Cold as Ice

by Anne Stuart

  How many people got to look into the face of death? She had, twice. The first time she’d survived, just barely, and come through it a stronger person.

  The odds weren’t so good this time. She wasn’t dealing with blind, bullying rage. This time, the danger was cold, calculating and fully as smart as she was. If she looked at the situation calmly, her chances weren’t good.

  That didn’t mean she was going to give up. She’d be a fool not to believe Peter Jensen wouldn’t do exactly as he said he would, and she’d never been a fool. Just because he had the face of an angel didn’t mean his soul wasn’t empty.

  He’d been a gray ghost before, now he was a fallen angel. The man was a chameleon, capable of turning into anything he wanted, and he assured her those persona were lethal. And she believed him.

  She pushed away from the chair, reaching out for the sliding door, then pulling her hand back at the last minute. The only safe doors were the ones leading out to the pool, he’d said.

  He could have lied to her, to try to scare her. But she didn’t think so. All she knew was if she stayed in his air-conditioned prison a moment longer she’d scream.

  She wasn’t naive enough to believe he was attracted to her. There’d been a reason behind his kisses, cool and calculating, trying to incapacitate her, disarm her, overwhelm her. He’d succeeded the first time because she’d never seen it coming. She was marginally better prepared today, but only marginally. He was an expert at weapons, he’d said, and sex was one of them. It was no wonder that last kiss had left her shaken and confused, just the way he wanted her. Trapped and seemingly helpless.

  Which reminded her of Harry. Where were they keeping him? There was no way she could take off and leave him to his fate, even if it looked as if she might have a chance to escape. But he was a big man, and if he was comatose she had no idea how she’d manage to move him.

  Or where they could go. They were on a private island, and while she had her doubts about the place being surrounded by trained sharks, she wasn’t sure she was ready to disprove it. She’d seen Jaws as well when she was younger and she’d prefer a bullet through the head, thank you very much.

  But it wasn’t going to come to that. She was going to get out of there. They both were. And if she had to feed Peter Jensen to the sharks, then so be it.

  She found the most enveloping bathing suit, one that was unfortunately strapless, and headed for the pool, letting the cool, clear water wash the last of the drugs out of her system, along with the slowly building panic. She could do this. She could fight back— she’d learned not to be a victim.

  She swam to the shallow end of the pool and stood up, yanking the shrinking top of the bathing suit up to a more demure level.

  “That’s a shame,” Peter Jensen’s cool voice emerged from the shadows. “I was hoping gravity would win.”

  He was lying on the chaise, off to one side, beneath a leafy canopy that kept him out of the glare of the sun.

  She stopped tugging at the bathing suit. “How long have you been there?” She didn’t bother to keep the accusatory note out of her voice. “You said you were going to take a nap.”

  “And so I did, until you started all that thrashing about. I hadn’t realized quite how energetic you could be.”

  She could feel his eyes on her. They were hidden by sunglasses, and there was no way she could even begin to guess what he was looking at, what he was thinking. She just had the sudden wish that she was covered from head to toe.

  But she wasn’t about to let him intimidate her. She met his mirrored gaze evenly. “I needed to clear my head,” she said.

  “Should I be worried?”

  If there was one thing she wanted to do it was wipe the amusement from his voice. “Yes,” she said flatly. “You should.”

  He didn’t make the mistake of laughing at her this time, but she knew he wanted to. Score one for the good guys, she thought. Perhaps she was beginning to get a glimmer of how his mind worked behind his cool, impassive gaze. This mind-reading thing wasn’t quite as one-sided as it had been.

  He expected her to run away like a scared rabbit, covering up her exposed body. But in fact, there was nothing wrong with her body—she was just curvier than she wished. Those extra fifteen pounds went straight to her hips, and the wretched truth was that clothes hung better on narrow hips and flat chests. But then she wasn’t wearing clothes at the moment, just a too-small bathing suit, and even if she felt a little exposed she wasn’t about to run away. It gave him an unfair advantage.

