Cold As Ice. Anne Stuart
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up dead then it was due to her own greed. He should make peace with that unpleasant fact and take her back to her room.
He wondered how many of those pills she’d taken. He’d searched her purse, of course, more out of habit than any particular suspicion, only to discover that Ms. Genevieve Spenser had a fondness for tranquilizers. Maybe he could just keep her drugged the entire time, until Harry and the rest of them could disappear. But that would leave her wondering why Harry had chosen to take off to his private island and leave her behind, doped and groggy. She was too smart not to be suspicious. Discretion was as much a part of his assignment as getting it done.
He’d also gone through that slim black briefcase, photographing the details and sending them on to London. One more piece of the puzzle of the Rule of Seven. But what did oil fields in the Mid East have to do with a dam in India? What did it have to do with anything?
Apparently Madame Lambert had decided it wasn’t worth waiting to find out. Which was fine with Peter, if this goddamn woman hadn’t stumbled into his path.
He was taking her the long way on purpose. She was slightly out of it and hiding it very well indeed, but with his roundabout path she’d never find her way back to Harry Van Dorn, assuming she even wanted to.
The one thing that didn’t make sense was her not sleeping with her host. People didn’t say no to Harry Van Dorn, and she had to have. She might be a lesbian, but he doubted it, his fine-tuned instincts ruling out the possibility. More likely she was frigid. Or maybe she only liked it when she could be in control, and Harry was a topper if ever there was one.
Peter had asked London for intel on her, but they didn’t seem in any particular hurry to get back to him, and he was still working in the dark. It would be easier if he knew a little more about her.
But he didn’t need to waste his time thinking about how Genevieve Spenser liked or didn’t like sex. He needed to figure out how to get rid of her without sacrificing discretion. Collateral damage, he reminded himself as he turned down one of the narrow service passageways.
“You might want to take off those shoes, Ms. Spenser,” he said in his empty voice. “The sea’s getting a bit choppy. Do you need something for seasickness?”
“I never get seasick.” She stopped anyway, leaning against the side of the passageway to slip off her ridiculously expensive shoes. She was a tall woman, but the heels had added a good three inches, and she now seemed more vulnerable. He didn’t like it when they were vulnerable.
“Never?” he echoed. “You strike me as someone who doesn’t like boats very much, and I assumed it was a tendency toward seasickness that caused it.”
Her eyes jerked up, suddenly sharp, and he could have kicked himself. Jensen might have noticed her dislike of boats, but he would have gone no further than that. He certainly would never have mentioned it.
“I don’t like feeling trapped,” she said in a tight voice.
“Then you must not like this passageway either,” he said, another mistake. It was long and narrow, with the dim lighting Harry considered atmospheric, and if she had a problem with claustrophobia she’d be hyperventilating at any moment.
“I don’t. But just because I don’t like something doesn’t mean I’ll run from it.”
He wanted to smile. She sounded like a feisty little kid instead of a corporate mannequin. “I can still arrange for that launch.”
“Are you trying to get rid of me, Mr. Jensen?”
Too sharp, despite the wine and the tranquilizers. She had a soft mouth, rich brown eyes, and for a moment he wanted to be someone, anyone but who he was. He was going to make a mistake, and he was going to pay for it, but at that moment he didn’t give a shit.
He didn’t bother telling her he was trying to save her life. He slid his hand up her neck, and while she flinched at the first touch she gentled quickly, as his long fingers cupped her face. “I have a romantic streak,” he said with a faint smile, and leaned down to kiss her.
Such a mouth. He wanted to drown in it. She was too startled and maybe just a bit too drunk to do more than lean back against the wall and let him, and he took full advantage of it, kissing her with a leisurely thoroughness that he hadn’t let himself enjoy for a long time. And at the last minute he increased the pressure just below her ear, and she slumped into his arms, unconscious.
It was five in the morning, London time, and Isobel Lambert was still awake. In fact, she slept very little, a gift of both genetics and training. Things were just about to go down in the Caribbean, and while the operation was now out of her hands, she needed to be awake and alert, there in spirit if not in fact.
She never asked anyone to do anything she wouldn’t do herself. And Peter Jensen was the best there was. She didn’t tend to second-guess herself, and her gut-felt decision, to terminate Harry Van Dorn before he could implement some of the near-global damage he was planning, was the right one.
But there was the girl who’d gotten in the way, and Jensen, usually cold as ice about such things, was dragging his heels. She could communicate directly with Renaud, have him take care of her, but she wasn’t ready to do that. Renaud was a nasty piece of work, and she only liked to use him sparingly, with calmer heads like Jensen overseeing him. If there was any way to save the girl, Jensen would see to it without compromising the mission.
In the meantime, they had one more vital piece of Harry’s plan. Oil fields in Saudi Arabia, a dam in Mysore, India. What else did he have in mind? And for God’s sake, why?
Peter Jensen looked at the unconscious woman in his arms. It was a good trick, one he’d used a number of times, mostly to save lives. If he had to kill someone there was usually no reason for finesse. But if Genevieve Spenser wasn’t going to show enough sense to take his advice and get her butt off the boat then he was going to see to it, and pick up the pieces later. Madame Lambert probably wouldn’t be happy; she trusted him to know enough to veer from a plan when he had to, but she wouldn’t like it. He might get his wrist slapped, but as long as no one would ever be able to trace anything back to him or the Committee they’d be fine.
Ms. Spenser was heavier than he’d thought, but he was strong enough, and he dumped her over his shoulder, leaving her shoes behind as he headed down toward the launch.
“What’s that you’ve got there, Petey lad?” Renaud was leaning against a row of packing cases, a cigarette in his mouth, sharpening his knife. “Present for me?”
“Not quite. I want her off the boat before we get rid of Van Dorn. You need to take her back to the island and dump her somewhere.”
Renaud put the knife away, rising. “She dead? Or do you want me to finish her off?”
“She’s fine and I want her to stay that way. Just dump her somewhere that’ll require a couple of days to find her and get back here. We’re running late.”
“Wouldn’t be running late if I didn’t have to take an extra ride in this choppy water,” Renaud pointed out. “If you don’t want her I’ll have her. She’s pretty enough.”
“She’s trouble.”
“Then let me take care of her. Much neater all around.”
Peter was getting tired of arguing. “I’ll take her myself,” he said.
“I don’t think Hans would like it.”
“And what does Hans have to say to anything? This is my operation.”
“So it is. But we’ve all got orders to keep an eye on each other. What with the shake-up and all, the Committee isn’t as trusting as it used to be.”
Jensen wanted to laugh at the very idea of trust and the Committee in the same sentence, but he was too edgy and she was too damn heavy slung over his shoulder. “Fine,” he said. “You take her to the island and I’ll deal with Hans.”
“Not a good idea, Petey,”