Cold as Ice

by Anne Stuart

  “And what if you’re trying to knock out another man,” she said, sarcastic.

  There was no expression in his cool blue eyes. “Then I kiss him,” he said in the calmest of voices. “Now you try it.”

  “I don’t think so…” she said, trying to back away.

  “I mean the move, not the kiss,” he said, grabbing her hand and slapping it against his neck. “Don’t be so skittish. See if you can find the right spot.”

  She didn’t want to be touching him. His skin was cool, silky beneath her hand, and she could feel the calmer beat of his pulse, counterpoint to her own racing heart. She pressed hard with her thumb, anything to let him release her, but he shook his head, pulling her closer.

  “You need to slide your hand around the back of my neck. Like a lover.” His voice was soft, seductive. His hand covered hers, almost a caress, as he moved her thumb to a soft spot on the side of his throat. “You press here, but it has to be strong and steady. Which is why it works better if you’re kissing someone. They’re too distracted to notice what you’re doing until it’s too late.”

  “I’m not kissing you,” she said sharply. Wondering if she had a chance in hell of knocking him out, and whether that was even a good idea given the other people on this boat. “That’s the last thing I want.”

  “Now that’s not true,” he whispered, much too close. “But if you’re happier believing that then I won’t call your bluff.” His hand was still covering hers, the long fingers caressing hers. And then he stepped back, and she felt deflated, limp. Lost.

  “Turn your back on me.”

  “Not again,” she protested. “We already know you can have me on the floor in a matter of seconds.”

  “Yes, I can. But you need to learn how to keep Renaud or Hans from doing the same thing. Because they’re not likely to let you up again, and both of them are probably going to try to take you from behind. Neither has much of a sporting instinct.”

  “This isn’t a sport!” she snapped.

  “Maybe not to you. But it is to them. Turn around, but don’t think about poor old Harry lying there on the bed. Think about what’s around you, what’s dangerous. See if you can feel me moving in on you…” His voice came to an abrupt halt as she slammed her elbow into his stomach with all her strength.

  He had a hard stomach—she’d probably get tendonitis from that blow. If she lived long enough. She turned to look up at him, wondering if he was going to hit her back, but he simply looked bemused. “That was better,” he said.

  “That’s because you were distracted,” she said in a smug voice. “Let’s try it again—”

  Back on the floor, this time on her back, with him straddling her effortlessly, holding her in place. “Don’t get cocky when you score an inadvertent hit. It just makes the opponent more alert.”

  She looked up at him. She was having trouble catching her breath, but this time it wasn’t from the force of hitting the ground. She told herself it was panic, the unpleasant sense of being trapped by someone bigger, stronger than she was. It was logical, but only partly true.

  “Get off me,” she said, glaring at him. “Get off me or the next time I’m anywhere near a pencil or a set of keys you’re going to be blind as a bat.”

  That slow smile should have infuriated her. “Really?” he said. He leaned down, and the black hair that had been so carefully combed back when he was the gray ghost fell around his face, almost obscuring his expression. “I was getting the feeling you liked this. Just a little bit.”

  “I don’t,” she said, but her voice was soft, breathless, as he came closer. Maybe he was going to kiss her again, and maybe this time she could use it to her advantage, knock him off balance, slam him across the throat. Or maybe she could just lie back and let him kiss her.

  His mouth hovered just over hers. “What are you thinking?” he whispered.

  “I thought you could read my mind.”

  “Not when it really counts,” he said, and he let his mouth touch hers for just a brief second. And then to her shock he rolled off her, scrambling to his feet without a backward glance, leaving her lying on the floor feeling exposed and vulnerable.

  He went to the door but didn’t unlock it. “What do you want, Renaud?”

  She hadn’t even heard him knock. She sat up, feeling bruised and foolish, but Peter didn’t even glance her way.

  “The launch is ready. What about the girl? Do we take her with us or get rid of her now?”

