20
Genevieve woke slowly, deliciously, her entire body feeling relaxed and sated, like a pampered house cat. It was a slow awakening, and she wasn’t in any hurry to rush it, letting the sensations drift back bit by bit, the taste, the texture, the myriad delights that were both gentle and not gentle at all. Her body glowed with a power that was foreign and irresistible, and her soul was equally enthralled.
She didn’t want to think about her heart. She knew where that was—the most dangerous place in the world. She was too smart, too careful to have done such a stupid thing, and once she got back to the safety of her apartment in New York she’d have no trouble reasoning with herself, convincing herself she’d just let a temporary dependence feel like something else.
Because in truth she couldn’t be in love with Peter Madsen. He was hard and cold and dangerous, and he’d already told her sex was one of his best weapons. He knew how to use his body, how to use hers, for maximum effect, and if she had any sense she’d be furious at the way he’d broken past her defenses again, made her vulnerable.
But she had no sense. She was bone weary, in the best possible way, she was starving, she was on the run for her life. But she was safe with Peter—he wouldn’t let anything bad happen to her—and she was in love with him. Just for now, she promised herself. Just for a few, short, indulgent days, she’d accept it and even enjoy it. Enjoy the heady rush of feelings, the way her body tightened when she thought of him. She was much too smart to let it last, but for the time being she’d enjoy the illusion, just because she wanted to.
She was alone in the bed, and there was no sign of Peter anywhere, but this time she wasn’t worried. He was coming back. He was going to take care of her. He’d gotten her away from Harry Van Dorn, charming, monstrous, good ol’ Harry, and there was no way he’d let her be in harm’s way again.
She didn’t even want to consider his feelings for her. He’d told her he had no emotions, and she had no reason to doubt him. He’d come halfway across the world for her, and he still hadn’t told her why, but she could guess. He was a man who didn’t like to accept failure. If he’d completed his assignment she never would have ended up locked in Harry’s oceanside fortress.
Then again, if he’d followed orders she’d be dead. He must have some kind of logical reason for coming to get her. But if she couldn’t even figure out her own feelings, she could hardly get a handle on his. She’d simply have to accept things as they were and go from there.
Normally that would have been anathema to her. She protected herself with the world of ideas and thoughts and arguments. Not with raw emotion and simple trust.
But the bottom line was, she trusted him. Completely. And maybe that was even more powerful than thinking she was in love with him.
There was no clock in the room, the television didn’t work, but she guessed it was sometime in the early afternoon. She’d fallen into a deep, heavy sleep in his arms, and she realized with shock that she still wanted him. Again. And again. And he’d gone somewhere and left her alone, and the more she remembered about last night the hotter, the needier she grew. She was going to take a shower, and the moment he walked through the door she was going to jump him.
No, cancel that. He’d probably slam her down on the floor again, and while she appreciated his tensile strength, she didn’t like it being used against her. She’d wait for him to come to her. Which he would. Because he wanted her as much as she wanted him. It made no sense, but she knew it to be true, and she sang as she used up the last of the little sliver of soap.
She considered wearing nothing but the sheet, but then she’d really enjoyed the way he’d taken off her clothes, and she was perfectly willing to experience that again. She pulled her damp hair back and looked at her reflection in the mirror, and laughed. Last night she’d looked like a pale, drowned rat. Today she looked vibrant, alive. And happy.
How could a man like Peter Madsen make her happy? It made no sense. But it was true.
She strolled out of the steamy bathroom and stopped short. Peter had returned—there were two cardboard mugs of coffee on top of the television. Starbucks. She knew she loved that man.
Except that she didn’t know what to say. He didn’t even glance at her—he was busy with something that looked like a space age BlackBerry, and she knew his gorgeous body well enough to see the tension radiating through him. Wasn’t she the one who was supposed to have postcoital regrets?
“Which of these is mine?” she asked when he still didn’t lift his head.
“The one on the left. It has soy milk instead of cream in it,” he said, staring down at the machine.
“Soy milk?”
He looked up at that. “You’re lactose intolerant,” he said. “I figured you couldn’t handle real milk but you needed some extra sustenance.”
How could he have remembered such a tiny detail? “Thank you,” she said, reaching for the cup. In fact, she hated soy milk—she preferred her coffee black if she couldn’t find lactose-free milk—but she drank it anyway, testing the taste against her tongue. There were all sorts of new things she was getting used to, she thought.
She wanted to sit down on the bed next to him. Hell, she wanted to take the BlackBerry out of his hand, fling it across the room and push him down on the bed. She’d been thinking about that ever since she got in the shower. It no longer seemed like such a good idea.
She sat down on her own rumpled bed, trying to shove the images out of her mind of the two of them, moving, entwined, breathing, kissing…
“So when do we leave for Canada?” she asked brightly.
He didn’t answer for a moment. Then he closed the machine and turned to look at her, his ice-blue eyes hooded and unreadable. “There’s been a change in plans.”
“What do you mean?” Genevieve said. She’d finished the coffee, choking on the soy milk, and it was hitting her stomach like a bomb. “We aren’t going to Canada?”
He rose. “Harry knows you’re alive.”
She’d already thrown up in front of him once, she wasn’t about to do it again. Besides, except for a few crackers there wasn’t anything in her stomach to throw up. By the time she made it home those fifteen pounds would be well and truly gone. If she made it home.
And then the ramifications hit. “What about Takashi?”
She’d managed to surprise him by her question, enough so that he looked at her. The mask was in place, last night might never have happened. She let go of it, because she had no other choice.