Cold as Ice (3 page)

She knew how to make the most self-effacing man become expansive, and Harry was hardly a wallflower. The Van Dorn Foundation had never been under her particular purview—she'd been kept busy with the relatively simple concerns of several smaller foundations—but she found his worldview fascinating. It was no wonder he collected humanitarian awards by the bucketload—he'd even been nominated for a Nobel Peace Prize, though she thought it would be a cold day in hell before he got one. The profits from his overseas production companies were cut in half because he refused to let them employ child labor, and the workers received enough of a living wage that they didn't have to send their children into factories and brothels. He still made a profit, Genevieve thought cynically, and his generous salaries were still only a fraction of what he used to pay the workers in the American factories that now lay closed and abandoned in the dying cities in the Midwest, but the humanitarian organizations ignored that part. Either ignored it, or knew that giving a billionaire an award was likely to make his charitable foundation feel even more charitable toward them.

His money came from everywhere—oil fields in the Middle East, diamond mines in Africa, investments so complicated she doubted even he understood them. All she knew was he made money faster than he could spend it, and his tastes were lavish.

But she had become used to billionaires in the past few years, and in the end there were all the same, even someone like Harry Van Dorn with his little eccentricities. She listened to him ramble on in his lazy Texas accent, telling herself she should just relax, that by tomorrow she'd be stripped of these clothes and her professional armor and be hiking through the jungles of Costa Rica, fending off mosquitoes and blisters. Compared to this plush cocoon it sounded like heaven.

She awoke with a start. Harry was still talking—apparently he'd never even noticed that she'd drifted off for a moment. She could thank her mirrored sunglasses for that—if Walt Fredericks ever knew his protégée had fallen asleep in front of a client she'd be out on her ass in a matter of hours. Though there was always the good possibility that that was
exactly what she wanted.

And then she realized what had woken her. Not Harry's lazy ramblings, but the feel of the boat beneath her. The unmistakable rumble of an engine, when this damn thing should be floating and silent.

"Why did they turn on the engines?" She broke through Harry's discourse on tarot cards.

"Did they? I hadn't noticed. I think they do that every now and then to check the engines. Make sure she's in good running order. Sort of like a fire drill. They don't usually do it until a few hours before we're supposed to set sail, but I have no plans to go anywhere right now. Must be some sort of maintenance thing."

She'd sat bolt upright. They'd been under the shelter of an overhanging deck when Harry had ensconced her on the chaise, but now the sun had advanced far enough that it was halfway up her legs. It was a reasonable explanation, but she wasn't buying it.

She swung her legs over the side of the leather couch, slipped on her killer shoes with barely a wince and rose. "I hadn't realized it had gotten so late—I've been so interested in your stories," she lied with the talent she'd honed over the years. "I really do need you to sign those papers—I have a plane to catch. I'm due in Costa Rica tomorrow afternoon."

"Nonsense. I wouldn't hear of you leaving," he replied. "We'll have a lovely dinner, you'll spend the night, and tomorrow I'll have my private jet take you wherever you want to go."

"I couldn't—"

"And don't think I have wicked designs on you," he said with a wink. "I do, but my mama taught me to be a gentleman where ladies are concerned. This place has seven bedrooms, each with its own bath, and there's nothing like sleeping in the rocking arms of the ocean. It'll rock your cares away."

"I don't have any particular cares at this moment," she said, lying through her teeth with utter charm. "And I couldn't ask you to go to so much trouble."

"No trouble at all." He overrode her. "I have a jet and a pilot just sitting around with nothing to do—he'd love a chance to get out for a day or so. He can even wait for you while you do your business down there and bring you back, either here or to New York."

"I'm staying for six weeks, Mr. Van Dorn."

"No one calls me Mr. Van Dorn," he protested. "That was my daddy's name. And why in hell would you spend six weeks in Costa Rica?"

"I'm going on a hiking expedition in the rain forest." She waited for his reaction.

He blinked, and for a moment she wondered just how deep his humanitarian commitment ran. "The Van Dorn Foundation has always been active in environmental issues as well. After all, this is the only earth we've got."

