Cold As Ice. Anne Stuart
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“Peter!” Harry barely raised his voice, but Peter Jensen was there instantly. He must have been hovering just out of sight. “I need you to get in touch with my pilot and tell him to get the jet ready. Ms. Spenser will be flying down to Costa Rica tomorrow, and I want her to be comfortable.”
She opened her mouth to protest again, and then caught an odd expression lurking behind Peter Jensen’s rimless glasses. It was unreadable, but definitely there, and very curious. Enigma, she thought, remembering the crossword puzzle.
“If you’re certain it’s no trouble,” she said, keeping her pleasant demeanor firmly in place. It looked as if she was going to have to spend the night on this boat, in the middle of the damn water.
“Very good, sir,” Jensen murmured tonelessly.
“And have them make up the mate’s cabin for her, would you? She’s going to spend the night.” He turned back to Genevieve with a winning smile. “You see? All open and aboveboard. I intend to be a perfect gentleman.”
For some reason Genevieve found herself glancing at the assistant. She must have imagined the sheen of contempt in his colorless eyes—a good servant never betrayed his emotions, and she suspected Jensen was a very good servant indeed. Harry could afford the best, and she’d already witnessed Jensen’s machine-like efficiency.
“Very good, sir.”
“You’ll need to have someone fetch Ms. Spenser’s bags.”
“I’m afraid that’s impossible, sir. I checked on them when I went to secure a new chef—it seemed prudent since I was on land. Ms. Spenser’s bags were already sent on their way to Costa Rica on her scheduled flight.”
Prudent. Now, there was a word you didn’t hear every day, Genevieve thought. She would have been annoyed, but Jensen’s “prudent” action gave her the excuse she needed.
“That was very kind of you to try, Mr. Jensen. It seems I’d better try to catch my plane after all.”
“Simply doing my job, Ms. Spenser,” he murmured. “I’ve arranged for the boat to be ready in an hour’s time.”
“Well, you can just unarrange it,” Harry said grandly. “Ms. Spenser is spending the night. Don’t tell me there aren’t clothes on board to fit a pretty little thing like her, because I know different. Besides, it’s April seventh, and you know seven is my lucky number. I bet your birthday’s on the seventh of October, Ms. Spenser. Isn’t it?”
For a moment she wondered where he’d come up with such an outlandish notion, but then she remembered she’d agreed when he asked if she was a Libra. Would he give up trying to keep her here if she said she was born on the fifteenth?
“You really are amazing,” she said in a light voice, avoiding the issue altogether.
“I’m afraid all the women’s clothes on board are more likely to fit a size two or four. On your orders, sir.”
Genevieve didn’t know who pissed her off more, Harry Van Dorn for assuming she’d do what he wanted, or Peter Jensen for his implied suggestion that she was fat.
“I wear a size six,” she said in a dulcet tone. In fact, she was an eight and sometimes even a ten, and she suspected in cheaper clothes it might even be worse than that, but she wasn’t about to admit it. She just had to hope Jensen wouldn’t be able to turn up some size sixes that she would have to try to squeeze into.
He didn’t look skeptical—he probably knew what size she wore, even down to her shoes—but he was too well trained.
“Hell, we’re informal around here,” Harry said. “I’m sure you can rustle up something for her, Jensen. I wouldn’t put anything past you.” He turned to Genevieve. “He’s an Aries, remember. Tight-assed son of a bitch, if you’ll pardon my French, but he gets the job done. Whereas I’m an Aquarius—more of an ideas man. I don’t usually get along with Libras, but I expect you’ve got one hell of a rising sign.”
The only thing rising about her was her temper, but there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it. She wasn’t getting out of this, she thought. Given that she worked for him, he could expect just about everything he wanted from her. So she gritted her teeth and smiled. “I’m sure I’ll be fine,” she said.
Peter Jensen nodded, his face as impassive as ever. She half expected him to back away like some medieval Chinese servant, but he turned and left, and she watched him go, momentarily fascinated. He looked different from the back—taller, leaner, less generic. Maybe it was the glasses and the slicked-down hair that made him appear so ordinary. Or maybe she was even more in need of a vacation than she had thought, to be having paranoid fantasies about a nondescript personal assistant.
In the end it wasn’t important. She’d been efficiently roped and tied by the charming Texan—she’d let Harry Van Dorn wine and dine her and tomorrow she’d be on her way, able to leave her work and her life behind her. She wasn’t going to sleep with him—she’d decided that a while ago, though she wasn’t sure when. She wasn’t in the mood for anything but escape and quiet.
She would survive the utter hell of falling asleep surrounded by water by taking a couple of tranquilizers to drown out the anxiety. And by this time tomorrow it would all be a distant memory.
Jensen wasn’t happy. Things weren’t going as he’d planned, but then, things seldom did. He hadn’t counted on Genevieve Spenser, or Harry Van Dorn’s taking to her like a puppy with a new squeaky toy. He could turn her to his benefit, as a welcome distraction, but he still didn’t have to like it. Complications were a necessary evil, but he was a man who got rid of complications. He should have arranged to get rid of Miss Spenser before she ever arrived in the islands.
He seldom wasted his time in hindsight. He would have expected a pretty bimbo, a minor inconvenience, one he could dispose of quickly. And she was very pretty, in that sleek, well-cared-for way that tended to set his teeth on edge when he allowed himself the luxury of feeling. But there was more to her than that, though she was trying to hide it. She was smarter than she wanted people to know, and angrier.
That anger was undeniably fascinating. Distracting. The women he knew hid their anger very well, channeling it into more devious endeavors. Genevieve Spenser didn’t seem to have found her outlet, and he could see it simmering beneath her calm brown eyes. Blond hair and brown eyes—an interesting combination. Though her hair was probably some mousy color in its natural state.
And he was thinking far too much about her when he had a job to do. Hans was safely ensconced in the galley, a job he was well trained for, both when it came to food and knives, and Renaud was busy in the bowels of the ship, making sure everything was set to go when they got the word. The other five had been chosen by Isobel Lambert herself, and they were almost as efficient and professional as he was. They’d blended into their new jobs with effortless ease. Harry Van Dorn had no idea he was surrounded by members of the Committee.
Then again, if he was as artless as he seemed to be, he’d have no idea what the Committee was. Few people did, but he didn’t quite believe in Harry’s cluelessness. The kind of power and money he controlled bought a lot of privileged information.
For some reason he was getting impatient.
Harry Van Dorn should have been a simple matter. A megalomaniac billionaire with a taste for the occult and a complicated plan to disrupt the flow of commerce and the financial stability of the world, all to his own benefit.
The problem was, Harry compartmentalized. He had people working on each branch of his plan, each branch of the Rule of Seven was self-contained, and it made discovering the details about each incipient disaster that much more difficult. One never led to another, and his army of minions seemed to have no idea that there were other armies working in concert on parallel disasters. Peter had only been on-site for four months—a relatively short time compared with his last tenure as personal assistant to Marcello Ricetti, a Sicilian arms dealer with a taste for sadism and young boys. Peter had managed