  He turned to look at her in the shadowy room, and there was no reading the expression on his face. Even if she’d had her glasses on, she doubted it would have helped. “We’ll take her with us,” he said.

  “Makes more sense to finish her off here. Just give me ten minutes with her and I’ll take care of things.”

  “I know how you hate to rush things,” Peter drawled. “I think you can safely leave her to me. I’ll do what needs to be done when the time comes.”

  “Whatever you say, boss.” Renaud didn’t sound pleased, and a stray shiver ran down Genevieve’s back, remembering the small, cruel eyes. Anything would be better than Renaud.

  By the time Peter moved away from the door, she’d gotten to her feet. “The launch?” she said. “Where are we going?”

  “We’ve reached our destination. Didn’t you notice we haven’t been moving?”

  So that explained her initial feeling of well-being when she woke up. No wonder she hadn’t felt the same claustrophobic panic. “I’ve been distracted,” she said. “Where are we?”

  “Little Fox Island. Harry’s private escape from all his onerous duties as a billionaire. It’s as good a place as any.”

  “As good a place as any for what?”

  “For Harry Van Dorn to die, Ms. Spenser. I’m afraid poor old Harry’s time has run out.”

  “And mine? Has my time run out as well?”

  He didn’t answer. Which was the worst answer of all.

  He couldn’t move. Whatever they’d used on him was damn strong; he was so doped up he couldn’t even open his eyes, he could just lie on his own bed, zoned out, listening.

  It wasn’t a bad way to spend his time, Harry thought. He had an infinite appetite for any sort of drug, and he was enjoying the rush, perfectly at peace for the time being. Sooner or later he’d have to make an effort, find someone he could turn, but in the meantime he could just lie there and listen to the ratbastard Jensen mess around with his girlfriend.

  The term amused him. He liked to think of all his sexual partners, willing and unwilling, male and female, child and adult, as girlfriends. Genevieve Spenser wouldn’t know what hit her.

  She’d have to be disciplined, of course. She was trapped in a room with him and all she could see was Jensen. She should have been busy begging for his life, not wrestling with his enemy.

  But there’d be time enough to deal with that once he bought himself an ally. They had some kind of complicated plan—he could sense that much though he was so stoned he couldn’t bring himself to care. There was a reason they hadn’t killed him yet, and whatever that reason was, he knew the truth.

  He wasn’t meant to die. He was too powerful, and his vision was too strong. The Rule of Seven was about to come into being, and no force on this earth would stop it, or him, no matter how dire things were looking.

  It was all so simple, so beautiful. Seven disasters, one following the other, that would send the world into a financial uproar, the kind of chaos only a prepared man could take advantage of.

  And it was so well planned that he doubted even the people who’d kidnapped him had any idea what it involved, the scope of his genius, because he’d been very careful to keep each aspect self-contained. He could buy the best, most ruthless help, and he had seven of them overseeing each of his little projects. Wipe out one, and there were still six others.

  They wouldn’t move until he gave the word. He doubted if any of his hired help knew he’d chosen April twentieth as the perfect date—Adolf Hitler’s b
irthday, with the anniversaries of major American disasters such as Columbine, Waco, Oklahoma City surrounding it. They were good soldiers but they lacked imagination.

  On the other hand, Peter Jensen had fooled him, something that Harry Van Dorn wasn’t about to forgive. And he’d known enough to choose April twentieth as his cover’s birthday. Which meant his enemies knew his timeline.

  Well, he’d always liked a challenge, and even in his current situation, lying drugged and immovable on his own bed, he could already see his eventual triumph. There was no possible alternative.

  He was going to see to Jensen himself, kill him slowly, gut him and watch him bleed to death. Maybe have his lawyer watch as well, since she seemed far too distracted by him.

  He’d have time to enjoy himself with her before it all came together. Maybe he’d even keep her around for a while—it was easy enough to make a woman docile.

  He should have known that a man born on Hitler’s birthday was going to be trouble. The coincidence had been too tempting, but it had been Harry’s one mistake.

