by Anne Stuart
“It’s a beautiful spring day here in L.A.,” he said, addressing the camera. “April nineteenth, in fact. You people know I had a lot of plans for today, but for some reason those have all fallen through. I’m not particularly worried about any fallout—suspicions are one thing, proving a damn thing would be just about impossible. Not with my resources backing me up.
“So I accept defeat gracefully.” He bared his teeth in an affable grin. “You managed to put a spoke in my wheels, all without understanding what I was trying to accomplish. It may have seemed harsh, but in the end the new order would have been better all around.”
He looked at the unpleasant children. Not that he tended to like children in general, except the very pretty ones who didn’t cry too much when he touched them. They never seemed to respond to his famous Van Dorn charm. It was almost as if they could see through him, past the smiles and the jokes.
Dogs didn’t like him either. Maybe dogs and kids were smarter than the rest. Or maybe he just didn’t care enough to try to fool them. Either way, the handful of scrawny, ugly kids were looking at him with deep distrust.
“I’m a man of many charities,” he continued. “This here is an important one to me—looking after dying kids, trying to make their last few months on earth a little brighter.”
The camera moved, panning the children’s faces. He didn’t know children well enough to guess how old they were—probably all under twelve—which made them even more pathetic. Heart-wrenching, to the right people.
“Now, we’d hate to have anything happen to these kids, but the roads up in the mountains can be very treacherous, and there aren’t even guardrails in some places. The van they’re driving in could go over the edge if someone isn’t careful, and I like to think of myself as a very careful man.”
He half expected the kids to start weeping and wail- ing at that veiled threat, but none of them even blinked, the stoic little bastards.
“I have to admit my pride is wounded. And it really burns my hide to think I have to let go of everything I’ve worked for. But I will, no fuss, no ugly publicity, I’ll just slink back and keep giving my money away to hopeless causes and you won’t need to worry. But I need one thing, and if I don’t get it, these children aren’t going to be happy. Accidents are bad enough. Burning to death’s a sight worse—real painful, I’ve heard. And if a van goes over a cliff somewhere up in the mountains there’s a good chance it’ll catch fire just in case there are survivors. I always carry extra fuel in my vans, just in case I need it.” He smiled at the camera, feeling very benevolent.
“So I’m taking these children up to my place in Lake Arrowhead, and don’t make the mistake of thinking you can get there first. It’s an armed fortress, and anyone who tries to get in will blow themselves to kingdom come. Oh, and you may not know which place I’m talking about—I own a number of properties around Lake Arrowhead and Big Bear, most of them so tied up in dummy corporations that it’ll take you too long to guess which one.
“So here are the details you’ve been waiting for, Ms. Lambert. We’ll have a little trade. You bring Ms. Genevieve Spenser, Esquire, back to me and I’ll hand off the children, clean and neat. Now, why would I want Ms. Spenser, you ask yourself? Because I’ve already killed every motherfucker who tried to mess with me on this, and she’s the only one still walking around. And I don’t like that. It’s kinda salt in the wound, you know what I mean?
“I will kill her—don’t try to fool yourself into thinking otherwise. The Rule of Seven is just going to have to be the pissant Rule of One, and I don’t like it, I can tell you that. So you have your choice. Half a dozen little brats who are going to die anyway, or one less lawyer in the world. You know that old joke—‘What do you call a hundred lawyers at the bottom of the ocean?’— ‘a good start’? I know what your choice is going to be, because you really don’t have any choice at all. I’ll let you know where the trade-off is going to be.”
His cameraman was well trained—he knew a closing line when he heard it and he shut off the camera, the bright klieg lights going out.
“You’ll get that where it needs to go? Find out where the she-wolf that runs them has gotten to, and get an answer. You understand?” he said. It was a foolish question—they all knew what would happen if they failed him, and Takashi’s unfortunate death had been a recent reminder.
There was an absolute jumble of hurried reassurances, and Harry flashed them all his brilliant smile before turning to the ugly little children. “Come on, little ones,” he said. “We’re going on a journey.”
