Cold as Ice (17 page)

She didn't care. She was lost, drained. There was nothing left of her but a bedraggled girl in a sheet, wandering through the darkened house at the very edge of dawn, knowing that today was a good day to die.

She dropped the sheet by the edge of the pool and stepped into the water, feeling it wrap around her like a mother's arms.

And she went under, letting it close over her head.

The girl would be dead by now, Madame Lambert thought, picking at her egg sandwich, if Peter had decided to follow his orders. It had been an ugly decision, but in the end, necessary. One of those horrible choices a commander in chief had to make for the sake of the greater good. She'd never had to make one of those decisions before, and it haunted her, when little else did.

Maybe Peter never received her instructions. He hadn't responded to the last transmission, though he might have been too busy. Or maybe he got the instructions and decided to disobey them. He'd never done that before—he took orders like a machine, with no sorrow or pleasure, his soul and his conscience frozen in a block of ice.

Oh, God, she hoped so. She hoped for once Peter went with his gut rather than his orders. Isobel had no choice but to make that order. If Peter delayed, or chose not to kill the girl, there might be enough time to prove she was harmless.

Time. They were running out of time. They had another clue to the Rule of Seven—Takashi O'Brien was in place at Harry's main residence and managed to come up with a connection to a diamond mine in Africa that employed thousands of workers. Again, owned by Harry, and he'd made no effort to divest himself of it. If the planned explosion went through, the carnage would be hideous, and no one would think Harry had anything to do with it. He'd lose a bundle.

So why was he doing this, if it wasn't for money? Lust, revenge, sheer boredom? It could be all of those things. Harry was a spoiled baby who liked shiny toys and big explosions.

And Isobel had finally found out for certain when some of those noisy explosions were scheduled to take place. April twentieth. And the knowledge chilled her to the bone.

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P
eter Jensen didn't let himself sleep. That was an indulgence for the weak, something that could wait until the assignment was complete. In the meantime he could close his eyes and let the feeling of physical satisfaction drain through his body, shutting off his mind at the same time. He wasn't the kind of man to let regrets and mistakes interfere with his life. Taking Genevieve Spenser to bed was most definitely a mistake. And he didn't regret it for a moment.

She'd looked so stricken. From the admittedly hurried intel he'd received on her it was a pretty sure thing that he'd just given her the best ride of her life, and instead of purring she'd looked shattered.

He'd expected to fuck her to sleep so that he had a few hours to figure out what the hell he was going to do about her. And instead, he was the one lying in a postcoital daze, while she must be wide awake wherever she was.

She wasn't the best he'd ever had, far from it. He'd had sex with women trained for just such high-level work, he'd had affairs with women who loved sex and their own bodies and knew how to make the most of both. He'd had sex with women madly, desperately in love with him, and he'd even had sex with women who hated him. He wondered if Genevieve fit in that category. Probably.

He'd even made love, long, long ago. Helena had been a frail, doe-eyed waif with the softest mouth, and he'd gotten her out of war-torn Sarajevo and fallen in love by the time they'd reached England. She'd been a sweet, generous lover and he would have died for her. And almost did.

He was younger then, of course. And in his thirty-eight years of hard living, that was the only time he'd ever let himself be vulnerable. He still had the knife scar from when she tried to gut him. The Committee had neglected to inform him that beneath that innocent exterior was a traitor and a killer, one whose skills matched his. Almost.

Genevieve Spenser had been angry, resentful and remarkably inexperienced, if he could trust his judgment, and he usually could. He'd planned how he was going to take her, and there were no surprises—she'd responded exactly as he meant her to. No, scratch that. There was one major surprise.

His own response.

He was adept at turning off any distracting thoughts, and he did so now. He couldn't afford to be lying in bed, mooning over an uptight lawyer who was going to cease to exist for him in a few short hours.

And she'd been gone too long. His instincts came awake, full force, and he jumped out of bed, and he felt colder than he had in his entire life.