  One that could easily be righted. As soon as he found someone to turn.

  7

  Little Fox Island could have been designed just to his specifications, Peter thought a few hours later. The main villa was on a hill on the east side of the island, with a long, sloping path leading down to a pristine beach. The island was well out of the way of the normal shipping lanes, with a dangerous riptide that discouraged all but the most foolish of tourists, and the treacherous water took care of the rest. There were sharks as well—Peter didn’t know for certain but he expected Harry had had them brought in. As far as he knew, no one had managed to train sharks, but with Harry’s limitless resources he’d doubtless found a way to keep them nearby to ward off unwanted visitors. It would put a damper on swimming in the ocean, but Harry had both a traditional pool and a seawater tidal pool to make up for it. And it would keep interference at a minimum.

  Renaud and Hans had lugged Harry’s unconscious body to the small shed by the dock and tied him up there. Not that it was necessary—the dose had been perfectly calibrated to keep Harry semicomatose until the time came. He wondered whether Harry deserved the kind of death he was about to get. He’d never know what hit him. Was it too harsh a punishment for his sins? Or was he, just maybe, getting off too lightly?

  It didn’t matter. He didn’t waste his time second-guessing—as far as he knew no innocent person had ever been brought down by careless intel, at least by the Committee. The jobs were well researched, justified, and necessary for the greater good. Even if the details of this current mission were maddeningly vague, there was still no doubt about the catastrophic danger. The longer he stayed with Harry Van Dorn the more he’d discovered about the man’s rampant evil, and he suspected he’d only seen the tip of the iceberg.

  He just wasn’t so sure of Ms. Genevieve Spenser.

  She’d come with him docilely enough. He hadn’t bothered to tie her up or blindfold her—in the end it wouldn’t matter. Little Fox Island, or the greater portion of it, would be gone in an explosion—a faulty gas connection, they’d rule it. Unless he could figure out a way to get her out of there, she’d be gone as well.

  She looked a little too damn good in the cutoffs. She thought she was wearing Harry’s clothes, and it gave him a wry kind of pleasure to know they were actually his. She wouldn’t like it. She was convinced that poor old Harry was the victim of terrorists, and she was going to keep fighting to save him. Which made her more than a pain in the ass, it made her a liability. He could tell her the truth, but keeping information on a need-to-know basis was instinctive. It didn’t matter whether she thought Harry was a good guy or a bad one. The results would be the same.

  They’d gotten rid of the maintenance staff a couple of days ago, and there was a damp, abandoned air to the million-dollar villa. Unavoidable, he supposed. He’d been there before, during his tenure as Harry’s flawless personal assistant, and he knew everything he needed to know about the place. He hadn’t taken his current companion into his calculations, but he was professional enough to be able to adjust to changing circumstances.

  He’d been holding on to her arm. She didn’t like it, and it wasn’t necessary. If she tried to run she wouldn’t get far, but for some reason he didn’t want to risk Renaud or Hans catching up with her, so he’d held on. He waited until they stood alone in the middle of Harry’s massive living room before releasing her, and he watched with amusement as she did exactly what he expected of her, yanking her arm away and taking several steps out of his reach. If she continued to be that predictable she’d be very little trouble at all.

  “You can take the bedroom at the end of the hall,” he said, nodding his head in that direction. “You might even find some new clothes, though I doubt it. Harry’s guests were usually anorexic models wearing Victoria’s Secret. Not that you wouldn’t be delicious in sexy underwear, but I don’t think that’s what you have in mind right now.”

  “You’re not going to lock me in?” she asked, clearly astonished.

  He shrugged. “There’s no place to run to. The yacht is already gone.”

  “Then how are you going to leave?”

  “They’ll be back, though the SS Seven Sins will be looking like an entirely new boat. In the meantime there’s not much you can do, and I’d suggest you steer clear of Hans and Renaud. They’re not nearly as charming as I am.”