The one he liked least, a tall, skinny black girl, had clearly appointed herself leader. “We don’t want to go with you,” she said, stubborn.
“Well, now, ain’t that too damn bad?” he said, actually amused. “Because you’re just a bunch of sick little kids and I’ve got twenty big strong men who live just to see that everything I want happens. So do as I tell you and get in the fucking limo.”
A smaller child spoke up, the feisty little shit. “You’re not supposed to swear,” he said sternly.
“Well, hot damn, you’re right. I do beg your par- don. Follow my men and you’ll get a nice ride in a big white limousine up a big tall mountain.”
“And if we don’t?” the leader demanded.
It would be so easy to snap her scrawny little neck, he thought dreamily. Maybe, when the deal went through, as he had no doubt it would, he’d return five kids instead of six.
“What’s your name, little girl?” he asked.
“Tiffany Leticia Ambrose.”
Tiffany. That was the funniest damn name he’d ever heard for a ridiculous little piece of trash. “Well, Tiffany, if you don’t shut your mouth, your little friends are going to pay the price for it. Understand?”
Any other child would have dissolved into tears. She simply nodded, and stepped back, and Harry flashed his benevolent grin over all of them. “So, we’re all agreed? Off to the mountains?”
And without waiting for an answer he took off, leaving them to trail behind him, like sheep to the slaughter.
When Genevieve woke, it was mid-morning—she could tell that much because the infomercials had switched to mindless cartoons. Not even decent Americanized anime, she thought foggily. And then she heard the sharp, staccato footsteps, the firm knock on the door, and she knew it was time to wake up. A good day to die?
She certainly wasn’t expecting what waited patiently at her motel-room door. The security hole had been blocked by some previous inhabitant, but she figured Peter wouldn’t let anyone dangerous up to her door. Or if he did, then she was screwed anyway.
She opened the door, staring at the creature in front of her. Elegant, ageless, with a cool, serene beauty that was almost eerie, the woman met her shocked stare with a smile. “I’m Madame Isobel Lambert,” she said, pronouncing her last name the French way, even though her accent sounded British. “I’m Peter’s boss, the current de facto head of the Committee. May I come in?”
Without a word Genevieve opened the door wider, resisting the impulse to peer over the walkway and see if Peter’s car was still there, with Peter in it. Madame Lambert was about five foot four, though her stiletto heels brought her up higher, but even in bare feet Genevieve felt as if she was looming over her.
“Sorry I can’t offer you a chair or some coffee,” she said, her voice brittle. “But I’m not equipped for entertaining.”
Isobel Lambert looked at the bed, the one she’d shared with Peter, and Genevieve wanted to scream. Did all these people have some kind of sixth sense? Why didn’t she look at the other bed where people had slept alone?
Genevieve sat, claiming the other bed, and let the woman think what she wanted. Hell, it was probably simpler than that—Peter had doubtless given her a full report. Or even worse, he’d been following her instructions in the first place.
She couldn’t go there. Not if she wanted to make it through the day, though that was already not a sure thing. She’d slept in he
r clothes—stupid, when she only had one change—and she was feeling rumpled and grungy. Then again, she might only need one change of clothes.
Madame Lambert had taken a seat on the other bed, crossing her elegant legs at the ankles and taking out a cigarette. “Do you mind? I’ve just started again.”
The room already smelled of stale smoke, and Genevieve didn’t care. “I don’t know that I’m going to have to worry about dying from secondhand smoke,” she said. “Go ahead.”
“You aren’t going to die, Ms. Spenser.”
“Call me Genevieve. No need to stand on formalities when you’re turning me over to a murderer.”
Madame Lambert smiled. “Peter told me you were a fighter. That’s very good. If you were a useless crybaby I wouldn’t have even considered this option.”
