Cold as Ice (27 page)

"Can we turn out the light?" Her voice was caustic. "Now that you've finished parading your assets around I'd like to get some sleep."

Again that smile. "You really are the most annoying female I've ever met," he murmured, switching off the light.

"Same goes double for you," she muttered.

"In case you hadn't been looking that closely, I'm not a female."

"It was hard to avoid," she said, her voice muffled.

The room was dark, only a faint light from outside coming through a crack in the heavy curtains. She didn't like lying here in the dark with him; it felt too intimate. Then again, she had no place else to go.

"I'm going to sleep," she announced.

"So you said." He stretched out, putting his hands behind his head, perfectly at peace.

She turned her back on him, flouncing over in the bed, and closed her eyes. Five minutes later she flipped back, only to find he was still awake, staring at the ceiling. Still aroused.

"I know what it is," she said in the quiet, shadowed room. "It's the danger that excites you. You're an adrenaline junkie, and running for your life gives you a hard-on."

"Such talk, Ms. Spenser," he mockingly chided her. "Why are you so obsessed with my erection?"

She considered dumping the melting bucket of ice on him, then wisely reconsidered the notion. "Just curious. Since I was 'nothing special' it seems odd that you'd be…er…"

"Hard? You said it before—you're brave enough about other things."

"I don't feel particularly brave. Too many people trying to kill me, I guess. I just want to go home."

"So you said. And I'm here to see to just that. Get you tucked safely back in that elegant apartment on Seventy-second Street where you can curl up on your white leather furniture and forget all about this."

She wasn't likely to forget about anything, but she had the sense not to say so. They had ways of making people forget, he'd told her, and she wasn't in the mood to be a guinea pig. "How do you know what my apartment looks like?"

"I was just there. It's been searched at least once, by Harry's people, and they're watching it pretty closely, just to make certain you don't show up. Harry trusts Takashi as much as he trusts anyone, which means not at all, and he doesn't leave things to chance. Which is why you're not going back there until Harry is dead."

"Why you? Why did they send you to rescue me?"

"I'm the one who botched the initial mission. It was my responsibility."

"Punishment for screwing up?"

"You could say so." He rolled on his side to look at her through the shadows. "You know, this isn't a girls' sleepover where we can gossip all night. I need to get some sleep."

"Just figure it's part of your penance. I know if you had any choice in the matter you'd be half a world away. Tell them to send someone to relieve you. Tell them I hate you and I can't stand being around you and they need to send someone else to babysit me."

"They don't care what you want or don't want, Genevieve," he said wearily. "And there's no one to send."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean they didn't send me. As far as the Committee is concerned, you're collateral damage, just part of the fortunes of war, and they don't waste manpower on unimportant details like you."

She swallowed. "If you're not manpower then what are you?"

"On vacation. My time is my own, and I can do what I want with it. Even killers get time off. We get excellent benefits as well, if you ever think you might want to change careers."

She felt as if the ground had shifted beneath her feet and everything she believed was suddenly in question. "The only person I've ever wanted to kill was you," she said.

"Was? You no longer want to kill me? Things are progressing."

"You came after me on your own? Why? Don't tell me true love—you already said I was nothing special."

He lay back on the bed, and she could see the faint smile at his mouth. "That rankled, didn't it? It was meant to. Where have you spent the last three years—in a convent? You have the sexual inventiveness of a nun."

"I didn't want to sleep with you."

"Sure you did. You just wanted to be talked into it."

"I really hate you," she said fiercely. "I know why you decided to come after me. You weren't through making my life a living hell and you wanted to add to my misery."

"That's it," he agreed in a pleasant voice. "Now, either shut up and go to sleep or I'll find something to use as a gag. For some stupid-ass reason, I've decided to save your life, and I'll do a better job of it if I get some sleep."

"I didn't ask—"

"Shut up, Genny. Or I'll shut you up."

