Cold as Ice

by Anne Stuart

  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.

  19

  He 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.

  She gasped, and when he tried to move away she put her hands on his face and drew him back to her other breast, insistent, silent, jerking slightly when he suckled her, her hands sliding down to his shoulders, fingers digging in.

  He could have stayed there for hours, his tongue exploring the taste and texture of her nipples, and for a brief, dark moment he considering doing just that. Making her come without being inside her, even touching her, making her come with his mouth on her breasts, all the while holding himself away from her, to prove that he could, to prove that she didn’t matter, that he was inviolate. He would be safe again in the ways that mattered most. Not from guns and knives and the uncertainty of a violent life. But safe from the strangling tendrils that had wrapped around him and wouldn’t let him go, apron strings, an umbilical cord, something that tied him to her and wouldn’t let him break away.

  He could do it. And once she realized what he’d done, what he’d proved to her, she’d retreat in on herself in silence. Leaving her in Canada would be fast and uncomplicated and they’d never have to think about each other again.

  But that wasn’t what he’d come halfway across the world for, and he knew it. He’d come for her, in every sense of the word, and he was going to take her. In every sense of the word.

  He bit the underside of her breast, lightly, just a tender nip that made her jump, and soothed the bite mark with his tongue. She had such a lush, rich body he could get lost in it, and he nuzzled against her skin, awash in the taste and the scent of her.

  He needed to slow things down. She was trembling, ready to explode, and he wasn’t ready to have her. She really knew so damn little about sex and pleasure— he wondered how she’d managed to live so long without someone taking her in hand and showing her. He could only be selfishly glad the men she’d met were so stupid; he could be the first to taste the fullness of her response, to show her just how limitless love could be.

  Sex could be. He pulled away from her for a moment, lying back on the bed to catch his breath. He wasn’t worried that she’d change her mind, kick him out of the bed, run away. She had already gone too far down that road to draw back—he could practically feel the need thrumming through her body.

  And then there were words from her. Anxious little words in her slumberous, aroused voice. “Why did you stop?” she asked. “Did you change your mind?”

  God knew how such a maddening woman could have such a capacity to make him smile. And he knew what he was going to ask, had to ask, even if she gave him the wrong answer and tore him apart.

  “Do you want it?” He’d started this when she was half-asleep, vulnerable, and brought her almost too far to draw back. But she brought out the decent idiot inside him, the man he’d tried to bury long ago, and he had to ask her.

  She didn’t answer. Not with words. She put her cool, soft hands on him, and she kissed him. Kissed his mouth, full and sweet, kissed his throat and his chest and his nipples, her tongue swirling against them with agonizing, arousing delicacy. She put her hands on his stomach, and slid them beneath his briefs, and she managed to pull them off him despite the unflagging stiffness of his cock getting in the way.

  He knew what she wouldn’t do. What he needed her to do. He didn’t say anything as she put her cool, soft fingers on him, learning the shape of him, the size of him. And then she leaned forward and learned the taste of him, her loose wet hair falling around her face as she drew him into her mouth.

  He made a sound of pleasure and despair, reaching down and pushing the hair away from her face so he could wat
ch her as she took him deeply, her lips and tongue closing around him, pulling at him so that the pleasure was almost unbearable.

  She was shaking, trembling, her hands holding his hips, and he knew he’d reached his limit. He pulled her up, away, and she clutched at his hips, fighting him, as he pulled her up. “No!” she protested. “I don’t want to stop. I liked it, I want—” He filled her mouth with his tongue as he pulled her over him, her knees straddling his hips, so that she was just above him, ready for him. She could feel him, and all she had to do was sink down and take him deep inside her. If she would.

  She was shivering, and he brushed the hair away from her face and broke the kiss, pulling her back enough to look at him, to meet his steady gaze. “Do it,” he whispered to her. “If you want it, do it.”

