Cold as Ice (Ice 2)

Big mistake. Was he coming to kill her now? If so, she could, and would, put up a hell of a fight, even though she hadn’t even the slightest chance of winning. She’d never been the kind to give up, even when it was the smart thing to do.

She recognized the voices—Takashi O’Brien and Anh conducting a muted conversation in a language she couldn’t begin to understand. And then O’Brien spoke to her.

“Ms. Spenser? Are you awake?”

She considered faking it, but he was far too observant. Besides, she didn’t want to be there with her eyes closed and suddenly find her throat cut.

But no, he wouldn’t do that. Harry had told him not to leave a trace, and cutting her throat while she lay in bed would be a messy business.

How long did someone live after their carotid artery was severed? Could they run around like a decapitated chicken, spraying blood? Or did they slip quietly into Ophelia-like oblivion?

She didn’t intend to find out. Her eyes blinked open, and she kept them dazed and deliberately unfocused. She’d been right about her two intruders, but there was no knife, or any other weapon, in sight.

And except for the omnipresent cup of tea. Had she imagined Takashi’s warning? God knows how she’d been able to think straight, given what she’d been going through, the drugs she’d taken the past couple of weeks.

“You drink,” said Anh in English.

If the tisane wasn’t poison it was at least a powerful enough drug to knock her halfway to Sunday. She let her eyelids flutter closed, once more murmuring a very convincing “sleepy.”

Anh was small and skinny, but strong, and she slid her arm behind Genevieve’s back and pulled her upright, without any particular help from Genevieve. “You drink,” Ahn said, insisting.

Rather than have her pour the scalding liquid down her throat and over her chest, Genevieve reached up and took the cup in both hands. Anh stood over her, eagle-eyed, until Takashi said something to her, drawing her away from her post by the bed for a few precious moments.

It was all Genevieve needed. She leaned over the bed, lifted the heavy silk dust ruffle and tossed the contents of the cup under the bed onto the thick carpeting. By the time Anh turned back she was obediently draining the last drop, shuddering delicately in reaction to the faintly acrid smell.

While Anh’s back was to her, Takashi had been watching. Now was the moment of truth, Genevieve thought as she handed the cup back to Anh and slid down on the bed.

He said something in that strange language, and Anh nodded, clearly satisfied. Genevieve tried to remember how long it’d taken for the drugs to kick in last time, but it was a blur. She expected it had been pretty fast, so she closed her eyes and forced her body to relax, not moving when Takashi came to stand over her.

“Ms. Spenser?” She made no response. And even though she sensed his hand approach her face, she forced her muscles to remain slack, and she didn’t flinch when he touched her face, lifted her eyelids and let them drop again.

“Sound asleep, Ms. Spenser?” he said. “And you’ll stay that way for the next twelve hours while I decide how to get rid of you. In the meantime, we won’t have to bother you and you’ll be left alone.”

It was simple enough to glean the warning from his statement, and she remained obediently still.

He turned to Anh, issuing a string of orders, overriding the woman’s objections with ruthless determination, and then they were gone.

Her eyes shot open, and she sat up again. It seemed she had an ally in her executioner. Maybe she’d get out of this mess alive after all.

And if she did, Harry Van Dorn was getting his head handed to him, the murderous creep.

She tried the door to the rest of the house with great care, in case Anh was stationed outside, but as she expected it was locked tight. The windows were all sealed, the air artificial, and there was no way out. She had no choice but to put her trust and her life in the hands of Harry Van Dorn’s executive assistant. And hope Harry had made as big a mistake in hiring Takashi as he had with Peter.

It seemed unlikely. Harry had said Takashi had been with him for over three years—that was way too long for anyone with a hidden agenda.

But she had no choice but to trust him. She was trapped in this hermetically sealed room, and her only hope lay in Takashi O’Brien’s long, elegant hands.

She had a horrible feeling she might be royally screwed.

Peter Madsen wasn’t used to being a white knight. There were those in the Committee who specialized in getting important people out of dangerous situations, but that had never been his particular area of expertise. He brought death, not life, to those who deserved it. At least he bloody well hoped so.

And here he was, risking everything for the sake of a stupid girl who kept getting into trouble. If Genevieve Spenser had just followed his implied directions she’d be safely home in New York, her sojourn in the Caribbean a nightmare she’d rather forget. She would suffer a convenient case of short-term amnesia, brought on by the finest drugs money could buy, and she’d never remember a thing. And more than likely, no one would bother to ask.

But he’d fucked that up by letting himself get distracted. Once she’d stepped in harm’s way she should have been the least of his concerns. And instead, whether he wanted to admit it or not, she’d overshadowed everything, the mission, Harry Van Dorn, his own safety. And he had ended up compromising everything.

Thirty-eight was too damn young to be having a midlife crisis. But then, his line of work aged you, he thought. Made you stupid when you needed to have all your wits about you.

Leaving him with the task of cleaning up some of the mess he’d made.