She was floating facedown in the pool, her long hair spread around her like a halo. A moment later he was in the pool with her, hauling her up, cursing as he pushed the hair out of her face.

She was limp, pale, and he was so angry he shook her, hard, as he continued to curse at her. "You idiot! You fucking stupid bitch! What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

She coughed, dumping water all over him, and her eyes blinked open. "Saving you the trouble," she said.

He shook her again, harder. He didn't care if he was hurting her, didn't care if he left bruises. His red-hot fury blinded him to everything. "Why?" he said. "So we had sex—that's no reason to go all Ophelia on me. For Christ's sake, Genevieve, it was just a fuck."

But she still had that broken look in her eyes. The eyes that had been glaring at him, defying him for the last forty-eight hours. The eyes that were now filled with tears.

"How could you do that to me?" she whispered. "You took everything. How could you?"

He really had no choice. He pulled her into his arms, holding her tight against his body. He'd broken her completely. It had been the smartest thing he could do, what he was best at. He should feel satisfaction. Mission accomplished. And instead, he felt as if he'd lost everything as well.

She didn't fight him—she had no fight left. She let him hold her, her face buried against his chest in the waist-deep water.

"Your heart is pounding," she whispered against his shoulder after a moment. "Why?"

He didn't want to think about it. He was shaking, and the air and the water were warm. "Don't do that again," he said in a gruff voice.

"I'm not going to have the chance, am I?"

He put his hand under her chin, tilting her face up to his. He closed his eyes and rested his forehead against hers for a long moment. And then he kissed her.

It was a far worse mistake than sex. She'd knocked his defenses sideways, and he had no protection left. He kissed her deeply, fully, holding nothing back, kissed her as if he loved her. Kissed her as he'd never kissed anyone in his life.

If he were anything but what he was, he would have wanted to weep. As it was, he simply kissed her, her mouth, her cheeks, her eyelids, her neck. And she kissed him back, clinging to him as he moved out into the deeper water, bringing her with him until they were floating in the middle of the pool. She kissed him as she felt him grow hard, threaded her hands through his long wet hair and kissed him again. Kissed him as her body floated up, her legs wrapped around him, kissed him as he brought them together.

It was slow, it was sweet, and he was as focused on her mouth as he was between her legs, until everything changed, and he could feel her need building, spiraling. He pushed her back against the side of the pool, holding her there, and then it was fast and hard, and this time when she came he let her scream, not caring who heard, drinking in the sound, as her body convulsed around his in an endless spasm. He held her there, letting her climax, waiting until she could breathe again, and then he started all over again.

It didn't take long this time, and she was sobbing against his shoulder, clinging to him. "Please," she was whispering. "Please."

He knew what she wanted. He'd taken everything from her, and now she wanted an equal sacrifice. And he should have pulled away, let the water cool him.

"Please," she said.

And he was lost. He thrust up into her, hard, again and again, and then with a hoarse cry he was lost, filling her, draining himself into her, body and soul.

They would have both gone under if she hadn't reached out and grabbed the railing.

"Oh, hell," he said weakly, pulling away, into the center of the pool, leaving her clinging to the side, staring at him.

No longer stricken. Her mouth was swollen from his, and if he thought about it he'd probably get hard again. So he turned away and swam to the shallow end, climbing out.

She hadn't moved from her place at the deep end. It was almost full daylight now, and she could probably see him quite clearly as he walked over to where she waited. He reached down and pulled her out of the pool, effortlessly, and she stood in front of him, wet, dripping and naked.

He caught her chin in his hand and kissed her, a brief, ruthless kiss that should have told her how lost he was. "You need to sleep," he said, grabbing the sheet she'd dropped and wrapping it around her body He picked her up—he could feel the start of surprise that ran through her but he ignored it. She was lighter than he'd expected, and he had no trouble carrying her back into the house.

He didn't want to take her back to her bedroom, and he couldn't take her to his. There were too many other choices, so he simply set her down on one of the overstuffed sofas in the living room.