  She closed her eyes and touched him, placing him against her, and she sank down, taking him inside her, slowly, where he needed to be, where he belonged. When she stopped, just short of completion, he caught her hips and pulled her the rest of the way down, so that he was deep inside, and he owned her, belonged to her, and there was nothing else but his cock inside her, her fingers digging into his arms, her eyes closed and her head thrown back as she began to move.

  He’d gotten her this far, he couldn’t disgrace himself by coming too quickly, ending before she had even begun, but the feel of her body, wet and tight around him, was a pleasure almost too powerful to bear. She was moving faster now, and he caught her hips, helping her find the rhythm, pushing up to meet her, the thick slide of flesh against flesh, and she was gasping now, clutching at him, reaching for a release that she didn’t know how to take.

  But he knew how to give. He took her hand from his shoulder, put it between their bodies and made her touch herself. The effect was instant, electric. She cried out, and he could feel her body clenching, milking him, and he wanted nothing more than to let go.

  But she wasn’t finished. He knew women’s bodies, loved women’s bodies, and he knew that even with the power of her orgasm she needed more. He put her hands back on his shoulders, put an arm around her butt and turned her underneath him without breaking the connection, still lodged deep inside her.

  She hadn’t come down from her first powerful climax when the second hit her body. She held on to him, head thrown back, eyes closed, holding on to him as wave after wave of pleasure ripped through her body, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to hold out much longer, but the sight of her, the feel of her caught up in her climax was almost better than his own.

  He pulled her legs up higher around his hips, pushing in deeper still, and she made a quiet noise, one of both pain and pleasure, and he knew she was finally ready, he was finally ready, as her fingers curled onto his shoulders…

  And then she started to pull her hands away, and he knew she was thinking about the scratch marks on his back, and he could feel her begin to retreat.

  He caught her hands, curled them and pulled them onto his back, raking down his skin.

  And she was lost. He could feel her shattering in his arms, and then he was with her, torn in a thousand pieces, holding on to her as he spilled deep inside her, an endless release that took everything, everything from him.

  He was too heavy for her, but he knew he had no strength left to support himself, so with his last bit of power he pulled free, rolling to his side and taking her with him, keeping her tight within the circle of his arms as he held her.

  They were both shaking. It was small solace, he thought as his mind slowly returned from that bright, treacherous place. He already knew he was lost. He’d hoped to keep some part of himself safe, but the moment he’d kissed her, the moment he’d come for her, the first moment he’d seen her standing in Harry’s salon with a stick up her ass, he knew it was going to be like this.

  He’d be better off dead.

  He wasn’t the kind of man who could love a woman, live with one, not one he cared about. He was made to be alone, with no connections and no strings. It was the only safe way to be, even if in the end it killed you.

  Bastien was the only one he knew who’d been able to escape. But he was the rare exception—people who’d been chosen by the Committee were made for a different kind of life. No home and hearth and babies. Just cold solitude and deadly efficiency.

  And while he was lying there angsting, she’d fallen asleep, her body totally relaxed for the first time he’d known her. There were no stray signs of worry in her peaceful face, no unconscious clenching of her fists. She lay sprawled in glorious, naked sleep in the circle of his arms, as if she belonged there.

  Maybe she did, but he doubted it. It could kill her. But that wasn’t anything he could think about, not now. Right now he was going to spend exactly one hour thinking about absolutely nothing at all except the utter peace that had spread through his body, the kind of peace he might never have again.

  And he closed his eyes, pressed his lips against her unlined forehead and fell asleep.

  Isobel Lambert leaned back in her chair, staring at the tiny screen in her communications device. She could still imagine Harry Van Dorn’s smug, smirking image, and if she had the choice she would have smashed it. She had no choice.

  The ultimatum was clear. Genevieve Spenser was to be handed over thirty six hours from now, on April 19th, put into Harry Van Dorn’s hands. He hadn’t bothered to spell out the alternative—he didn’t need to. Van Dorn was too powerful to circumvent in such a short period of time, and he didn’t bluff. They had no choice but to be prepared to make some kind of exchange. Unfortunately it was too late for Takashi.

