Cold as Ice (20 page)

Then on a small plane that took off in a swoop that almost left her stomach behind. Renaud hadn't been on it, and she should remember what happened to him but she couldn't.

Instead, she remembered what she didn't want to remember. The huge yacht being blown to ashes, with Peter Jensen on board.

And she started to cry.

Once started, she couldn't stop. The sobs racked her body, so heavy that she was shaking, and the more she tried to stop them the more powerful they became. She fell back against the pillows, and the tears ran down her face. She shoved a fist in her mouth to quiet the sobs, but it did little good. She finally she gave in, rolling over on her stomach and burying her face in the pillow.

Wherever the woman had disappeared to, it was taking her a blessedly long time to get back to her. Slowly, slowly her tears began to lessen, her sobs quieted, as reality began to drift back in odd-shaped puzzle pieces.

She wasn't crying over Peter Jensen.

He who lived by the sword died by the sword, didn't they say? A man in his profession would court death on a daily basis. It was only logical that one day the match would be made.

No, she had no reason to cry over Peter. It was only a natural response to the horrific few days she'd spent, a normal release of built-up tension. She would just as likely weep over Hans's murder; she'd been forced to witness that in all its horror. Surely that was having a more powerful impact on her than Peter's antiseptic death.

But she hadn't slept with Hans. She hadn't opened her arms and her body and God knows what else to him, letting him strip everything away.

No man had ever done that to her, leaving her so lost and vulnerable. And no man ever would again. She was delighted he was dead. Triumphant. She had complete revenge for what he'd done to her, how he'd made her feel.

And she burst into tears again.

"Come now, little lady." Harry Van Dorn's bourbon-warm voice slithered through her misery. "No need to cry over spilt milk. You're safe and sound right here—no one's going to hurt you."

It was like a glass of cold water being thrown in her face—strange, when his voice was so warm and smooth. She wiped her face on the expensive sheets, her tears cut off, and looked up at him.

He looked the same—tanned, well dressed, wide, friendly smile. There was no sign of his recent imprisonment, whereas she was covered with bruises and scratches from her trip through the island paths. Either he was remarkably resilient or he had a good makeup artist.

She swallowed the last lingering shudder. "How are you feeling?" she asked.

"Hell, Genevieve, I'm fine. I'm as strong as a horse. It would take more than a few days knocked out on drugs to get me down. You're the one who's been through the wars. You've got stitches, and the doc says you suffered a concussion."

"Where am I? How long have I been here? What happened?" Her voice sounded anxious, almost hysterical, and she wished she could call back her questions, sound calm and professional.

"Now, now, don't you worry your pretty little head about a thing. We've got you safe here. And there's no way anyone can get to you."

"Get to me? Who would want to?" The concussion explained the pain in her head—was it also responsible for the fact that nothing seemed to make any sense to her?

"The people who are out to get me are a very smart, very powerful group of terrorists. They've been after me for a long time, and you screwed that up. Thanks to you we've now got a pretty good idea who they are and where they come from."

"Thanks to me?"

"They found a crumpled-up note tucked in your shorts, and they were able to trace it to the man who wrote it. The man calling himself Peter Jensen. His real name is Madsen, and he works for a group of terrorists called the Committee. Not very original, right? They've targeted me, though I can't quite figure out why. Maybe my money, maybe because of my humanitarian activities. Whatever the reason, they wanted me dead, and you threw a monkey wrench into their plans. I don't know if I've ever owed so much to one person."

She was having a hard time taking all this in. "Terrorists?" she echoed. She'd thought the same thing, despite Peter's insistence that he was one of the good guys. Didn't villains always think they were heroes?

But Harry's explanation wasn't feeling right to her. Something was off, something was wrong.

"Now, don't you fuss. He's dead, and there's no way he can get to either of us ever again. I just wish I'd had the chance to bring him to the justice he so richly deserved."

The blow to her head must have really scrambled her brains, she thought dizzily. Harry Van Dorn was saying the right words, sounding brave and noble and heroic. And all she could think was that he'd stolen her letter, the one thing she had of Peter Jensen. Madsen. Whoever the hell he was.