"Go to sleep," he said.

She looked up at him. He was still unabashedly naked, and there was no way she could miss his constant, eternal reaction to her. But she closed her eyes without saying a word, and a moment later she was sound asleep.

She wasn't good enough to fake it. She wasn't good enough to fake anything. She was exhausted, drugged by sex and violent emotion, and he could lean over and kill her now, quickly, painlessly, in an instant.

With distant, bitter amusement he realized his erection had left. She'd be pleased to know he didn't get off at the thought of killing her—quite the opposite.

But then, death had never been a turn-on for him. It was simply a job to be done, which made him far more valuable an operative than those who did it for the thrill. Those like Renaud.

He wasn't going to kill her. He'd known that for a long time, almost since the beginning, whether he'd wanted to admit it or not. He was a cold, amoral bastard but there were some lines he wouldn't cross. And that included killing innocents who got in the way.

And that's all she was, right, he mocked himself. She could have been any anyone and his decision still would have been the same.

Sleeping with her, getting this weird attachment thing going had nothing to do with it. He could keep telling himself that, and maybe one day he'd believe it.

Still, he was one of the good guys, and his job was to kill bad guys, not people who stumbled in his way.

And he would do just that, without pleasure or remorse, in a few short hours. As soon as he made
arrangements for Genevieve.

He couldn't guarantee her safety—too much was at stake. But she was a smart woman, and he could leave her a trail of bread crumbs that would lead even a child to safety. And with any luck at all she'd never realize he'd let her go.

If she thought she'd escaped by way of her own talents it would give her back some of what he took from her. He shouldn't care, but he did.

He worked with his customary efficiency, and when he left a note by her sleeping form, he only hesitated a moment. He was ignoring a basic tenet—don't put anything on paper, don't leave anything of yourself behind. He'd done both, but he couldn't worry. The note would be gone in the coming conflagration—there'd be no way to trace him. His tracks were covered.

He squatted beside her as she slept. He wanted to push her wet hair away from her face, kiss her one last time and maybe convince himself that a kiss meant nothing.

But he knew better than to take the chance. The chance of waking her up, the chance of finding out that kissing her meant everything he was afraid of.

And he was supposed to be afraid of nothing. He let his hand hover over her face for a moment, tempted, so tempted.

And then he turned around and walked away. Forever.

It was broad daylight on the last day of her life, and Genevieve lay wrapped like a mummy on the living-room sofa, trapped.

It only took her a moment to fight her way out of the enveloping shroud, and she almost didn't see the note on the marble-top table beside her. It was brief and to the point. "Don't go in my room."

She didn't even know which room was his in this rambling estate, so how could she avoid it? What had he done, booby-trapped it so he wouldn't have to factor her into any more of his plans?

She wrapped the sheet back around her and stood up. The house was surrounded by shrubbery, but from the floor-to-ceiling windows she could see the ocean, and it was just as likely someone could see in. How many people were on the island—three? Peter, Hans and Renaud, the brute force. Whoever else was involved in this operation had taken off with Harry's boat.

And of course, Harry was on the island, dead or alive, as much a victim as she was. Maybe Peter was off having sex with him as well—he'd done as much before when he was on assignment, or so he told her.

But then, he had no reason to sleep with Harry. He had him where he wanted him.

He had no reason to sleep with her either. None at all, and yet he had. Finally, finally she'd felt him tremble in her arms, his heart racing. Because of her.

And was that a triumph or, in the end, a defeat? It didn't matter. Time was running out, and she wasn't about to waste even a minute thinking about Peter Jensen. She couldn't afford to.

Victoria's Secret and microbikinis were out of the question—so were the enveloping caftans that would trip her up if she tried to run. And she suspected that might be a very real possibility.

Her discarded clothes were gone, thanks, no doubt, to Peter. The butcher knife lay on the floor beside the bed, unmarred by his blood, more's the pity.