Cold as Ice (Ice 2)

“He saved my life.”

“So did Peter,” Madame Lambert pointed out. “Several times, in fact.”

“He was also going to kill me. Your orders?”

The woman didn’t even have the grace to look embarrassed. “Yes. Trust me, it was a difficult order, and I’m glad he chose to ignore it.”

“And now I get a brand-new way to die.”

Madame Lambert rose and stubbed her half-smoked cigarette out in the ashtray. “You aren’t going to die,” she said again. “Not if I can help it. We’ve got a Kevlar vest for you, just as an extra precaution, there’ll be snipers all around, and the moment someone gets a clear shot they’ll take it. You won’t get anywhere near him.”

“How about having a few paramedics around, just in case.”

Madame Lambert looked at her coolly. “We always do.”

“Did he tell you my conditions?”

“‘He’ meaning Peter? Yes. He said you didn’t want him anywhere around. You shouldn’t let adolescent emotions interfere with something that could make the difference between life and death. Peter’s a crack shot—you couldn’t have anyone better watching out for you.”

“Thanks, but I’ll pass,” she said. “And I don’t have adolescent emotions. I just don’t like being used.”

“Who says the adolescent emotions are yours?” Madame Lambert said with a faint smile. “The tradeoff time is three o’clock this afternoon. They’re expecting some fog up in the mountains, and it can be quite treacherous. In the meantime, you must be famished. Why don’t you freshen up and I’ll take you out for a late breakfast?”

“I’m not really hungry,” she lied, still smarting from the “freshen up” comment. She did look rumpled, particularly compared to Madame Isobel Lambert’s perfection, but then, a few weeks ago that perfection had been hers as well. Designer clothes and shoes, perfect hair and makeup, the quintessential corporate goddess.

Now she was rumpled, barefoot, tangled hair and no makeup. No defenses. “Food sounds great,” she said wearily when the woman made no comment. “As long as I don’t have to run into anyone who’d ruin my appetite.”

“Peter’s already on his way back to England,” Madame Lambert said. “I’m afraid he didn’t leave a message.”

Genevieve knew her expression didn’t change. She was already prepared for it—desertion was just one more thing to be expected. It didn’t matter that she’d told him to go, he was still feeding her to the wolves and abandoning her so he wouldn’t have to watch. Bastard.

She rose. “Give me half an hour and I’ll be ready,” she said in an even voice.

“That’s fine. We’re in no particular hurry.” Madame Lambert made no attempt to move.

“Could I have a little privacy?”

“Don’t be silly, child. You Americans are all so prudish. I promise not to look. But we’re not letting you out of our sight for the next few hours.”

“In case I change my mind?”

“You can always change your mind. Harry Van Dorn has just suffered a series of disappointments, and he’s not about to leave anything to chance at this point. He’ll be working on any number of ways to grab you. He’d much prefer not to have to barter—we’ve already screwed the pooch for him with his grand and glorious scheme, and he wants revenge. Killing Takashi and Peter isn’t enough.”

“What?” Panic swept through her, and she didn’t even try to hide it.

Madame Lambert’s smile was smug and reassuring. “He thinks Peter died on the island. If he knew he was alive he’d much rather have him than you.”

“Then why don’t you just let him go in my place?” It wasn’t what she wanted, but surely Peter would have a better chance with Harry than she did.

“Because he’s much more valuable when Harry thinks he’s long gone.”

“And I’m dispensable.”

“I didn’t say that. You can change your mind.”

“Stop saying that! You know I won’t. You might be able to live with the deaths of six children on your conscience, but I can’t.”

“Trust me, child, I live with far worse on my conscience,” she said, reaching for her cigarettes again.