloody political crusade?”

“You dress too well.”

He laughed. It seemed to surprise him as much as it surprised her. He sounded as if he didn’t laugh very often, which was no surprise. She wouldn’t have expected extortionists to be a humorous bunch.

“So whose side are you going to be on, Ms. Spenser? Mine or Harry’s?”

“You want money, I want Harry safe. I imagine I can find a solution that will work for both of you. Now, why don’t you take the rest of this duct tape off me and we can negotiate. You already know I’m no physical threat to you.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” he drawled, but he rose anyway, reaching in his pocket and pulling out a small knife. He leaned down to cut through the tape around her ankles, and she brought her bound hands down hard on the top of his head.

Or at least she tried to. He caught her wrists in one hand while he slit the tape at her ankles, not even bothering to look up. He ripped the tape off her ankles and then his cold blue eyes met hers. “It’s a waste of time, Ms. Spenser,” he said, “and it will only annoy me. It’s a boat—there’s no place to go but over the side, and I’ve heard there are sharks in this area.”

“I think I’d be safer with them,” she muttered. He cut the tape at her wrists, and she realized he was using the Swiss Army knife she’d tucked in her bra. She wasn’t going to think about how he’d found it, she was going to concentrate on how his grip on her wrists hurt, and decided if anyone was going to be shark bait it was going to be Peter Jensen.

“Is Jensen really your name?” she asked when he sat down again, closing the knife and tucking it back into his pocket.

“Does it matter? I’ve used any number of names. Jensen, Davidson, Wilson, Madsen.”

“In other words your mother didn’t know who your father was.”

The moment the words here out of her mouth she could have bit her tongue. She almost picked up the gag that lay in her lap and slapped it back over her mouth. The man sitting across from her was probably only one step removed from a sociopath, and to call his mother a whore was beyond foolish.

His expression gave nothing away. “You’re not a very good lawyer, are you, Ms. Spenser? A good lawyer knows when to keep her mouth shut.”

She said nothing, and after a moment the tension in the room relaxed slightly. “In fact, I know exactly who my father was, unfortunately. You wouldn’t have liked him…he had a very bad temper. Would you like some tea?”

She blinked. “What?”

“Would you like some tea? The particular drug I gave you tends to make your mouth feel like cotton, and being gagged doesn’t help. Since we’re about to enter negotiations, I want to be sure your mouth is in working order.” She could positively feel his glance on her lips, and she ran a nervous tongue over them, making her feel even more conspicuous. He had kissed her, hadn’t he?

“I’d be happier with a drink.”

“Not a good idea. On top of the drugs I gave you and your little yellow pills, you might find yourself way too vulnerable. They aren’t good for you, you know.”

She shouldn’t have been surprised that he knew about her tranquilizers—it was just one more violation. “Life is stressful,” she said. “And that was before I got kidnapped and molested.”

“Don’t sound so hopeful. No one’s molested you. Yet.”

“This isn’t funny,” she snapped. “If being abducted and drugged isn’t being molested I don’t know what is.”

“Oh. I thought you were referring to something a bit more sexual.”

She blushed.

It was the oddest sensation. She wasn’t used to blushing, and his drawled comment was casual, not suggestive, and yet she could feel the warmth staining her cheeks. She had pale skin, and she’d just been pumped full of God knows how many drugs, and it must be a reaction, she thought nervously, and he wouldn’t even notice…

“Ms. Spenser, are you blushing?”

“A lawyer doesn’t blush, Mr. Jensen,” she said severely. “Now, why don’t you tell me what it is you want, and I’m certain we can come to an agreement.”

He said nothing. He rose and crossed the room, pushing open a hidden cupboard that exposed a small refrigerator. When he returned he put the icy can of Tab in her hand, and she almost kissed the sweating fuchsia sides. He’d already popped it open, a good thing, because her hands were shaking as she lifted it to her mouth.

“Aren’t you going to worry that I’m drugging you again?” He sat back down.

“I don’t care,” she said, drinking half the can in one gulp, letting the cold liquid slide down her throat. She closed her eyes and let out a blissful sigh. She would have welcomed anything cold and wet, but this was almost enough to make her not want to kill him. Almost.

She opened her eyes again, to see him watching her. “So what do you want?” she asked again.

He hesitated, and he didn’t seem like a man who would ever hesitate. “I’m afraid there’s nothing you can offer me, Ms. Spenser. I have a job to do.”

“And what is that?”

“My orders are to kill Harry Van Dorn,” he said, his voice flat. “And anyone else who gets in the way.”

She was tough, he had to grant her that. Only the quick blink of her eyes betrayed any kind of reaction to his bald statement. She believed him, though. She was too smart not to.

“Why?”

“I don’t know the particulars, and I prefer it that way. I’m very good at what I do, and part of the reason is that I never ask why. I figure if I’m sent to take care of someone then he must have done something to deserve it.”

“Who sends you? Who gave you these orders?” she demanded.

“It wouldn’t mean anything if I told you. Believe it or not, we’re the good guys.”

“The good guys?” she scoffed. “And you’re going to kill a harmless dilettante like Harry Van Dorn in cold blood?”

“I assure you he’s not quite as harmless as he seems,” Peter said.

“And what about me?”