  So she sat across from him, crossing her bare legs, and pushed her long wet hair behind her shoulders. “So how long do I have to live?”

  She didn’t take him off guard, of course. She doubted anything could. “Feeling feisty, are we?”

  “Just not particularly passive. What’s your plan? I’d like some kind of timetable.”

  “Why? Do you need to make peace with your conscience?”

  “I’d think that would be more your problem than mine,” she said. “My conscience is clear. I’ve lived a relatively blameless life.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. People tend to regret the things they don’t do, rather than the things they do, and I hate to see you regretful.”

  “Kind of you to care,” she said. “But the only thing I regret is coming to the Cayman Islands in the first place.”

  He looked at her for a long, thoughtful moment. “I expect that’s my main regret as well,” he said finally. “Harry will be dead, either way, and you could be happily stomping around the rain forest right now instead of having a conversation with a cold-blooded killer.”

  “And are you? A cold-blooded killer?” “Veins like ice, Ms. Spenser.”

  She didn’t doubt him. “Maybe it was supposed to happen this way. Maybe I’m supposed to stop you and save Harry.”

  He leaned back on the chaise, and she knew that even behind the mirrored sunglasses his eyes were closed with weary exasperation. “Believe what you want.”

  “So how much time do I have? Or are you afraid to tell me?”

  His mouth curved in a slight smile, and she was sorry she’d noticed. He really did have a devastating mouth.

  “I’m not afraid of anything,” he said in the most gentle voice. “It would be better if I were.”

  “How much time?”

  He sighed. “The job will be finished by tomorrow night. Does it make you feel better to learn that? Most people are better off not knowing when they’re going to die.”

  “Then you shouldn’t have told me you were going to kill me.”

  “I don’t believe I said so in so many words.” “Your meaning was clear. Unless you’ve changed your mind.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t have that luxury.”

  “So what are you waiting for? Why not get it over with?” That was just stupid on her part, she thought belatedly. The more time she had, the more likely she’d be able to figure out a way to escape. Though in fact, it wasn’t looking likely at all.

  “Sorry, but I do things on my schedule not yours.”

  She could have wished for even a tiny portion of his icy calm. There seemed no way she could penetrate it—not by goading him, not by ignoring him.

  “Suppose I burst into tears and beg you to spare me?” She wouldn’t, couldn’t, she thought, but it didn’t hurt to ask.

  She would have hoped for some reaction from him, even a faint frown, but she got nothing more than a “Please, don’t.”

  “Would it make it harder on you? I’m all for that.”

  He said nothing, and she wondered if that was the first sign she’d gotten to him. Or whether he was simply bored. Probably the latter, and she was wasting her time trying to reason with him.

  “I’d like to see Harry,” she said abruptly.

  “Why?”

  “To make sure he’s still alive.”

  “Why? A day or two isn’t going to make any difference.”

  “It matters.” She could be cryptic, too.r />
  Except that he could read her so well. “If Harry’s dead you don’t have to factor him into your escape plan. If I were you I wouldn’t give Harry Van Dorn a second thought. His fate is sealed, and there’s not a damn thing you can do about it. Concentrate on yourself.”

  “I thought my fate was sealed as well, as you put it so dramatically.”

  He smiled at that. “I’m a melodramatic kind of man. It’s part of the job description.”

  A sudden stray chill danced across her exposed spine, and she wondered whether his implacable determination was finally getting to her. But he, of course, noticed and was far more pragmatic.

  “You’re cold,” he said. “And it’s getting late. Much as I hate to suggest it, you should probably change out of that fetching bathing suit while I make us something to eat. As a matter of fact, it might be better for everyone if you stayed covered up. You tend to have a lascivious effect on me.”

  He was mocking her again, and she wasn’t in the mood for it. “Yeah, right. You’re a helpless mass of frustrated desires.”