Or had been. She could feel her eyes begin to sting and she shook her head, trying to fight the overwhelming grief.

Harry was oblivious. He sat down on the bed beside her, and for some reason she wanted to move away from him. Odd, when he was harmless, a victim as she was. Had been. "Even with Madsen dead I'm afraid you've made some very dangerous enemies, and I aim to make sure you don't suffer for helping to save me."

"Where are we?" she asked again, dismissing his facile reassurances.

"Someplace they'll never find you."

"Where?" she persisted. "Are we somewhere in Asia?" She glanced over his shoulder at the still, dark figure of an Asian man, could see the various servants bustling around.

"Not near any chance of tsunamis," Harry said with an easy laugh.

"I wasn't even thinking about that," she said. "And as far as I can tell, we're right on the ocean. How can that make us impervious to tsunamis?"

"Okay, not impervious," Harry corrected with a lazy grin. "You lawyers are all so literal. Let's just say a tidal wave would be a long shot where this house is situated."

"Where?"

"You don't give up that easy, do you, Genevieve? I hope you don't mind me calling you that—I figure since we shared such an adventure we ought to be on a first-name basis."

She wouldn't have called those days of death and danger any kind of adventure, but then, he didn't know that. He'd spent the entire time in a drugged-out stupor. "Where are we, Harry?" she asked once more, her patience a deception that was about to shred.

"I really can't tell you," he said, and she almost believed the regret in his soft, oozing drawl. "The fewer people who know about the location of this place, the better. You'll be leaving here when things are safe, and it wouldn't be wise to have you out in the open with that kind of knowledge. Too dangerous for you, much too dangerous for me."

"In other words, if you tell me you'll have to kill me?"

His smile was exquisitely charming. "You're better off forgetting all about the time you spend here."

She was beginning to get ever so slightly pissed off. "And do you have some complicated reason for not telling me how long that is?"

Her slightly acid tone was lost on him. "Thirteen days."

"What?" she shrieked, and was rewarded with a stabbing pain in the head. "That's impossible. I couldn't have slept for thirteen days."

"Not exactly. You had a concussion, remember? Doc Schmidt decided to put you in a drug-induced coma in order to give you time to heal. And don't look so horrified—my staff took excellent care of you while you were out of it. "

"You drugged me? And how is that different from what those bastards were doing to you?" she said, practically vibrating with fury. She was forgetting all her well-behaved, lawyerly manners and she didn't give a damn.

"Because we were trying to help you, not keep you docile before we killed you," Harry said patiently. "Besides, you were under the care of a doctor. You shouldn't be so sensitive."

Personally, Genevieve thought she had every right to be a little high-strung, given the circumstances, but she kept silent on that subject. "And how much longer am I going to stay in this mystery location?"

"Until you're well enough to leave, and until the danger is gone. That treacherous son of a bitch might have been blown to hell, but there are a dozen others to take his place, and they don't give up lightly."

"But…"

"Jack, I want you to see that our guest has everything she could possibly want." Harry overrode her objection, rising to his full height. "This here is Jack O'Brien, one of my executive assistants."

"Like Peter Jensen?"

Harry grimaced. "Jack's been with me too long to question his loyalty. Besides, he would never betray me, would you, pal? After all, I know where the bodies are buried."

The man standing in the shadows stepped forward, bowing slightly. "Anything you wish, Ms. Spenser," he said in a soft, deferential voice.

"See?" Harry said, clearly pleased with himself. "You couldn't be in better hands. Jack's one of the best. I know what you're thinking—what's an Oriental man doing with a name like Jack O'Brien? His father was white, his mother a Jap. His real name is something I can't pronounce, so I just call him Jack."

The man nodded again, seemingly oblivious to Harry's casual racism. "You'll be perfectly safe here, Ms. Spenser."

Now, why did they keep emphasizing her safety? Harry was the one who was making her feel unsafe.

