Cold as Ice

by Anne Stuart

  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 livingroom 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.

  She hiked the sheet higher around her, trying to dismiss memories of Animal House and toga parties. She wasn’t in any kind of mood to be thinking about gonzo comedies. The Great Escape, maybe.

  But she couldn’t escape wrapped in a sheet. There must be something else to wear in the place—more of Harry’s expensive sportswear. It had fitted her well enough on the boat—she could find something similar here, hopefully without courting death from Peter’s traps.

  She was half-afraid to touch the doorknob of the adjoining room, expecting a lethal shock, but it opened easily enough beneath her hand. Another bedroom suite, this time with no spare clothes at all.

  Three others, all the same. Which left two bedrooms—the master suite and one other small one. Peter would have co-opted Harry’s rooms as he’d coopted everything about him, so she could save that one for a last resort, and she opened the small room off the kitchen, hoping for a maid’s uniform at least.

  She’d miscalculated. This was Peter’s room— smaller than the guest rooms, spare and utilitarian for the servant he’d been pretending to be.

  The sliding glass door was open to the out
side, and she could see a clear path into the shrubbery, away from her luxurious prison. Surely escape couldn’t be that easy?

  She turned, and froze. A carefully drawn schematic lay stretched out on the table, drawn with a precise hand by a man who paid attention to details. The house was diagramed, including the security system, and so was the entire island. He provided his own escape plan, probably something he always did, complete with food, radio and flares, on the far side of the island. If she could make it that far she could hide until they were gone, then call for help on the radio, assuming she could figure out how to work it. She had a decent chance at surviving after all, simply because he’d underestimated her resourcefulness.

  Or had he? There was a handgun lying on the table, a nine-millimeter Luger with a full clip. Most people wouldn’t know how to use it, but it was identical to the gun she’d been trained on, after the attack. She’d never be a terribly accurate shot, but at least she knew how to aim and shoot, and maybe that would be enough.

  So, had Peter gotten sloppy all of a sudden? Or did he change his mind about killing her, when he’d told her he didn’t have that luxury?

  It didn’t matter. She couldn’t waste her time thinking about it—she had to concentrate on getting out of there as fast as she could. Getting to safety.

  She found a heavy white T-shirt and a pair of khakis in his dresser. The khakis were identical to the ones she’d cut up on the boat—she hadn’t been wearing Harry’s clothes after all, but his. It shouldn’t have mattered. It mattered.

  She didn’t bother with underwear. She dressed, picked up the gun and tucked it into the waistband of the pants, pulling the T-shirt down over it. She’d have to go barefoot; her Manolo Blahniks were long gone and even her size-ten feet would disappear in Peter’s shoes. She’d just have to manage.

  She stood over the schematic, taking in every detail. He might not realize she’d been in there if the paper was still in place, and she had a semi– photographic memory, even under such stressful conditions. All she needed to remember was the path to the bunker. And where they were keeping Harry.

  She was an idiot to even consider trying to save him. What good was she, up against three men who could only be described as terrorists

  Men who killed in cold blood were bad. Men who followed orders and killed without asking why were evil, no matter how beautiful.

  If she hadn’t had the gun she might not have considered it. Without it she was essentially powerless— all she could do was run and hide.

  With it she had at least a tiny chance to save him. And she’d never be able to live with herself if she didn’t try.

  She squared her shoulders, pushing her long, tangled hair behind her back, and started toward the open door. He’d told her every exit, every door and window in this sprawling place was equipped with an electric-shock system that might very well kill her. The schematics outlined the security system, but there was no sign of any electrical addendum, and she didn’t dare try to mess with it.

  All she could do was step through that door, into freedom, and if she died trying, so be it. She was dead either way.

  Just to be on the safe side, she jumped over the threshold, careful not to let any part of her body touch the door frame. She landed in the soft dirt on the other side, unscathed. She took a deep breath, hoping for the pure air of freedom, but the rotting tropical vegetation was heavy and strange. She needed to be away from boats, the ocean and islands. If she made it safely back to her apartment in New York, she wasn’t leaving again.

  Of course, Manhattan was technically an island. But it didn’t feel like one—it felt solid and safe, where you only had to worry about rapists and muggers…

  And crazy people coming out of the sky, crashing airplanes into buildings. Maybe she’d been living in a fantasy world, thinking anything was safe.

  She’d have time to figure that out, God willing. In the meantime she needed to get to the place where they were keeping Harry and see if he was still alive. If he wasn’t, then she could run for cover with no guilt.

  It was the best she could hope for.

  12

  Genevieve moved through the jungle, trying to envision herself as a stealthy cat, afraid she was more like a water buffalo in a china shop. First off, the white T-shirt had been a mistake—she should have gone for something darker, less conspicuous, something that would blend in with the background. She just wasn’t used to subterfuge outside the courtroom. Never in a thousand years could she have imagined herself on the run for her life, a loaded gun tucked in her waistband, ready for use. What if she actually had to shoot someone?