  “I’m never helpless.”

  There was something in his voice that stopped her, and she looked at him more closely. There was nothing to see. Despite the shadows, his face was rendered blank by the mirrored sunglasses and her mind reading hadn’t advanced this far.

  “I don’t think—”

  “You think too much,” he interrupted. “Stop trying to annoy me and go change your clothes. Trust me, I’m impervious.”

  She believed him. At least for the moment. Another chill swept across her exposed skin, and she realized she was being stupid. No man in her lifetime had ever been rendered powerless by her supposed beauty, and it certainly wasn’t going to happen with an emotionless, cold-blooded killer. Even if he did have the mouth of a fallen angel.

  She rose with all the dignity she could muster, but the effect was slightly ruined by her need to tug the strapless neckline higher. And she knew the eyes behind the mirrored sunglasses were following her every move. She just didn’t believe why.

  “I just hope you know how to cook,” she said. “I’m starving, and I have no intention of dying on an empty stomach.”

  And for once he let her have the last word, and she stalked away, refusing to look back.

  “Wanna give me some more of that stuff?” Harry’s voice was slurred, more than it needed to be, but it managed to scare the hell out of Renaud, who’d been sitting outside the little hut smoking a cigarette.

  “What the fuck?” he demanded, scrambling to his feet. “You’re supposed to be out of it.”

  Harry knew the power of his smile, and he gave the squat little Frenchman full wattage, the one that made the most paranoid men in the world trust him and made presidents want to be his best friend. A little turd like Renaud was hardly immune. He must have been there on the boat—he looked vaguely familiar, but Harry seldom paid attention to the hired help.

  “Hey, it takes more than that pussy drug you’ve been shooting into me to knock me out. It’s not even that good of a rush. Got anything stronger?” They’d tied him to a chair in the little shed, and he was stiff and uncomfortable. One more insult he needed to pay back, with interest, when the time came, and the little Frenchman was only one of many.

  “You’re crazy, man,” Renaud said, leaning against the open doorway of the shed. “They’re going to kill you.”

  Harry grinned. “The hell you say. I’m a lot harder to kill than most people would think.”

  “You don’t know who you’re dealing with.”

  “That’s right, I don’t. Am I being held for ransom?” He already thought he knew the answer to that one. He’d only been half out of it during the time in the stateroom, but he’d managed to gather that this wasn’t a financial operation but an execution.

  He didn’t bother to wonder why—the problem was there were far too many people and organizations who’d want to kill him, and it would take days to even remember them all. It didn’t matter who right now. He just needed to get out of it. And for that he needed Renaud.

  “No ransom. It’s not about the money,” he said.

  “It’s always about the money, my friend,” Harry drawled. “You look like you’re a Pisces to me.”

  “What the fuck is that?”

  Idiots, Harry thought. “You must have been born in late February or early March.”

  “Oh, that astrology crap. Just goes to show how much you know—I was born on Christmas Day,” Renaud sneered.

  “How fitting,” Harry said. “Then you must have Pisces rising. Either way, it means we can work together.”

  Renaud hooted with laughter. “Those drugs work better than you think. You’re crazy.”

  Harry didn’t like it when people called him crazy. It tended to make him a little…unstable, but in his current position there wasn’t much he could do about it, so he overlooked the insult. For now. “You don’t strike me as a man of high moral principles,” he said. “Are they really paying you enough to off me? Because I can assure you, I have more.”

  “You don’t even know who’s behind this,” Renaud scoffed. “These people don’t make mistakes, and they don’t like traitors. You couldn’t pay me enough money to help you—I’d be dead in a matter of hours.”

  “You look like a man who’s willing to take that kind of risk.” He named a sum extreme enough to make Renaud’s dark little eyes widen. Not that he’d ever see a penny of it, Harry thought, but it was enough to lure him.

  “Shit,” Renaud said. “You really are crazy.”

