Cold As Ice. Anne Stuart
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plotted long ago, and the men in the wheelhouse were some of the best. No one would be able to find them, even with the most advanced surveillance systems.
Then again, no one would be looking for them. Harry Van Dorn was known to take off when the mood struck him, and the time he spent aboard the Seven Sins usually involved the world’s idea of romance. If he disappeared, it would first be assumed he had some sort of assignation, probably at his private island. And Peter Jensen had been on-site long enough to know how to steer nosy people in the wrong direction.
Harry did have an assignation on Little Fox Island, all right. But it wasn’t with a leggy model. He had an appointment with death, and the longer Jensen was around him the more he knew it was long overdue.
But why the hell did Madame Lambert have to pick tonight? When a relative innocent had strayed into their path? He was used to dealing with anomalies, but his choices had never been quite so clear cut. He had to get her off the boat. Or she had to die.
And he had only a few hours to make that happen.
Questioning orders was frowned upon by the Committee, and Peter didn’t even consider it. He did his job with single-minded determination and ignored the larger ramifications. He didn’t want to be the one making the life-or-death decisions. If he had to make them, he might have trouble carrying them out, and the world couldn’t afford that.
Saving the world, one murder at a time, Peter thought, putting his wire-rimmed glasses back on his face. The funny thing was, he really didn’t want to kill Harry Van Dorn. For the simple reason that he was afraid he might enjoy it, and then he’d really be lost.
It was going to be an antiseptic, long-distance hit, and he’d let Renaud do the honors. Renaud had no qualms about his work; he reveled in it a bit too much, which could always be a liability. Peter’s icy control was money in the bank—the job got done with deadly efficiency and no fuckups.
There’d be no fuckups on this one either. But he had to get rid of Genevieve Spenser. Now.
She’d miscalculated. Genevieve sat in one of the elegant lounges on Harry Van Dorn’s megayacht, forcing herself to eat sparingly of the food that was far too good for a pick-up chef, and drank too much wine. She should have paid attention, but even by her recently pampered standards the wine was extraordinary, and it would have been a crime to ignore it. She knew herself well enough to know when she’d had enough, but it was too late at that point, and her only choice was to manage a dignified retreat.
It hadn’t been a bad evening—Harry was charming, full of flattering attention and entertaining stories that poked fun at both himself and the high and mighty. At some other time Genevieve might have felt like reciprocating that flattery—he was movie-star handsome, and she hadn’t been involved with anyone in longer than she wanted to remember. The firm would approve, and she could have a night of pleasure to send her on her way to the rain forest.
The problem, of course, was that it wouldn’t be particularly pleasurable. The first time she slept with a man it tended to be uncomfortable, nerve-racking, even unpleasant. Even with the wine and the tranquilizers she would only manage to relax enough to do it but not enjoy it. No, Harry Van Dorn was flirting heavily, but he didn’t seem likely to push it, and she was just as happy to be able to keep a relative distance.
“I’ve got a busy day tomorrow,” she said, rising on thankfully steady feet. “I’ve had a lovely evening, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to say good-night.”
Harry rose, towering over her, his big Texas grin almost tempting. “Are you sure I can’t talk you into an after-dinner liqueur? Maybe view my etchings?”
She laughed, as she was supposed to. “I think I’ll take a rain check on the etchings,” she said. “I’m so exhausted I’ll probably fall asleep on my feet.”
“We can’t have that. I suppose I’d better call Jensen!”
The ghost appeared, seemingly out of the woodwork, and his sudden presence momentarily cleared the fog in Genevieve’s brain. “Shall I see Ms. Spenser to her quarters, sir?”
Harry didn’t look pleased at Jensen’s rapid appearance.
“I can find my own way,” she protested, just as the boat shifted beneath her, and she had to reach out and catch the back of the banquette.
“The wind has picked up a bit, and we wouldn’t want you to slip or get lost. The SS Seven Sins is a big ship. Besides, Jensen’s here to serve, aren’t you?”
“Yes, sir,” he murmured, his voice as colorless as his eyes.
She almost changed her mind. Stupid, of course, she chided herself, but for a brief, wine-fogged moment she felt safer with Harry Van Dorn and his straightforward attempts at seduction than the almost invisible servant with the empty eyes.
But she hadn’t had that much to drink. She put her best smile on her face. “If you wouldn’t mind, Mr. Jensen?”
“It’s his job, Genevieve,” Harry drawled.
She glanced up at Jensen’s impassive face. She really needed this vacation—she had no reason at all to feel so uneasy in his presence. Maybe the pills she took to calm her down had backfired, making her more paranoid.
None of it mattered. She’d be gone by tomorrow, and she wouldn’t have to be anyone but herself.
“This way, Ms. Spenser,” he said, opening the door for her, and she squashed down her misgivings.
“Thanks again for a lovely evening,” she said to Harry. It wasn’t really a lie—it hadn’t been that unpleasant. She just desperately wanted to be somewhere else.
“It was entirely my pleasure. Jensen will see you safely to your room and we’ll meet for an early breakfast.”
She knew she should make some polite response, but right then she was too tired for social amenities. She’d smiled and laughed and responded till she felt like a trained monkey, and she hadn’t even gotten the papers signed. Papers he’d insisted on having brought to him. First thing tomorrow morning, she promised herself hazily. And then if he didn’t let her go she’d damn well jump overboard.
She followed Jensen along the outside passageway. She could see the lights of the island, too close and yet too far away. The faint rocking of the boat was even more pronounced as the wind whipped through her carefully coiffed hair, and then they were inside again, the passageway small, dimly lit, almost claustrophobic. “Is this the way we came?” she asked, unable to disguise the faint nervousness in her voice.
“I’m taking a shortcut. You looked like you needed to get to your cabin as soon as possible. Unless…”
He stopped, and she barreled into him, much to her embarrassment. He wasn’t a ghost at all, but warm, solid flesh. “Unless what?”
“I could arrange for a launch to take you back to the island. That way you could catch a flight out tomorrow morning and not have to bother with Mr. Van Dorn’s pilot.”
Her contact lenses had been in for far too long, and she was having trouble focusing. For a moment she was tempted—dry land, no more Harry Van Dorn or business of any sort. But the goddamn papers weren’t signed, the reason she was sent here in the first place, and she couldn’t afford to offend an important client by disappearing and refusing his hospitality and his private jet. She was on the fast track at Roper, Hyde, Camui and Fredericks, and she wasn’t ready to throw that overboard. Literally.
“I’m sure this will be fine. Besides, what sane woman would trade a ride on a private jet for a commercial flight?” she said flippantly. Me, she thought, in a New York minute.
He said nothing for a moment, and then nodded. “As you wish, Ms. Spenser,” he murmured in that bland, empty voice that didn’t seem quite real, and continued down the passageway.
He’d tried, Jensen thought. He could go one step further, knock her cold and have one of the men take her back