Cold As Ice. Anne Stuart
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held hostage along with Harry Van Dorn.
She looked out the window. She’d always been a strong swimmer, and she could float for hours, the one advantage of those unwanted fifteen pounds, but she had no idea how far from land they were. If they’d been at sea since she passed out last night, they could be hundreds of miles away from Grand Cayman Island.
If it was a question of life or death, she could go overboard and take her chances in the water, but at this point she needed to stay calm and not make any unnecessary assumptions.
She barely had time to scramble to her feet when she heard someone at the door. She could feel the knife tucked safely between her breasts, and she had her full, corporate-lawyer armor on, minus the shoes. The scruffy-looking individual who stood there with a semiautomatic did not look impressed.
“The boss is ready for you,” he said. She recognized his voice from the other side of the door, and gave an instant, silent prayer that she’d shown enough sense to shut up. Whoever he was, he wasn’t the type to make idle threats.
“And where’s Mr. Van Dorn?” she demanded in a cool voice, reaching for her briefcase.
“You can leave that there,” he said. “And if you need to know anything about Harry Van Dorn then someone will tell you. In the meantime shut up and come with me. And don’t cause any trouble. The boss doesn’t want us to be cleaning up bloodstains.”
“Why bother to clean them?” She was always too mouthy when she was nervous, and the pills weren’t having the desired effect. “If you’re into kidnapping and extortion, then I don’t think you’d care about what condition you left the boat in.”
The small man blinked, a quick, dangerous movement, like a rattler about to strike, and Genevieve wondered whether she needed to dive for cover, but then the man simply laughed. “Someone will pay good money for it.”
“It’s a little ostentatious, don’t you think? Whoever buys it can’t expect to get away with it.”
“I appreciate your concern, lady, but there are places that can strip a boat and change its appearance as quickly as they can with stolen cars. And most of the people who own a ship like this don’t care too much about legal niceties. Now shut up and move.”
Genevieve shut up and moved. He gestured with the gun, and she preceded him into the narrow passageway. She half expected to see bodies and blood, but it looked the same—spotless, deserted, normal. She kept moving, looking back every now and then to make sure her companion was with her. The gun was trained at the center of her spine, and a tiny shiver washed over her. A gun like that could do a lot of damage to a spinal cord.
It was colder out on the open water, and the stiff breeze tugged at her neatly coiffed hair. She should have had it cut—she’d intended to wear it in braids while she was in Costa Rica, but it was looking as if it was going to be a long time before she saw that place.
“Keep moving,” the man behind her snarled. “Up that staircase.”
She started up, wishing she’d found her missing shoes. They would have done more damage, but she’d simply have to make do without them. He was following close behind her, and she waited until the right moment, when she was at the very top of the metal staircase, and then she kicked backward, hard.
Her bare foot connected with his face and he tumbled down the steps, cursing. She didn’t wait to see whether the fall had done any permanent damage— she took off. The deck was deserted, with blinding sunlight all around, and there was no place to hide. She grabbed the first doorway, only to be confronted by a utility closet, but she didn’t hesitate, cramming herself inside and pulling it shut just moments before the sound of heavy footsteps made it onto the deck.
It was pitch-black inside the tiny cubicle, and it smelled like gasoline and cleaning supplies. She was covered with a cold sweat, and her heart was racing, but apart from that she could pride herself on an almost surreal calm. She’d studied hard and well on just what to do if someone ever came after her again. The circumstances hadn’t been quite what she’d practiced, but close enough, and she’d definitely managed to hurt the man with the gun. The question was, if he found her, how would he pay her back?
One thing was crystal clear in the claustrophobic confines of the closet. She didn’t want to die. And she wasn’t going to go without a fight.
“Lost something, Renaud?” The voice came from almost directly outside her hiding place, and the cold feeling in the pit of her stomach turned to ice. She hadn’t heard anyone approach, and she’d been listening intently. She didn’t recognize the voice either—it was low, cool, expressionless.
“That bitch.” Renaud’s voice was muffled.
“Got the drop on you, did she? Maybe you should go clean up—you’re bleeding all over the deck.”
“I’ve got a score to settle with that little—”
“You don’t have any scores to settle, you have a job to do. I’ll take care of Ms. Spenser.”
“She’s got to be a plant.”
“Because she managed to get away from you? I doubt it—I think you just underestimated her. Madame Lambert just came through with the best possible intel—she’s simply a high-priced lawyer who stumbled into something unpleasant. Too bad for her, but no particular problem for us. Harry was just as likely to have someone with him when the mission went down.”
“She’s the one who’s going down,” Renaud snarled.
“You’ll do what I tell you to do and nothing more.” The voice was cold, cold as ice, and Genevieve could feel the goose bumps form on her arms. She didn’t want to meet the owner of that emotionless voice—the cold water of the open sea would be warmer than the man who was dangerously close to her hiding place.
“Whatever you say, boss,” Renaud muttered, clearly unhappy.
“After you get cleaned up why don’t you go to her room and get rid of her stuff. We don’t want any loose ends, do we?”
“What about her?”
“It’s a boat, Renaud. There aren’t many places to hide in the middle of the water. I’ll take care of her when the time comes.”
Genevieve held her breath, half expecting an argument, but Renaud had been thoroughly cowed. “Just promise me you’ll make it hurt,” he said.
“I’ll do what I need to do to accomplish the mission, Renaud. No more, no less.”
She listened as Renaud’s footsteps retreated down the deck, then the belated clatter on the metal staircase. There was no other sound, but then, she hadn’t heard the mysterious boss approach. It stood to reason she wouldn’t hear him when he left either.
She wasn’t about to take any chances. He couldn’t stand there forever—if she counted to five hundred in French then she could probably risk opening the door to make a run for it.
Where she would run to was still a question. Over the side seemed the safest possibility, if she could find a life vest and a flare gun. A self-inflating raft would be even better—she could wait until the boat was out of sight before she inflated it. But if worse came to worst she’d simply go over the side as is, taking her chance with the cold water rather than the deadly cold voice of the unseen man. She had no idea whether there were sharks out there. She only knew about the human ones on board.
She counted to five hundred twice, her rusty French slowing her down. She considered trying it in Latin, but it had been too long since her high-school classes with Mrs. Wiesen, and besides, the chances of anyone still being outside the utility closet were almost nil. If they knew she was there they would have simply opened the door.
She moved her hands blindly over the door, looking for the inside latch. Her eyes should have become accustomed to the darkness, but the door was sealed shut. If she stayed in that airless, lightless hole much longer she’d probably pass out from the chemical fumes.