She wasn't about to tell him that her vacation choice of rain forest had been motivated more by the notion that she'd be unreachable than by any charitable instincts. "Indeed," she murmured. "But I really do need to be going.

"Peter!" Harry barely raised his voice, but Peter Jensen was there instantly. He must have been hovering just out of sight. "I need you to get in touch with my pilot and tell him to get the jet ready. Ms. Spenser will be flying down to Costa Rica tomorrow, and I want her to be comfortable."

She opened her mouth to protest again, and then caught an odd expression lurking behind Peter Jensen's rimless glasses. It was unreadable, but definitely there, and very curious. Enigma, she thought, remembering the crossword puzzle.

"If you're certain it's no trouble," she said, keeping her pleasant demeanor firmly in place. It looked as if she was going to have to spend the night on this boat, in the middle of the damn water.

"Very good, sir," Jensen murmured tonelessly.

"And have them make up the mate's cabin for her, would you? She's going to spend the night." He turned back to Genevieve with a winning smile. "You see? All open and aboveboard. I intend to be a perfect gentleman."

For some reason Genevieve found herself glancing at the assistant. She must have imagined the sheen of contempt in his colorless eyes—a good servant never betrayed his emotions, and she suspected
Jensen was a very good servant indeed. Harry could afford the best, and she'd already witnessed Jensen's machine-like efficiency.

"Very good, sir."

"You'll need to have someone fetch Ms. Spenser's bags."

"I'm afraid that's impossible, sir. I checked on them when I went to secure a new chef—it seemed prudent since I was on land. Ms. Spenser's bags were already sent on their way to Costa Rica on her scheduled flight."

Prudent
. Now, there was a word you didn't hear every day, Genevieve thought. She would have been annoyed, but Jensen's "prudent" action gave her the excuse she needed.

"That was very kind of you to try, Mr. Jensen. It seems I'd better try to catch my plane after all."

"Simply doing my job, Ms. Spenser," he murmured. "I've arranged for the boat to be ready in an hour's time."

"Well, you can just unarrange it," Harry said grandly. "Ms. Spenser is spending the night. Don't tell me there aren't clothes on board to fit a pretty little thing like her, because I know different. Besides, it's April seventh, and you know seven is my lucky number. I bet your birthday's on the seventh of October, Ms. Spenser. Isn't it?"

For a moment she wondered where he'd come up with such an outlandish notion, but then she remembered she'd agreed when he asked if she was a Libra. Would he give up trying to keep her here if she said she was born on the fifteenth?

"You really are amazing," she said in a light voice, avoiding the issue altogether.

"I'm afraid all the women's clothes on board are more likely to fit a size two or four. On your orders, sir."

Genevieve didn't know who pissed her off more, Harry Van Dorn for assuming she'd do what he wanted, or Peter Jensen for his implied suggestion that she was fat.

"I wear a size six," she said in a dulcet tone. In fact, she was an eight and sometimes even a ten, and she suspected in cheaper clothes it might even be worse than that, but she wasn't about to admit it. She just had to hope Jensen wouldn't be able to turn up some size sixes that she would have to try to squeeze into.

He didn't look skeptical—he probably knew what size she wore, even down to her shoes—but he was too well trained.

"Hell, we're informal around here," Harry said. "I'm sure you can rustle up something for her, Jensen. I wouldn't put anything past you." He turned to Genevieve. "He's an Aries, remember. Tight-assed son of a bitch, if you'll pardon my French, but he gets the job done. Whereas I'm an Aquarius—more of an ideas man. I don't usually get along with Libras, but I expect you've got one hell of a rising sign."

The only thing rising about her was her temper, but there wasn't a damn thing she could do about it. She wasn't getting out of this, she thought. Given that she worked for him, he could expect just about everything he wanted from her. So she gritted her teeth and smiled. "I'm sure I'll be fine," she said.