“I could cry,” Genevieve offered instantly. “Give me a minute and I’ll be a useless, sobbing wreck.” In fact, it was true. For the past twenty-four hours, for the past God knows how many days, she’d been on the edge of it, ready to start crying and never stop, but she was far too pragmatic to give in.
“I thought Peter said you agreed to this.” Her perfect, unlined face managed to express concern. How many face-lifts, how many Botox injections had gone into making that perfect, ageless mask?
“Do I have a choice?”
“You always have a choice. I’m not sure the same could be said for the six children Harry’s planning to kill if we don’t deliver you.”
She felt sick inside. Could things get any worse? “No choice at all,” she said.
Madame Lambert nodded. “The trade-off is going to be at his place up in Lake Arrowhead. I don’t know why he’s chosen it—there are only two main roads down out of the mountains.”
“Maybe he thinks you’ll just let him just walk away.”
“It’s happened in the past. We have to make some uncomfortable moral decisions in this business, Genevieve. Sometimes evil gets to walk away untouched. But he’s not walking away with you or the children, I promise you.”
“Have you found Takashi yet?”
Again that faint, imperceptible shadow. “No,” she said. “But he’s a hard man to kill. If anyone could make it then O’Brien could. I haven’t given up hope.”
“He saved my life.”
“So did Peter,” Madame Lambert pointed out. “Several times, in fact.”
“He was also going to kill me. Your orders?”
The woman didn’t even have the grace to look embarrassed. “Yes. Trust me, it was a difficult order, and I’m glad he chose to ignore it.”
“And now I get a brand-new way to die.”
Madame Lambert rose and stubbed her half-smoked cigarette out in the ashtray. “You aren’t going to die,” she said again. “Not if I can help it. We’ve got a Kevlar vest for you, just as an extra precaution, there’ll be snipers all around, and the moment someone gets a clear shot they’ll take it. You won’t get anywhere near him.”
“How about having a few paramedics around, just in case.”
Madame Lambert looked at her coolly. “We always do.”
“Did he tell you my conditions?”
“‘He’ meaning Peter? Yes. He said you didn’t want him anywhere around. You shouldn’t let adolescent emotions interfere with something that could make the difference between life and death. Peter’s a crack shot—you couldn’t have anyone better watching out for you.”
“Thanks, but I’ll pass,” she said. “And I don’t have adolescent emotions. I just don’t like being used.”
“Who says the adolescent emotions are yours?” Madame Lambert said with a faint smile. “The tradeoff time is three o’clock this afternoon. They’re expecting some fog up in the mountains, and it can be quite treacherous. In the meantime, you must be famished. Why don’t you freshen up and I’ll take you out for a late breakfast?”
“I’m not really hungry,” she lied, still smarting from the “freshen up” comment. She did look rumpled, particularly compared to Madame Isobel Lambert’s perfection, but then, a few weeks ago that perfection had been hers as well. Designer clothes and shoes, perfect hair and makeup, the quintessential corporate goddess.
Now she was rumpled, barefoot, tangled hair and no makeup. No defenses. “Food sounds great,” she said wearily when the woman made no comment. “As long as I don’t have to run into anyone who’d ruin my appetite.”
“Peter’s already on his way back to England,” Madame Lambert said. “I’m afraid he didn’t leave a message.”
Genevieve knew her expression didn’t change. She was already prepared for it—desertion was just one more thing to be expected. It didn’t matter that she’d told him to go, he was still feeding her to the wolves and abandoning her so he wouldn’t have to watch. Bastard.
She rose. “Give me half an hour and I’ll be ready,” she said in an even voice.
“That’s fine. We’re in no particular hurry.” Madame Lambert made no attempt to move.
“Could I have a little privacy?”
“Don’t be silly, child. You Americans are all so prudish. I promise not to look. But we’re not letting you out of our sight for the next few hours.”
“In case I change my mind?”
“You can always change your mind. Harry Van Dorn has just suffered a series of disappointments, and he’s not about to leave anything to chance at this point. He’ll be working on any number of ways to grab you. He’d much prefer not to have to barter—we’ve already screwed the pooch for him with his grand and glorious scheme, and he wants revenge. Killing Takashi and Peter isn’t enough.”