It wasn't the threat that silenced her, a threat she knew he'd carry out. It was his calling her "Genny." It shook her, it always shook her. After all these years he was the only one alive who called her that, a name she associated with tenderness and safety. He probably wouldn't be alive that much longer, given his profession.

And neither would she, if she didn't let him sleep. So what if she was wide awake, obsessed by every little thing, including the man in the next bed? She wasn't going to make sense of it, or him, no matter how hard she tried. All she could do was lie there, her eyes staring up at the stained ceiling and wait…

She was asleep. Peter had been wondering whether she was going to stay awake, prattling at him, for the entire night. The woman could talk—probably part of the curse of her being a lawyer—and he was a man who didn't want to talk. At least to her, right now.

He didn't know why the hell he told her it had been his choice to come after her. She was better off thinking he was there under duress. Which was, in fact, the truth. Something was forcing him to be there, to come after her, to pluck her from the jaws of danger. He just didn't know what it was.

He could rule out conscience. That was a luxury he couldn't afford. And it wasn't her sexual prowess, though he'd deliberately insulted her on that one. She was afraid of him, not that he'd hurt her, but that he'd have sex with her. Make her want him again, make her vulnerable. The only way to alleviate that nervousness was to assure her he had no interest in her curvy body, her long legs.

He'd barely had her and he had to let go of her. It was one of those unpleasant facts of life, part of his penance. And he'd told her nothing more than the truth. The sex had been nothing special, just body parts behaving as they ought to. But she was something else.

He glanced over at her in the darkness. She'd lost a little bit of weight in the two weeks, he could see it in her hips and breasts. It was a shame—he loved her unfashionable curves—but in the end it made it easier on him. She bothered him enough already, as in hot and bothered. He'd chosen plain, baggy clothes to make her look less appealing, and they'd had the opposite effect. He probably could have put her in a burka, as she'd sarcastically suggested, and he still would have wanted her.

You can't have her
, he reminded himself.
She's off limits. You messed with her once and screwed things up. You made her life miserable
—
you have to leave her alone. You owe her that much
.

Unfortunately his conscience wasn't listening. And he had no interest in sleeping—despite what he'd told her, he tended to work at peak efficiency with very little rest. He could make it till the end of the week, well past the twentieth of April, without more than a quick nap. He'd just wanted her to go to sleep and leave him alone.

But even asleep she didn't leave him alone. He could hear her breathing, sense her every movement, and he had to turn away so he wouldn't watch the rise and fall of her breasts as she slept.

He was getting her out tomorrow, to Canada, to a safe house he knew of. He'd considered taking her to his old friend's place in North Carolina, but at the last minute he thought better of it. No one could protect Genevieve better than Bastien Toussaint, but he had a pregnant wife and in-laws surrounding him, and it wouldn't be fair to put them in the danger that would come with Genevieve Spenser. Nor did he necessarily want Bastien to have to put up with the annoyance.

No, he'd turn to people still in the life, who'd keep an eye on her and wouldn't let anything get to her. While he kept his promise to Madame Lambert and stayed as far away from Harry Van Dorn as possible.

At least Van Dorn was convinced he was dead. If he had any notion Peter had been off the boat before it had exploded, he would be moving heaven and earth to find him. Harry Van Dorn was an implacable enemy. Peter knew far too well some of the things he was capable of when his ire was aroused. For the kind of betrayal he'd perpetrated, Harry would be wanting a very special kind of revenge.

But he'd had to look elsewhere, and it had only been Takashi's quick thinking that had kept Genevieve safe. He'd read the reports on what Harry sometimes did to women, and it had turned even his cast-iron stomach.

But they'd gotten her safely away, and the only way Harry would get to her now was over his dead body, as foolish and sentimental as that was. It didn't matter if the fate of the world rested in his hands—he wasn't going to let Genevieve Spenser be hurt.

And he had absolutely no intention of examining why he felt that way. He didn't have to answer to anyone, including himself. It was just the way it was.