  What if she had to shoot Peter?

  She’d do it, no questions asked. She wouldn’t hesitate, wouldn’t think about it. Not until later.

  But that wasn’t going to happen, she decided grimly. Life had handed her a series of difficult choices, but having to kill Peter Jensen would be too cruel, even for a patently sadistic universe.

  She couldn’t waste her time with what-ifs. There wasn’t enough time left.

  She had the gun drawn as she crept up toward the back of the storage shed where Harry was being held, assuming she could believe the schematic. There was no noise—not the muffled sound of someone breathing a deep, drugged sleep. Was it too late?

  She edged around the corner, cautiously. There was a small window in the side of the building, but it was blacked out from the inside, and she could see nothing. She waited, long, breathless moments, and unwillingly the memory returned of hiding on the boat, only to face her nemesis after what should have been sufficient time.

  If nemesis was what he was. He’d been her lover— what had gone on between them physically, emotionally, made that fact undeniable. No, scratch that. He had no emotions—it had all been on her side.

  But his heart had been pounding, his strong body trembling as he’d held her. It made no sense, he made no sense, but she had no time to figure it out right now. If she survived she’d have more than enough time to dissect the madness that had afflicted her during the last thirty-six hours.

  She couldn’t wait there forever. The shed was still and quiet, and she took a deep breath and rounded the corner, to find the door open and no one, neither Harry Van Dorn nor his captors, in sight.

  There were drag marks in the dirt—someone had hauled Harry’s limp body in the direction of the main house. He was either too drugged to walk on his own, or…

  There was no blood in the tiny shed, and no blood on the ground. But that proved nothing—there were bloodless ways to kill people, and Peter would know all of them.

  Genevieve glanced over her shoulder. The path to the far side of the island, the hidden bunker, was still clear enough in her mind.

  But Harry was being taken back toward the main house. And that was where she had to go, whether she liked it or not.

  She heard the noise first—the grunting, groaning sound of a man struggling with too heavy a load.

  Make that two men. Their voices came back to her, and she breathed a small sigh of relief that neither of them was Peter.

  They were too busy arguing to even notice anyone was approaching. “You told me my job was done once I set the charges.” It had to have been Hans speaking. “I’ve already done enough shit work on this assignment.”

  “You’re the one who gave him too much of the drugs,” Renaud snapped. “And you can’t expect his lordship to bother with old Harry, can you? He’s the brains of the operations, and if we know what’s good for us we’ll do what he says without arguing.”

  “I just don’t like the fact that he got to spend the last day in a billionaire’s love nest with a decent piece of tail while we were camping in the jungle. I’m half covered with bug bites.”

  They’d reached the back of the house, and if there was any kind of electric security it had been turned off. They dragged their burden through the gate without incident. “That’s why he gets paid the big bucks,” Renaud said in a sour voice. “Right now he’s
sitting on the deck of the ship, drinking gin and tonics and waiting for us to get back before he takes off. Count your blessings. We’re both expendable and you know it—no one would ask questions if he just left us here to disappear along with half the island. But Jensen has a reputation of never leaving a man behind, even if he’s wounded. At least we’ve got that much going for us.”

  “Wouldn’t do him any good if he did leave us behind,” Hans panted, dragging Harry onto the flagstone patio and dumping him facedown. He didn’t move. “I set the charges and I’m the only one who knows how to blow them so that it’ll look like a gas leak. He’s too careful to mess up a plan like this even if he wanted to.”

  Renaud grabbed one of the heavy wicker chairs and pulled it forward. “Come on, dickshit. We need to get this done and get out of here. This place gives me the willies.”

  Between the two of them they hauled Harry’s body into the chair. His head lolled back, but he was definitely still alive. He made an unintelligible sound, and Hans laughed.

  “Just goes to show money can’t buy everything, Froggy,” Hans said, tying Harry’s limp body to the chair with quick efficiency.

  Renaud had stepped back, watching from a distance, his back to the spot where Genevieve cowered in the bushes. “It can buy a lot.” He sounded detached, almost philosophical.

  “What do you suppose he did with the girl?” Hans asked, glancing inside the house. “Think there’s anything left of her for a bit of fun?”

  “Not that you’d want. He killed her last night—she was getting too yappy, he said, and there was no reason to put it off.”

  “Well, I can think of one good reason, but maybe Peter doesn’t swing that way. He should have done her on the boat and dumped her overboard,” Hans said, disapproving. “He’s supposed to be the best closer there is. If he’s so fucking good, why didn’t he just off her and get it over with instead of dragging her onto the island?”