  Harry allowed himself a brief, soulful vision of exactly how he would disembowel the Frenchman, and then he smiled. “I have the money. And I want to live. Do you doubt me? I’ve got so much money I can protect you from your bosses. I can send you someplace they’ll never find you.” A grave, he thought. Damn, the Frenchman was stupid.

  Harry could see that Renaud was considering it. “I’m not alone in this. There’s another man taking turns watching, giving you the drugs.”

  “If you want to share all that money it’s your choice,” Harry said. “I’ll leave that decision up to you. Otherwise I’m sure you won’t have any trouble disposing of inconvenient obstacles.”

  Renaud smiled then, an ugly little grin. “You’re right about that,” he said. “Maybe I’m a Pisces after all.”

  Harry Van Dorn nodded his head. “I never doubted it for a minute, my friend.”

  9

  Peter Jensen pushed the sunglasses up on his forehead and pinched the bridge of his nose in a futile effort to vanquish the tension that had been sitting there for what seemed like days. His usual calm practicality had abandoned him, and every time he was on the verge of achieving his normal sangfroid, Ms. Genevieve Spenser would pop up and blow it all to hell.

  She was right—he should just kill her and get it over with. He could think of no way out of the current mess, and the more he struggled the tighter the bonds. He knew it would happen sooner or later— that an innocent would get caught in the crossfire. He was far from the only closer in the Committee, and everyone else took collateral damage in their stride. Why couldn’t he?

  He could tell himself it was a matter of professional pride. If he was good enough at his job, then only the guilty would pay the price.

  But he never lied to himself, and he knew that was only part of the problem. He could live with killing an innocent, if it was for the greater good. It was a decision faced by soldiers every day.

  He just didn’t know if he could live without Genevieve Spenser in this sorry world.

  The air was warm, and the Iceman was in danger of melting. And it scared the hell out of him.

  Once she went back to her room to change out of the bathing suit she should have stayed put. It didn’t matter that she was trapped by the electrified doors and feeling claustrophobic, it didn’t matter that nighttime was a smarter time to try to escape—she’d have a better chance of eluding them in the dark. Even so, she still should
have stayed where she was once she’d showered and changed out of the borrowed bathing suit.

  But she didn’t.

  Thank God there were caftans in the closet, long, flowing garments that covered her from head to toe. She wanted layers and layers between her flesh and Peter Jensen’s enigmatic, disturbing gaze. The underwear was a problem of Einstein proportions. There were drawers of new underwear with tags still attached. All of them designed for skinny models more interested in displaying their assets rather than supporting them. She couldn’t even find anything resembling a 34–C, and the closest thing she could find made her look like a Sports Illustrated swimsuit model.

  The panties were worse. Thongs, all of them. And she couldn’t decide what made her feel more conspicuous and vulnerable—going commando or wearing the tiny bit of silk.

  She finally went with the “any layer is better than nothing” defense, secure that at least the caftan covered her from her neck to her toes.

  She’d forgotten that Peter seemed able to see right through her and everything about her, including an opaque layer of fabric. She just knew he could see the skimpy lingerie she’d been forced to choose.

  He was in the kitchen, chopping vegetables with ominous speed and precision, but he stopped long enough to give her a thorough once-over before returning to his work.

  “Too bad you couldn’t find a veil to go with that nun’s habit,” he said. “Help yourself to a glass of wine. It’s one of Harry’s best—from one of his private vineyards. It’s got to be tasted to be believed.”

  “I’m not drinking stolen property.”

  “Then you shouldn’t be wearing stolen property,” he said, unfazed. “By tomorrow night, all of this will be gone in a fiery explosion. We may as well enjoy what we can.”

  “I’m not in the mood to enjoy things.”

  “Then pour yourself a glass of wine in lieu of your precious little pills. I know you like good wine—I had to steer you toward your cabin that first night. I was afraid you were going to pass out without any help from me.”

  “Afraid?”