Cold As Ice. Anne Stuart

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СКАЧАТЬ little kid instead of a corporate mannequin. “I can still arrange for that launch.”

      “Are you trying to get rid of me, Mr. Jensen?”

      Too sharp, despite the wine and the tranquilizers. She had a soft mouth, rich brown eyes, and for a moment he wanted to be someone, anyone but who he was. He was going to make a mistake, and he was going to pay for it, but at that moment he didn’t give a shit.

      He didn’t bother telling her he was trying to save her life. He slid his hand up her neck, and while she flinched at the first touch she gentled quickly, as his long fingers cupped her face. “I have a romantic streak,” he said with a faint smile, and leaned down to kiss her.

      Such a mouth. He wanted to drown in it. She was too startled and maybe just a bit too drunk to do more than lean back against the wall and let him, and he took full advantage of it, kissing her with a leisurely thoroughness that he hadn’t let himself enjoy for a long time. And at the last minute he increased the pressure just below her ear, and she slumped into his arms, unconscious.

      It was five in the morning, London time, and Isobel Lambert was still awake. In fact, she slept very little, a gift of both genetics and training. Things were just about to go down in the Caribbean, and while the operation was now out of her hands, she needed to be awake and alert, there in spirit if not in fact.

      She never asked anyone to do anything she wouldn’t do herself. And Peter Jensen was the best there was. She didn’t tend to second-guess herself, and her gut-felt decision, to terminate Harry Van Dorn before he could implement some of the near-global damage he was planning, was the right one.

      But there was the girl who’d gotten in the way, and Jensen, usually cold as ice about such things, was dragging his heels. She could communicate directly with Renaud, have him take care of her, but she wasn’t ready to do that. Renaud was a nasty piece of work, and she only liked to use him sparingly, with calmer heads like Jensen overseeing him. If there was any way to save the girl, Jensen would see to it without compromising the mission.

      In the meantime, they had one more vital piece of Harry’s plan. Oil fields in Saudi Arabia, a dam in Mysore, India. What else did he have in mind? And for God’s sake, why?

      Peter Jensen looked at the unconscious woman in his arms. It was a good trick, one he’d used a number of times, mostly to save lives. If he had to kill someone there was usually no reason for finesse. But if Genevieve Spenser wasn’t going to show enough sense to take his advice and get her butt off the boat then he was going to see to it, and pick up the pieces later. Madame Lambert probably wouldn’t be happy; she trusted him to know enough to veer from a plan when he had to, but she wouldn’t like it. He might get his wrist slapped, but as long as no one would ever be able to trace anything back to him or the Committee they’d be fine.

      Ms. Spenser was heavier than he’d thought, but he was strong enough, and he dumped her over his shoulder, leaving her shoes behind as he headed down toward the launch.

      “What’s that you’ve got there, Petey lad?” Renaud was leaning against a row of packing cases, a cigarette in his mouth, sharpening his knife. “Present for me?”

      “Not quite. I want her off the boat before we get rid of Van Dorn. You need to take her back to the island and dump her somewhere.”

      Renaud put the knife away, rising. “She dead? Or do you want me to finish her off?”

      “She’s fine and I want her to stay that way. Just dump her somewhere that’ll require a couple of days to find her and get back here. We’re running late.”

      “Wouldn’t be running late if I didn’t have to take an extra ride in this choppy water,” Renaud pointed out. “If you don’t want her I’ll have her. She’s pretty enough.”

      “She’s trouble.”

      “Then let me take care of her. Much neater all around.”

      Peter was getting tired of arguing. “I’ll take her myself,” he said.

      “I don’t think Hans would like it.”

      “And what does Hans have to say to anything? This is my operation.”

      “So it is. But we’ve all got orders to keep an eye on each other. What with the shake-up and all, the Committee isn’t as trusting as it used to be.”

      Jensen wanted to laugh at the very idea of trust and the Committee in the same sentence, but he was too edgy and she was too damn heavy slung over his shoulder. “Fine,” he said. “You take her to the island and I’ll deal with Hans.”

      “Not a good idea, Petey,” Renaud drawled. He’d always hated being called Petey, something Renaud already knew. “It’s the witching hour. No time left for heroic gestures.”

      He was right. They’d planned the takeover for midnight, and it was too damn close to risk everything for the sake of a spoiled young lawyer.

      He gave up fighting. “You’re right,” he said. “So much for being a gentleman. I’ll dump her back in her room. Maybe we’ll get done with Harry before she even wakes up.”

      “Yeah, you can believe that,” Renaud said, dropping his cigarette on the teakwood deck and stubbing it out. “But we both know what’s going to happen in the end. You’re going to have to kill her.”

      He didn’t bother to argue. Renaud was only stating the unpalatable truth. Genevieve Spenser was in the wrong place at the wrong time and she hadn’t left when she could. She was going to have to live with the consequences.

      And die by them.

      It was a pleasant enough dream. She was being rocked, peacefully, like a babe in her mother’s arms, except that her mother had never been much for rocking. She was surrounded by comfort, and yet she felt oddly free, peaceful, pampered.

      Something was making a low, rumbling vibration, adding to her delicious sense of comfort. She wasn’t about to wake up—it was too lovely lying there enjoying the physical sensations. There was a faint, nagging worry at the very back of her mind, but she decided to ignore it, sinking deeper into a blissful sleep.

      She should have known it was coming. It always happened when she least expected it, and it took over before she could stop it. It was three years ago and she was back in that dingy little cubicle at Legal Aid in the tiny town of Auburn, New York, with her cluttered desk filled with too many hopeless cases, the industrial green on the walls stained with damp, the cold, rancid coffee and the telephone that rang and rang and then stopped like a death knell.

      She should have known not to work late, alone, in that building. Too many very bad people knew where it was, and she’d made a lot of enemies in her short life. She was Joan of Arc, a heroine riding to the rescue of battered women, putting their abusive, murderous husbands in jail, helping to give the women a new chance at a decent life. She’d done such a good job of it that she was being handed all the cases involving domestic abuse, and in a poor area like Clinton County, New York, the workload was overwhelming.

      But she kept at it, overworked, underpaid, foolishly thinking she was making a difference, and she never heard the footsteps down the deserted hallway. Never knew what was happening until she looked up and saw Marge Whitman’s husband looming in the doorway.

      He was an ugly man with an ugly temper, and a day after he got out of jail СКАЧАТЬ