Cold as Ice (Ice 2)

“And she never had the faintest idea what you really do for a living?”

She might have suspected, but he wasn’t about to tell Madame Lambert that. Annabelle had been a fairly unimaginative creature, but she wasn’t stupid. She probably got out before she learned what she didn’t want to know.

“Not a clue,” he said. “I wasn’t going to have her killed, Peter,” she said mildly. “I’m not Harry Thomason, you know.”

He hadn’t been about to take that chance. Thomason had been a ruthless old buzzard, and yet he’d retired with honor after overseeing countless needless deaths. Absolute power corrupts absolutely. He wasn’t about to take a chance on it for Annabelle’s sake.

“The poor girl,” Madame Lambert said. “It would take a hell of a woman to stand up to you.”

Involuntarily his mind went back to Genevieve glaring at him, arguing with him, baiting him even though she knew she was doomed.

And what good did it do her in the end? At least it would have given her some fitting sense of revenge to know he couldn’t wipe her out of his mind. But she wasn’t going to be feeling any triumph, was she?

“She’s still alive.”

He jerked his head up, to meet Madame Lambert’s calm gaze. “Of course she is,” he said. “She’s married to a dentist in Dorking.”

“I’m talking about Genevieve Spenser. She joined forces with Renaud to get Harry Van Dorn off the island and he took her with him. Renaud wasn’t so lucky.”

“Van Dorn has her?” He didn’t bother pretending not to care. “She might be better off dead.”

“Perhaps. But there’s nothing you can do about it. This is no longer your mission—even I have people to answer to, and personal involvement is the first step toward disaster. You are to keep out of the situation. Which is why I’m putting you on two months’ leave, with pay, of course.”

“Fuck the money,” he said, furious. ?

?Where is she?”

“Are you planning to ride to the rescue like some white knight? That can’t be the Peter Madsen I’ve known for so many years. You don’t care about anyone or anything. The Iceman cometh and all that.”

It was a needed reminder. “You think that I suddenly developed a heart, Isobel? Not likely. It’s a matter of professional pride and personal responsibility. If she had to die, I should have seen to it, quickly and painlessly.”

“Ah, but would you have?”

He ignored the taunt. “You know what kind of man Harry Van Dorn is. We have no right to leave anyone to his tender mercies.”

“We have no responsibility either. She was in the wrong place at the wrong time. You know that as well as I do.”

“So you’re leaving her where she is?”

“We can’t afford to compromise the mission by trying to get her out. Our man has too much on his plate already. So I want you to put it out of your mind and spend the next couple of months relaxing. Fix this place up a bit—it looks terrible. It needs a woman’s touch.”

He’d never been particularly slow to understand even the subtlest of hints, but Isobel Lambert was one of the best. She looked at him out of those calm, expressionless eyes. She’d told him for a reason.

“I keep forgetting you’re not Thomason,” he said after a moment.

“I try. Enjoy your vacation. You do realize that while you’re on leave there’s nothing the Committee can do for you? You’re entirely on your own.”

He almost smiled for the first time in days. “Of course. I’d expect nothing else.”

“Enjoy your time off. I expect you back in two months, at the top of your game.” She took a parting glance around the room. “Definitely needs a woman’s touch.”

Genevieve heard voices. She was scarcely Joan of Arc, and it wasn’t the voice of God, that rich Texas drawl that oozed warmth and compassion. It was the voice of the devil, some huge, slimy, warty creature who stank of death and bourbon.

She drank that tea. She tried not to, but the patient, implacable Anh had stood over her, her English limited to “You drink.”

And Genevieve had drunk, because she’d had no choice, hoping she had misunderstood Takashi O’Brien’s implied warning. But it hit her so fast she had only time to whisper, “Oh shit,” as Anh caught her falling teacup.

She fought the effects, but it was like wrestling in marshmallow fluff—everything was white and thick and sticky, and when she tried to push it away it clung to her hands. The sheets were wrapped so tightly around her body she couldn’t move. She could only lie there, mummified, hoping she was suddenly transported back in time to the couch in Harry’s living room on the island, and she could somehow stop the inevitable.