"I'll need to leave you in Jack's capable hands, Genevieve. I have a lot of irons in the fire right now, and I've been away too long. Just know that you can trust Jack as you trust me."

For some reason that wasn't comforting, she thought as the door closed behind him, leaving her alone with another of Harry's ghostlike assistants. Her energy was nonexistent—whether from the drugs they'd used or thirteen days of inactivity, she couldn't be sure. And for some reason she wanted to cry again. All over someone who deserved to die.

The man took in her grief-stricken face with a polite air of acknowledgment. "Is there any way I can be of service, miss? I'm afraid I'm the only one here who speaks English, but I'd be glad to offer any assistance you might need. With Mr. Van Dorn's resources my abilities are almost limitless."

"Can you bring people back from the dead?" she said, then slapped her hand over her mouth, horrified at her inadvertent words. She wasn't going to cry for Peter Jensen, she absolutely wasn't. She hadn't even known his real name—how could she mourn him?

The man didn't look daunted, though there was a slightly odd expression in his dark eyes. "I haven't done so as yet, Ms. Spenser."

"Never mind. I was just being ridiculous." Her brave smile was probably pathetic, but Jack O'Brien politely pretended not to notice. "I just want to… " She stared up at his cool, impassive face. "What's your real name?" she asked. "I don't care if Harry's too lazy he can't master it—I'd be more comfortable calling you by your real name."

He hesitated for a moment. "Takashi," he said finally. "Very much like Jack—I'm used to it."

"And your last name is O'Brien?" she persisted.

She might almost have thought he'd smiled. "He's right about that. My father was an Irishman. I take after my mother's side of the family in all ways." He frowned, as if he'd already said too much. "I have things to attend to, Ms. Spenser, if there's nothing else I can do for you."

"You can arrange for me to get out of here."

"That's almost as difficult as raising the dead," he said. "But I'll see what I can do. Anh will be bringing you something to eat in a little while. If you don't feel like drinking the tea, you could just pour it out when no one's looking. That way no one will be offended."

Either that was an incredibly strange thing to say, or the drugs in her system were still confusing her. She looked up at him, but his cool expression gave nothing away. "I certainly wouldn't want to offend anyone," she said finally.

He nodded. "It's always better that way," he said. "If you need anything just say my name to one of the servants and they'll come and find me."

"What name?"

He didn't smile. "Either one, Ms. Spenser. Call, and I'll come. In the meantime, I'll see what I can do about your requested miracles."

She should have asked for Tab while she was at it. It was just as likely as bringing Peter back from the dead.

Except.

It hit her with stunning force. He wasn't dead. She didn't know how she knew it, but she just did. He hadn't been on that boat when it exploded into a shower of nothingness. She could feel it, in her bones, in her gut. Peter whoever-he-was wasn't dead.

And she was probably still too hopped up on the meds they'd been giving her to know her own mother.

She didn't care. If it was a fantasy then she was happy enough to live in it. After all, she was never going to see the man again, either way.

She'd just be happier believing he was alive. Still on this earth, tormenting some other poor woman who happened to get in his way.

No more tears. She needed to look forward, to get out of this mink-lined prison and back to America. Right now, all she had to worry about was herself. And that was going to keep her busy enough.

Harry's affable smile vanished the moment Jack-shit left him alone in his study. Even for someone as necessary as his Jap assistant there were certain precautions, certain formalities. He'd given Jack the order to kill in the past, and Jack had followed through with his customary silent efficiency, but still Harry had never let his charming smile fade.

It was gone now, and he prowled the study like an angry jungle cat. He liked the image—he could picture himself as a sleek, oversize panther, a danger to all who knew him. And he was. He was just smart enough to fool them.

She'd fucked him. The little bitch lawyer had fucked Jensen—he could see it on her, smell it on her. She'd kept her distance from him that first night on the boat and then spread her legs for that lying bastard, and for that she was going to have to pay.

Things would have been so different if she'd just done her duty and slept with him that first night. He'd come to expect it from the women his lawyers sent down to him, and Genevieve Spenser should have been no different.