“Sure you did. You just wanted to be talked into it.”
“I really hate you,” she said fiercely. “I know why you decided to come after me. You weren’t through making my life a living hell and you wanted to add to my misery.”
“That’s it,” he agreed in a pleasant voice. “Now, either shut up and go to sleep or I’ll find something to use as a gag. For some stupid-ass reason, I’ve decided to save your life, and I’ll do a better job of it if I get some sleep.”
“I didn’t ask—”
“Shut up, Genny. Or I’ll shut you up.”
It wasn’t the threat that silenced her, a threat she knew he’d carry out. It was his calling her “Genny.” It shook her, it always shook her. After all these years he was the only one alive who called her that, a name she associated with tenderness and safety. He probably wouldn’t be alive that much longer, given his profession.
And neither would she, if she didn’t let him sleep. So what if she was wide awake, obsessed by every little thing, including the man in the next bed? She wasn’t going to make sense of it, or him, no matter how hard she tried. All she could do was lie there, her eyes staring up at the stained ceiling and wait….
She was asleep. Peter had been wondering whether she was going to stay awake, prattling at him, for the entire night. The woman could talk—probably part of the curse of her being a lawyer—and he was a man who didn’t want to talk. At least to her, right now.
He didn’t know why the hell he told her it had been his choice to come after her. She was better off thinking he was there under duress. Which was, in fact, the truth. Something was forcing him to be there, to come after her, to pluck her from the jaws of danger. He just didn’t know what it was.
He could rule out conscience. That was a luxury he couldn’t afford. And it wasn’t her sexual prowess, though he’d deliberately insulted her on that one. She was afraid of him, not that he’d hurt her, but that he’d have sex with her. Make her want him again, make her vulnerable. The only way to alleviate that nervousness was to assure her he had no interest in her curvy body, her long legs.
He’d barely had her and he had to let go of her. It was one of those unpleasant facts of life, part of his penance. And he’d told her nothing more than the truth. The sex had been nothing special, just body parts behaving as they ought to. But she was something else.
He glanced over at her in the darkness. She’d lost a little bit of weight in the two weeks, he could see it in her hips and breasts. It was a shame—he loved her unfashionable curves—but in the end it made it easier on him. She bothered him enough already, as in hot and bothered. He’d chosen plain, baggy clothes to make her look less appealing, and they’d had the opposite effect. He probably could have put her in a burka, as she’d sarcastically suggested, and he still would have wanted her.
You can’t have her, he reminded himself. She’s off limits. You messed with her once and screwed things up. You made her life miserable—you have to leave her alone. You owe her that much.
Unfortunately his conscience wasn’t listening. And he had no interest in sleeping—despite what he’d told her, he te
nded to work at peak efficiency with very little rest. He could make it till the end of the week, well past the twentieth of April, without more than a quick nap. He’d just wanted her to go to sleep and leave him alone.
But even asleep she didn’t leave him alone. He could hear her breathing, sense her every movement, and he had to turn away so he wouldn’t watch the rise and fall of her breasts as she slept.
He was getting her out tomorrow, to Canada, to a safe house he knew of. He’d considered taking her to his old friend’s place in North Carolina, but at the last minute he thought better of it. No one could protect Genevieve better than Bastien Toussaint, but he had a pregnant wife and in-laws surrounding him, and it wouldn’t be fair to put them in the danger that would come with Genevieve Spenser. Nor did he necessarily want Bastien to have to put up with the annoyance.
No, he’d turn to people still in the life, who’d keep an eye on her and wouldn’t let anything get to her. While he kept his promise to Madame Lambert and stayed as far away from Harry Van Dorn as possible.
At least Van Dorn was convinced he was dead. If he had any notion Peter had been off the boat before it had exploded, he would be moving heaven and earth to find him. Harry Van Dorn was an implacable enemy. Peter knew far too well some of the things he was capable of when his ire was aroused. For the kind of betrayal he’d perpetrated, Harry would be wanting a very special kind of revenge.
But he’d had to look elsewhere, and it had only been Takashi’s quick thinking that had kept Genevieve safe. He’d read the reports on what Harry sometimes did to women, and it had turned even his cast-iron stomach.
But they’d gotten her safely away, and the only way Harry would get to her now was over his dead body, as foolish and sentimental as that was. It didn’t matter if the fate of the world rested in his hands—he wasn’t going to let Genevieve Spenser be hurt.
And he had absolutely no intention of examining why he felt that way. He didn’t have to answer to anyone, including himself. It was just the way it was.
She was making sounds in her sleep, anxious little crying noises, like a lost kitten. She was moving restlessly, kicking out, but he could tell she was far from awake. He shouldn’t be surprised—given the drugs and the things she’d witnessed, it would be a miracle if she had a decent night’s sleep for months.
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.