“What?” Panic swept through her, and she didn’t even try to hide it.
Madame Lambert’s smile was smug and reassuring. “He thinks Peter died on the island. If he knew he was alive he’d much rather have him than you.”
“Then why don’t you just let him go in my place?” It wasn’t what she wanted, but surely Peter would have a better chance with Harry than she did.
“Because he’s much more valuable when Harry thinks he’s long gone.”
“And I’m dispensable.”
“I didn’t say that. You can change your mind.”
“Stop saying that! You know I won’t. You might be able to live with the deaths of six children on your conscience, but I can’t.”
“Trust me, child, I live with far worse on my conscience,” she said, reaching for her cigarettes again.
“On second thought, you can’t smoke,” Genevieve said. “I don’t want to die smelling like an ashtray.”
Peter would have come back with some cynical crack about cremation. But Peter wasn’t there, and Madame Lambert wasn’t Peter. She put the cigarettes back in her Hermès handbag—an item so expensive even Genevieve had denied herself—and snapped it shut. “As you wish,” she said. “But I’m still not leaving you alone.”
“Suit yourself,” Genevieve said, and stomped into the tiny bathroom.
It wasn’t until she’d finished with the longest shower she could manage that she realized she hadn’t brought her clean clothes in with her. She grabbed the skimpy towel and walked into the room, throwing modesty to the winds. Madame Lambert wasn’t going to have any prurient interest in her body. In fact, Peter probably hadn’t either. It had all been part of his job.
Madame Lambert had made the bed and was lying on it, the pillows tucked behind her, her expensive shoes lying neatly on the floor beside her, and she looked at Genevieve with casual interest. The new clothes were folded neatly at the foot of the other bed, and Genevieve thought, fuck it, and tossed the towel.
“You’re probably wondering what Peter saw in me,” she said in a conversational voice as she pulled on the plain white panties and bra. “And the answer, of course, is nothing at all. He was doing his job.”
Genevieve had marks on her, and she knew it. Not just the love bite on her neck, the whisker burns on her breast. Her whole body was covered with him, and no matter how often she washed she couldn�
��t wash him away. He was inside her still, breathing through her skin, his heart making hers race.
“How very young you are,” Madame Lambert said in an obnoxiously cheerful voice. “Like a teenager who’s first discovered sex.”
Genevieve paused in the act of zipping up her jeans. “Look, I’m putting my life on the line for you guys. I don’t have to listen to condescending remarks while I do it.”
“You’re right. I’d just forgotten what it was like to be young and in love.”
“You’ll have to ask someone else. I’ve never been there.”
Madame Lambert said nothing. But her catlike smile said it all.
God, but Harry hated children. Healthy, pretty ones were one thing, but these were pallid, sickly and obnoxious. They didn’t know when to shut up, and during the twists and turns up Route 330 one of them threw up on the leather upholstery of his white limo.
It was the final straw. He hadn’t been riding in the back with them, of course. He’d been up front with his driver, in a far less comfortable seat than he should have been enjoying, and the brats behind him never shut up.
“Can’t you turn off the noise back there?” he demanded of the driver.
“Sorry, sir. This particular limo isn’t soundproofed.”
“Well, at least can you do something about the smell?”
The driver shrugged, not having the good sense to be afraid of Harry’s temper. Not enough people were afraid of him, he decided, particularly not those people who’d managed to mess with his glorious Rule of Seven.
He’d gotten past that initial disappointment, priding himself on his resiliency. He had a new goal now—destroying the Committee and everyone in it, and he’d already gathered powerful reinforcements. The shadow group was a threat to everything he held dear—free enterprise, the right to enjoy himself however he pleased, democracy. He was going to bring them down, every one of them, and then he could turn to rebuilding a new Rule of Seven, something even grander and more glorious.
