Cold as Ice (Ice 2)

“Well, that’s something,” the man said. “Your first kill.”

He looked calm, controlled, and not the slightest bit concerned that his

friend lay dying at his side. Genevieve didn’t know whether to scream, to laugh or to cry.

She settled for drawing her knees up, putting her head down on her bloody knees and praying.

24

Genevieve couldn’t quite decide whether she liked Bastien Toussaint or not. He reminded her of Peter in all the worst ways, combined with a certain French “fuck you” attitude that was particularly annoying. But he’d saved Peter’s life, so she could forgive just about anything, do just about anything she had to.

If she hadn’t gone charging out onto the deck, desperate to save Peter, she wouldn’t have distracted him long enough to get shot. She knew it, Bastien knew it, and she’d have to live with that knowledge for the rest of her life. At least Peter would, too.

The last time she’d seen him he’d been on a gurney, unconscious, taken out of her life. She only had Bastien’s word for it that he survived, that he was recovering, slowly, but recovering. Madame Lambert was gone as well, a good thing, Genevieve thought. She didn’t want to have anything to do with anyone from the goddamn “Committee,” if she could help it. At least Bastien had walked away from it.

She did like Bastien’s hugely pregnant wife, Chloe. She was never quite sure how she ended up in North Carolina, staying with them—probably some highhanded decision by Madame Lambert, but at that time she was too rattled to argue. And it was very peaceful up there in the woods in the house that Bastien was in the midst of building for his wife, far enough away from his in-laws to keep his sanity, Chloe had told her.

His wife had not been pleased with her husband’s disappearance, and in retaliation had refused to speak to him for the first three days after his return with Genevieve in tow. And then she went into labor, screaming imprecations in languages Genevieve couldn’t even begin to recognize, and hadn’t stopped until little Sylvia arrived, small and perfect and taking over in the screaming department where Chloe had left off.

It seemed a good time to vacate, but Chloe wouldn’t hear of it, and Genevieve had always had a weakness for babies. “Wait until we know Peter is on the mend,” she’d said. “Wait until the baby stops crying all the time. Wait until Sylvia sleeps through the night.” And “Wait until Bastien tells us what’s going on.”

It would be a cold day in hell for the last, Genevieve thought. When she finally announced she was going back to New York, no more delays, Bastien simply told her that her apartment had been sold and her belongings packed up and put in storage, by order of Madame Lambert. The only thing sent on to her in North Carolina was her passport.

It was that simple.

He would probably always walk with a slight limp. He no longer needed a cane, and it had only been three months since Harry Van Dorn had riddled him with bullets. He’d come a long way in a short time, but there was nerve damage in his thigh, and all the hard work and therapy in the world wasn’t going to change that.

He wouldn’t work in the field again. From now on he’d be behind a desk, gathering intel. The Iceman would exist no longer, the best closer in the business would work no more. He’d retired from the field, his last mission a spectacular failure on his part, at least. For some reason it didn’t bother him. He’d paid for his screwup, Genevieve was alive and happy and back at work, he expected, having recovered from her brief sojourn in the world of death and intrigue. She would have recovered from her infatuation quite quickly, he expected, the moment she got back into her Armani and Blahniks.

He’d been in London three months—a month in hospital, another month in rehab and a month stuck in his empty, sterile apartment—until he finally got leave to go out of town. He’d put it off too long; he had to put the Wiltshire house on the market. It was part of a world that he’d never live in. Fires in the hearth, babies on the rug, gardens with the scent of wild roses filling the air. Not for him. He’d become another Thomason—cold and efficient, but not quite so ruthless. Madame Lambert wouldn’t work forever, even though she looked far younger than she had to be. There was always room for advancement in the bloody Committee.

He couldn’t drive his car. It was a standard, and working the clutch was a little more than he was up to, so he rented an automatic and headed out into the country on a bright, warm summer day that seemed to mock his bleak mood.

He stopped for lunch on the way, for some reason putting off getting to the house. Once he arrived he’d need to call the real estate agent, go through the place and see what needed work, see if someone could come in and do something about the overgrown gardens. He’d meant to do that earlier in the spring, but things had taken a strange turn. But life was back to normal, his icy control was back in place, and he could move forward as he’d meant to all along, before things had gotten sidetracked.

He turned into the winding driveway, frowning. The weeds that had choked the paving stones were gone, the hedges neatly trimmed. Had he hired a gardening firm and not remembered? It was always possible, considering it had been a rough few months.

The back door was unlocked, another unnerving occurrence. He wasn’t worried about unpleasant sur- prises and he was no longer worthy of being terminated. Not worth the trouble of setting up a hit—he could live out the rest of his life any way he wanted it.

He stopped dead in the hallway. The place was spotless—sunlight sparkling through the tiny windowpanes on either side of the door, fresh flowers on the table. There were car keys lying there, but he hadn’t seen another car. Then again, he hadn’t looked in the garage.

Good God, had Madame Lambert sold the place behind his back? He wouldn’t put it past her since she’d already told him he didn’t belong here. The table in front of him looked familiar, but it could belong to someone else. He walked through into the study, to see that his grandfather’s huge desk was still there. With a sewing machine on top of it.

Left turn and down two steps to the kitchen. He could see new dishes in the glass-door cupboards, and someone had installed a dishwasher. He stared at it in amazement, then looked out the kitchen door to the gardens beyond.

They were beautiful. The flowers were a riot of color, waving in the soft summer breeze, and he could smell the scent of wild roses. He’d been dreaming about that, but he couldn’t remember there being any wild roses nearby.

He turned the corner and saw them both at once. The newly planted rosebush that somehow, miraculously, was blooming, the flowers giving off a heady scent.

And the woman kneeling in the garden, her back to him, a straw hat covering her head, shielding her face from the bright sunlight.

He didn’t move, didn’t say a word, but she must have sensed his presence, because she turned around, push- ing the hat off her head so that her blond hair tumbled down around her shoulders. And she actually blushed.

“Oh,” Genevieve said. “I didn’t realize you were here.” She got up hurriedly, stripping off her gloves and brushing the dirt off the flowery dress she was wearing. “I know I probably look ridiculous, but I couldn’t figure out what English women wore when they gardened, and Laura Ashley seemed oddly appropriate, except that I think I’ve ruined three different dresses…” Her nervous babble trailed off.

He took a couple of steps toward her, so she could see his limp, and stopped.

She didn’t know what to say. For the first time in his memory words had finally failed her, and it was all he could do not to smile. He just stood there, watching her, waiting.