“What about you?”

“You said you were told to kill Harry Van Dorn and anyone who got in the way. Does that include me?”

He should have lied. People were better off if they didn’t know they were going to die. They got panicky, did unexpected things and made his job that much harder. “Would you believe me if I told you no?”

She shook her head. “Then trust me, you aren’t one of the good guys. I’ve never done anything remotely worth getting killed over. And I don’t particularly want to die.”

“Few people do.”

“So how am I supposed to change your mind?”

He considered it for a moment, as he’d been considering it for the last several hours. “I don’t think you can. For what it’s worth, I promise it won’t hurt. You won’t even know what’s happening.”

“I don’t think so.” She set the empty Tab can down beside her and met his gaze quite calmly. “If you’re going to murder me you’re going to have to work hard to do it, and I have no intention of letting go easily. I’m going to kick and scream and fight all the way.”

“It’s a losing battle, Ms. Spenser.” He was amazed at how calm he sounded. As if silencing unfortunate witnesses and accomplices was a normal part of his duties as one of the best-trained operatives in the Committee. He was the best marksman, brilliant with a knife and in hand-to-hand combat, and he never showed or felt emotion. The Iceman, as always, both in temperament and his specialty in putting unwanted evil on ice.

But Ms. Spenser wasn’t evil. This was the first time he’d ever made the mistake of letting someone unwitting get caught in the careful trap he’d set, and he was going to have to live with the consequences. They were in the middle of one of the most complicated operations in his memory—Harry Van Dorn was up to something and all the resources and manpower of the Committee had been unable to uncover anything more than a few hints. Harry was a control freak—this wouldn’t go further without him overseeing it. They needed Harry on ice, permanently, with no interference, so they could find out what the hell the Rule of Seven was, and how they could stop it.

He couldn’t afford to let her go…she had already seen too much, knew too much. She was a smart woman—give her time and she could put together far too much information on the Committee. She’d jeopardize the lives of the men and women who risked everything. It was an equation with only one solution, whether he liked it or not.

“I specialize in losing battles,” she said. “I’m not going to die, and neither is Harry. You, I’m not so sure about.” She rose, stretching with all the intensity of a lazy cat, and smiled at him with utter sweetness. “In the meantime I think I’ll take a shower and change into something more comfortable, and then we can continue our negotiations.”

He didn’t move. The door to the cabin was locked, and she wouldn’t be able to get very far. “We have nothing to negotiate, Ms. Spenser,” he reminded her.

“I disagree. There’s a great deal of money at stake here, and if you’re deluded enough to think Harry’s some kind of evil monster, then your information is wrong. I have excellent instincts when it comes to people, and Harry Van Dorn might be a horny, superstitious, spoiled baby, but he’s miles removed from anything evil. You wouldn’t be killing one innocent bystander, you’d be killing two, and I don’t think you want that. Not when the alternative is so much money your mysterious employers would never be able to find you.”

“They’d find me,” he said. “And everyone on this boat knows the mission. I’m sorry, but even if I wanted to let you go I couldn’t. Renaud or one of the others would see to things, and they tend to be a bit more… brutal.”

He saw the nervous shift in her eyes and felt a pang of something. It couldn’t be regret or guilt, he didn’t allow himself either of those emotions, no matter what the circumstances.

“If you say so,” she said airily. “That doesn’t mean I won’t try. Tell me, is this door locked or can I come and go as I please?”

“It’s locked.”

“Then please unlock it,” she said, more a demand than a request. “I’d like to go back to my room and change my clothes.”

He knew what she was going to try, probably even before she did. It would have worked under normal circumstances, but she had no idea who she was dealing with, and that her body was telegraphing her plans loud and clear.

Best to get it over with, he thought, rising. “I don’t think so,” he said. And caught her as she tried to jump him, turning her easily, twisting her arm behind her back. A second later she was down on the floor, his knee in the center of her chest, and she was staring up at him with mute shock.

Madame Lambert set her encrypted PDA down on the table beside her untouched glass of wine. She prided herself on being able to make the hard decisions and do them in public—she was enjoying a solitary dinner at a quiet little restaurant not far from the office, and she had no trouble sending and receiving the information she needed.

No, she wasn’t enjoying her solitary meal, she amended, picking up the glass of very fine wine and taking a sip. Right now she wasn’t enjoying much of anything. She had just sent orders to Peter Jensen that he would have to kill the young woman who’d gotten in the way. And it made her sick inside.

Peter would do it, of course, no questions asked. And he’d do it in as humane a fashion as possible. But each death, no matter how justified, left a psychic wound that never healed over. The death of an innocent would be far worse. She’d known Peter too long to be happy about that.

But they were running out of time, and Harry Van Dorn would never give up a thing, no matter what they did to him. The only chance of derailing things was for him to die.

That was the problem with sociopaths like Harry, Isobel Lambert thought, taking another sip of wine. Torture was useless when the victim enjoyed pain, and even someone with Peter’s expertise wouldn’t be able to break him. Besides, once again there was the price to be paid for committing such acts. A clean execution was one thing. Torture was another, and there was a limit to what the human psyche could take. She was afraid Peter Jensen was reaching his limit.

Killing the girl might put him over the top. But she had no choice.

And neither did he.