She was making sounds in her sleep, anxious little crying noises, like a lost kitten. She was moving restlessly, kicking out, but he could tell she was far from awake. He shouldn't be surprised—given the drugs and the things she'd witnessed, it would be a miracle if she had a decent night's sleep for months.

He sat up and looked at her, putting his legs over the side of the bed, wondering if he should wake her from her nightmare. But then she'd start yapping at him again, and he'd say something else that he shouldn't, something that would get him tangled in deeper than he already was, and he didn't dare.

He looked over at her. She was crying. He'd never seen anyone cry in their sleep, and he watched with complete fascination.

He'd only seen her cry once, despite all the stuff he'd thrown at her. She'd cried in the pool, right before he'd had her again. The sex had stopped her tears, but it had been the most dangerous thing he could remember doing in years. Because it had almost started his.

He should lie back down and ignore her, ignore the anxious sounds she was making, the restless way her body was moving. She was just having a nightmare, and it would pass. No one ever died of a nightmare, for God's sake.

But he knew he wasn't going to follow his own advice. If he woke her up and she hit him, then so much the better. If she didn't, he'd deal with what happened as it happened. And he got out of bed and slid in beside her, pulling her trembling body into his arms.

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H
e was hoping she'd wake up instantly, order him to get out of her bed, and he would leave, grateful. But instead she reached out for him, her hands cool on his heated skin, and she buried herself against him, her wet face pushed up against his shoulder, and she clung to him, still crying.

He held her—what else had he expected? he mocked himself. He pulled her into his arms, wrapping his larger body around hers. She was wearing just about every stitch of clothing he'd bought her, thank God, because even so, her body against his bare skin was agonizing in its ability to arouse. What the hell was wrong with him? You'd think he was the one who'd gone three years without a lover. She was just one of a hundred women, a drive-by fuck, nothing special. And she was everything.

He tried to pull away, but she clung tightly, whimpering in her sleep. Since he didn't really want to let her go he stayed where he was, gently brushing the tears away from her face as she slept on. He was an idiot; he wasn't the answer to her nightmares, he was the cause of them. If she opened her eyes and saw him she'd start screaming, and that's what he needed to do, wake her before it was too late, before he was in too deep.

It was even easier to wake a woman than to knock her out, and he used the same trick, just a different pressure point, and a second later her tear-drenched eyes flew open, staring into his.

She didn't scream, didn't even speak, her silence more disturbing than any protest as she simply looked at him in the darkened room, so close. Finally, she spoke.

"Nothing special?"

"Nothing at all," he said, and kissed her, as he'd always known he would. She rolled onto her back, taking him with her, and kissed him back, her arms around his neck, her mouth full and sweet and generous, and he knew he was doomed.

And it didn't matter. She didn't say a word as he stripped off her clothes—he kept her mouth busy with his, and even when he wasn't kissing her they were silent. It was in the dark, a dream, they weren't doing this. But if they spoke it would suddenly make it real, and the price they would have to pay was enormous.

She didn't resist when he pulled the last piece of clothing, the plain white underwear that he'd foolishly thought wouldn't be sexy, down her endless legs. He remembered everything he knew about her, including her sexual history and the things she didn't like, and he knew she was going to do every one of them and like it. She was going to be on top, and she was going to go down on him, and she was going to tell him she loved him. And he didn't know what would cost her more.

Her skin was cool against his warm flesh, and it tasted like soap. He kissed the side of her neck, feeling her pulse jump beneath his tongue. He knew his own pulses were racing and he didn't give a shit. Her breasts were full and taut, the nipples hard against his fingers, and she arched up when he touched them, making a whimpering sound of need in the back of her throat, a sound that changed to a cry when he put his mouth over one, drawing the nipple deep into his mouth, and sucked at her.

He could make her come this way, he realized. He could make her come any way he wanted—she was trembling with need and ready to fall. But the longer he waited the more powerful it would be for her, so he reluctantly lifted his mouth, blowing softly on the wet, distended peak of her breast.