But they were running out of time, and Harry Van Dorn would never give up a thing, no matter what they did to him. The only chance of derailing things was for him to die.
That was the problem with sociopaths like Harry, Isobel Lambert thought, taking another sip of wine. Torture was useless when the victim enjoyed pain, and even someone with Peter’s expertise wouldn’t be able to break him. Besides, once again there was the price to be paid for committing such acts. A clean execution was one thing. Torture was another, and there was a limit to what the human psyche could take. She was afraid Peter Jensen was reaching his limit.
Killing the girl might put him over the top. But she had no choice.
And neither did he.
6
Genevieve couldn’t catch her breath. Even on that padded, carpeted floor, he’d thrown her so hard the wind had been knocked from her, and his knee on her chest didn’t help. She gasped, and then the air came back, and with it her anger.
She moved fast enough, catching his ankle and attempting to dislodge him, but he was stronger, harder than anyone she’d ever practiced with. And this wasn’t practice.
He reached down, pulled her hands away and yanked her upright. He was uncomfortably taller than she was when her feet were bare, but she didn’t hesitate, bringing her knee up, hard.
She didn’t connect—he’d already spun her around, her arms behind her back and her face up against the wall. “You’ve got moves,” he murmured in her ear, “but they’re pretty damn pathetic. Never try to knee someone in the balls if there’s any chance you won’t get away. It pisses the hell out of men and they tend to get dangerously grumpy.”
She said nothing, feverishly thinking where she could try next. Behind the knee was always vulnerable, and there were various blows that she’d been warned could be lethal, blows she shouldn’t hesitate trying.
And then he stepped back and she was no longer plastered against the paneled wall. He still had her wrists captive, but she wondered if she could kick backward again.
“I wouldn’t try it if I were you,” he said in his low, amused voice. “You telegraph every move ahead of time, and it takes no effort at all to stop you. And I warned you to stop aiming for my testicles. It annoys me.”
Somehow he managed to spin her around so that she was facing him, her wrists still held tightly in one of his strong hands. She hadn’t even realized he’d let go of them for a moment—she was doing a pretty pathetic job of trying to protect herself after being Master Tenchi’s prize student. “I managed to hurt your friend,” she said defiantly.
“So you did. But Renaud’s a fool, and he underestimated you. I’m afraid he’s the type to hold a grudge. I don’t intend to give him a chance to pay you back, but if you annoy me enough I might change my mind.”
She wanted to say something cutting, but in fact she preferred Peter Jensen to Renaud’s unimaginative brutality, even if she stood a marginally better chance of getting away from the Frenchman.
Jensen wasn’t even breathing hard. The eyes that she’d thought colorless were actually a very clear blue, which reminded her…
“Have you got any contact-lens solution?”
He stared at her, momentarily astounded. If she couldn’t take him off balance with her amateur selfdefense training she could at least sideswipe him with her words.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You must have been wearing tinted contacts before, which means you must have some wetting solution somewhere on this boat, and I need it. I’ve had my contacts in for almost forty-eight hours and they’re killing me. I should have taken them out when I still had my purse, but I was more interested in getting out of here.”
He didn’t stay off balance for long. “Be honest, Ms. Spenser. You were more interested in your little pills,” he said. “The stuff is in the head. And don’t bother looking for a weapon, there’s nothing in there you could use, and the window’s too small for you to climb through.”
“Is that another crack about my weight?”
His small grin was reluctant. “It’s a porthole, Ms. Spenser. No one could get through it. Why are women so ridiculous about their weight, anyway? Ten or fifteen extra pounds don’t make any difference. Except when I’m having to haul your unconscious body around.”
He was still holding her wrists, or she would have hit him. Of course he knew exactly how much extra weight she was carrying, as well as what size clothes she really wore. “You know the answer to that, don’t you?” she said with false sweetness. “Stop knocking me out.”
“Then behave yourself.” He released her, and for a moment she didn’t move. They stood there for a long moment. He was probably watching to see what her next move would be, but since he’d already made it clear he’d counter it before she’d even tried, she gave up. For now.
“You want to move out of the way?” she asked. “Or am I supposed to go through you?”
He stepped back, out of her way but close enough to grab her again. It was an intensely uncomfortable feeling, being trapped with someone who could guess her every move. She stalked past him, though that was hard to manage in bare feet, and slammed the bathroom door behind her.
He was right, there was nothing the slightest bit lethal in there. She ran some cold water on her face, then stuck her tongue out at her reflection. Her hair was tangled down her back, and she braided it, tying the end with dental floss, before she took her contacts out. She had no idea where her purse was, and she realized her head was aching and her hands were shaking.
She opened the bathroom door and stuck her head out. He was back where she first saw him, reading once more, as if finishing his book was the only thing that mattered. It probably was—he was the one who was completely in control of the situation.
“Hey,” she said. “I need my purse. I need my glasses and my pills.”