  Van Dorn had found the Committee when their very existence was under such deep cover that no one had broken it in years. If he could get a message directly to Isobel, he could do almost anything, and they needed to be prepared. It was the best chance to stop him for good.

  Madame Lambert set the communications device back in its holder. Her hand was shaking, and she could only be glad no one was around to see it. She worked very hard on her image of unruffled strength, and she didn’t want anyone to have an inkling that beneath her perfect exterior she was human after all.

  The answer from Peter Madsen hadn’t come in yet, perhaps he hadn’t even gotten the message yet, but she knew what that answer would be. Brief, to the point. One word, yes, to the awful, necessary thing she was asking. Not that she expected any other answer. They both knew there was no alternative, or she wouldn’t be asking. They both knew it had to be done.

  She kept a pack of cigarettes in the top drawer of her desk as a reminder of her iron will. She’d given up smoking seven years ago, but each month she replaced that untouched pack of cigarettes with a fresh one, to remind herself that she could go back at any time.

  She opened the drawer, pulled out the cigarettes and lit one, drawing the tobacco deep into her lungs with remembered pleasure. It never did leave you, she thought, that need for a cigarette. And it was always waiting for a moment of vulnerability, and then you were hooked again.

  Too damn bad.

  She moved back to the computer screen, punched in a few buttons and brought up Genevieve Spenser’s file. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d sent someone to their death, but it had always been someone who’d signed on for it, who knew the dangers and risks and chosen to accept them.

  She’d never forced it on an unwilling participant.

  She had no doubt that the woman would agree. She had no chance of ever being safe, being free, if she didn’t. And besides, she would do anything Peter asked of her, she knew it with the instincts that had brought her to the very pinnacle of her dangerous profession. Genevieve Spenser was madly, hopelessly in love with Peter Madsen, and if he asked her to walk unarmed into a pitched battle, she’d do it. And if she balked, he’d talk her into it.

  She wasn’t as sure about Peter. She’d known him for many years, and never seen him connect to anyone outside the Committee. He kept himself on ice, away from entanglements—even his short marriage had been cold and sterile, acc
ording to the operative they’d sent in as a marriage counselor. Peter didn’t know about that, and if he did he probably wouldn’t care. He knew how things were done. Which is why he would let Genevieve Spenser go straight into danger. Because it had to be done.

  Isobel Lambert refused to consider what might happen if the woman didn’t survive. She’d already lost one of her best operatives—at least Bastien had somehow managed to carve himself a good life. If this latest venture fell apart, Peter Madsen wouldn’t be so lucky.

  The plan had to work. There was no other choice. Genevieve Spenser had to put herself in Harry Van Dorn’s sadistic hands.

  If Isobel Lambert believed in God, she would have offered up a little prayer. As it was, she simply lit another cigarette and stared out the window.

  And then she picked up the phone once more.

  20

  Genevieve woke slowly, deliciously, her entire body feeling relaxed and sated, like a pampered house cat. It was a slow awakening, and she wasn’t in any hurry to rush it, letting the sensations drift back bit by bit, the taste, the texture, the myriad delights that were both gentle and not gentle at all. Her body glowed with a power that was foreign and irresistible, and her soul was equally enthralled.

  She didn’t want to think about her heart. She knew where that was—the most dangerous place in the world. She was too smart, too careful to have done such a stupid thing, and once she got back to the safety of her apartment in New York she’d have no trouble reasoning with herself, convincing herself she’d just let a temporary dependence feel like something else.

  Because in truth she couldn’t be in love with Peter Madsen. He was hard and cold and dangerous, and he’d already told her sex was one of his best weapons. He knew how to use his body, how to use hers, for maximum effect, and if she had any sense she’d be furious at the way he’d broken past her defenses again, made her vulnerable.