  She made a low, growling noise at the back of her throat, but he kept his face impassive. It was no wonder he wanted to kiss her again. How many women growled at him?

  “I’m hungry,” she said.

  “There’s a kitchen. Find it.”

  “What about the servants? Harry must have kept a skeleton staff out here.”

  He could see the way her mind was working. She was looking for an ally, but in this case she was shit out of luck. “Long gone,” he said. “I’ve seen to it we’re on our own.”

  Genevieve looked shaken. She probably thought he’d cut their throats and fed them to the sharks, when in fact they were enjoying an unexpected holiday at their employer’s expense several hundred miles away. It wouldn’t be the first time they’d been sent away—there were some things Harry enjoyed that were better off without even well-paid witnesses.

  Genevieve was still standing in the middle of the room, staring at him. “Aren’t you hungry?” she asked.

  He gave her his most charming smile, the one that his ex-wife had told him made her want to kill him. “Just a beer and a sandwich,” he said.

  She threw a vase at him. He’d known it was coming, of course, because he’d been goading her to it. She had no idea of the cost of the particular vase, which was probably a good thing. He ducked, of course, and it smashed into a thousand pieces on the tile floor, seventy-three hundred dollars’ worth of antique French ceramic ware.

  “You need more work on stealth,” he observed, opening the sliding doors to the cool tropical breezes. Harry had always kept the place air-conditioned, but the house had been well designed, and the trade winds cooled the place perfectly without the artificial air.

  She didn’t throw anything else at him, though he was prepared. “You know what you can do with your beer and sandwich,” she said in a conversational tone. “Are you going to just let me wander around this place, unwatched? Aren’t you going to tie me up?”

  “Only if you really want me to. You didn’t strike me as that kinky, but I’m game if you are.”

  There were no more vases within her reach. “What’s to keep me from escaping?”

  He dropped down on the couch, kicked off his shoes and put his feet up on the coffee table, stretching. “Number one, Renaud and Hans are wandering about, and while I told them to keep their hands off you they’re not very good at following orders. Number two, there’s nowhere to go—the yacht has gone, we’re hundreds of miles from the nearest island. And number three, there are sharks in the water surrounding the island. I think mines as well, thoug
h I’m not sure.”

  “You’re kidding!” But she knew he wasn’t. “So what am I supposed to do, wait until you’re ready to kill me?”

  “Or try to think of some way to escape,” he suggested.

  “You could help me.”

  “I could,” he said, “but I won’t.” He wondered whether that was true. He’d never had to kill someone who just happened to get in the way. An argument could be made that Genevieve Spenser was far from guiltless, but since he didn’t know specifically why the word had come down about Harry, he could hardly know if Genevieve was equally culpable.

  Was she part of the Rule of Seven, whatever the hell that was? She’d brought the papers signing over the lucrative oil fields to an untraceable dummy corporation, and the Committee had already ascertained that those very oil fields were the target of a carefully planned attack in the upcoming weeks, though the actual date was unclear.

  Harry’s disappearance was going to put a stop to that, or at least he hoped so. Van Dorn was a control freak—if anyone was negotiating with terrorists he’d be the man, and he’d be the one holding the purse strings. Maybe the men he’d chosen for the job of destroying the oil fields were ready to die for the glory of Allah. Van Dorn knew how to exploit weakness or fanaticism. They could still need money to cover expenses and they’d want their wives and families taken care of. Without Harry’s financial security there was a good chance the attack would be aborted.

  But that wasn’t the only thing Harry had planned. They knew that there were seven targets. They’d only identified two. They were taking it on faith that disposing of Harry would stop the other five attempts before they could come to fruition.

  It all depended on how carefully Harry planned and whether he was willing to delegate, and since he and others had been in Harry’s employ, watching him, there’d been little chance for him to use anyone else to implement his Rule of Seven. They’d already agreed it was useless trying to get information out of him— Harry liked pain too much to respond to torture and he kept clear of technology. No cell phone, PDA, or computer to hack into—he kept his own secrets.