Peter Jensen nodded, his face as impassive as ever. She half expected him to back away like some medieval Chinese servant, but he turned and left, and she watched him go, momentarily fascinated. He looked different from the back—taller, leaner, less generic. Maybe it was the glasses and the slicked-down hair that made him appear so ordinary Or maybe she was even more in need of a vacation than she had thought, to be having paranoid fantasies about a nondescript personal assistant

In the end it wasn't important. She'd been efficiently roped and tied by the charming Texan—she'd let Harry Van Dorn wine and dine her and tomorrow she'd be on her way, able to leave her work and her life behind her. She wasn't going to sleep with him—she'd decided that a while ago, though she wasn't sure when. She wasn't in the mood for anything but escape and quiet.

She would survive the utter hell of falling asleep surrounded by water by taking a couple of tranquilizers to drown out the anxiety. And by this time tomorrow it would all be a distant memory.

Jensen wasn't happy. Things weren't going as he'd planned, but then, things seldom did. He hadn't counted on Genevieve Spenser, or Harry Van Dorn's taking to her like a puppy with a new squeaky toy. He could turn her to his benefit, as a welcome distraction, but he still didn't have to like it. Complications were a necessary evil, but he was a man who got rid of complications. He should have arranged to get rid of Miss Spenser before she ever arrived in the islands.

He seldom wasted his time in hindsight. He would have expected a pretty bimbo, a minor inconvenience, one he could dispose of quickly. And she was very pretty, in that sleek, well-cared-for way that tended to set his teeth on edge when he allowed himself the luxury of feeling. But there was more to her than that, though she was trying to hide it. She was smarter than she wanted people to know, and angrier.

That anger was undeniably fascinating. Distracting. The women he knew hid their anger very well, channeling it into more devious endeavors. Genevieve Spenser didn't seem to have found her outlet, and he could see it simmering beneath her calm brown eyes. Blond hair and brown eyes—an interesting combination. Though her hair was probably some mousy color in its natural state.

And he was thinking far too much about her when he had a job to do. Hans was safely ensconced in the galley, a job he was well trained for, both when it came to food and knives, and Renaud was busy in the bowels of the ship, making sure everything was set to go when they got the word. The other five had been chosen by Isobel Lambert herself, and they were almost as efficient and professional as he was. They'd blended into their new jobs with effortless ease. Harry Van Dorn had no idea he was surrounded by members of the Committee.

Then again, if he was as artless as he seemed to be, he'd have no idea what the Committee was. Few people did, but he didn't quite believe in Harry's cluelessness. The kind of power and money he controlled bought a lot of privileged information.

For some reason he was getting impatient.

Harry Van Dorn should have been a simple matter. A megalomaniac billionaire with a taste for the occult and a complicated plan to disrupt the flow of commerce and the financial stability of the world, all to his own benefit.

The problem was, Harry compartmentalized. He had people working on each branch of his plan, each branch of the Rule of Seven was self-contained, and it made discovering the details about each incipient disaster that much more difficult. One never led to another, and his army of minions seemed to have no idea that there were other armies working in concert on parallel disasters. Peter had only been on-site for four months—a relatively short time compared with his last tenure as personal assistant to Marcello Ricetti, a Sicilian arms dealer with a taste for sadism and young boys. Peter had managed to keep him away from the children during the year he'd spent with him, at a price. He'd have had to pay the same price anyway, and he hadn't thought twice about it. Even though in the end it had cost him his wife.

At least he hadn't been required to perform more personal services for Harry Van Dorn. Peter's well-honed asexual persona was an asset—it was up to the target to make what they wanted of him, and all Harry wanted was someone to see to his every comfort. He could provide for his own sexual needs.

Which brought him around to Genevieve Spenser again. It would probably be better if she slept with Harry. If she were alone in the mate's cabin it would be harder to keep Renaud from cutting her throat. Though in the end they might have no choice—it would be very dangerous to let her go back to her pampered life in New York and have to answer questions about the disappearance of Harry Van Dorn and his yacht. A casualty of war, Thomason would have said. But Thomason was gone, and Peter had hoped that the ruthlessness that was part and parcel of the Committee could be tempered by restraint.

But people who knew too much were always a problem. The drugs that had been developed were volatile; they could wipe out too much memory or too little. When the stakes were high enough one couldn't afford to take chances.