Cold as Ice (8 page)

His faint smile wasn't reassuring. "So I've been told. I'll leave the gag off if you sit there and be quiet. I have work to do."

"You're an idiot."

That got his attention, though it failed to ruffle him. In the dim light his eyes looked very dark, almost empty, but she'd managed to catch his attention, and he put the book down. "I am?"

Her brain was going very fast. "I know you didn't expect to have me on board when you carried out your nasty little scheme—you tried hard enough to get rid of me. But now that I'm here, don't you think you ought to make use of me?"

He leaned back against the chair, watching her. "And how would I do that? Are you offering to join our merry band?"

"Don't be ridiculous. Any fool can see what your plan is."

"Enlighten me."

"You've kidnapped one of the world's richest men. Clearly you did it for the money—you don't have the look of a wild-eyed terrorist. Therefore you need to negotiate the terms of the ransom, and I'm your woman. "

"Are you, indeed?" he murmured. "And why don't you think I'm a wild-eyed terrorist bent on some bloody political crusade?"

"You dress too well."

He laughed. It seemed to surprise him as much as it surprised her. He sounded as if he didn't laugh very often, which was no surprise. She wouldn't have expected extortionists to be a humorous bunch.

"So whose side are you going to be on, Ms. Spenser? Mine or Harry's?"

"You want money, I want Harry safe. I imagine I can find a solution that will work for both of you. Now, why don't you take the rest of this duct tape off me and we can negotiate. You already know I'm no physical threat to you."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that," he drawled, but he rose anyway, reaching in his pocket and pulling out a small knife. He leaned down to cut through the tape around her ankles, and she brought her bound hands down hard on the top of his head.

Or at least she tried to. He caught her wrists in one hand while he slit the tape at her ankles, not even bothering to look up. He ripped the tape off her ankles and then his cold blue eyes met hers. "It's a waste of time, Ms. Spenser," he said, "and it will only annoy me. It's a boat—there's no place to go but over the side, and I've heard there are sharks in this area."

"I think I'd be safer with them," she muttered. He cut the tape at her wrists, and she realized he was using the Swiss Army knife she'd tucked in her bra. She wasn't going to think about how he'd found it, she was going to concentrate on how his grip on her wrists hurt, and decided if anyone was going to be shark bait it was going to be Peter Jensen.

"Is Jensen really your name?" she asked when he sat down again, closing the knife and tucking it back into his pocket.

"Does it matter? I've used any number of names. Jensen, Davidson, Wilson, Madsen."

"In other words your mother didn't know who your father was."

The moment the words here out of her mouth she could have bit her tongue. She almost picked up the gag that lay in her lap and slapped it back over her mouth. The man sitting across from her was probably only one step removed from a sociopath, and to call his mother a whore was beyond foolish.

His expression gave nothing away. "You're not a very good lawyer, are you, Ms. Spenser? A good lawyer knows when to keep her mouth shut."

She said nothing, and after a moment the tension in the room relaxed slightly. "In fact, I know exactly who my father was, unfortunately. You wouldn't have liked him…he had a very bad temper. Would you like some tea?"

She blinked. "What?"

"Would you like some tea? The particular drug I gave you tends to make your mouth feel like cotton, and being gagged doesn't help. Since we're about to enter negotiations, I want to be sure your mouth is in working order." She could positively feel his glance on her lips, and she ran a nervous tongue over them, making her feel even more conspicuous. He
had
kissed her, hadn't he?

"I'd be happier with a drink."

"Not a good idea. On top of the drugs I gave you and your little yellow pills, you might find yourself way too vulnerable. They aren't good for you, you know."

She shouldn't have been surprised that he knew about her tranquilizers—it was just one more violation. "Life is stressful," she said. "And that was before I got kidnapped and molested."

"Don't sound so hopeful. No one's molested you. Yet."

"This isn't funny," she snapped. "If being abducted and drugged isn't being molested I don't know what is. "

"Oh. I thought you were referring to something a bit more sexual."

She blushed.

It was the oddest sensation. She wasn't used to blushing, and his drawled comment was casual, not suggestive, and yet she could feel the warmth staining her cheeks. She had pale skin, and she'd just been pumped full of God knows how many drugs, and it must be a reaction, she thought nervously, and he wouldn't even notice…

"Ms. Spenser, are you blushing?"

"A lawyer doesn't blush, Mr. Jensen," she said severely. "Now, why don't you tell me what it is you want, and I'm certain we can come to an agreement."

He said nothing. He rose and crossed the room, pushing open a hidden cupboard that exposed a small refrigerator. When he returned he put the icy can of Tab in her hand, and she almost kissed the sweating fuchsia sides. He'd already popped it open, a good thing, because her hands were shaking as she lifted it to her mouth.

"Aren't you going to worry that I'm drugging you again?" He sat back down.

"I don't care," she said, drinking half the can in one gulp, letting the cold liquid slide down her throat. She closed her eyes and let out a blissful sigh. She would have welcomed anything cold and wet, but this was almost enough to make her not want to kill him. Almost.

She opened her eyes again, to see him watching her. "So what do you want?" she asked again.

He hesitated, and he didn't seem like a man who would ever hesitate. "I'm afraid there's nothing you can offer me, Ms. Spenser. I have a job to do."

"And what is that?"

"My orders are to kill Harry Van Dorn," he said, his voice flat. "And anyone else who gets in the way."

She was tough, he had to grant her that. Only the quick blink of her eyes betrayed any kind of reaction to his bald statement. She believed him, though. She was too smart not to.

"Why?"

"I don't know the particulars, and I prefer it that way. I'm very good at what I do, and part of the reason is that I never ask why. I figure if I'm sent to take care of someone then he must have done something to deserve it."

"Who sends you? Who gave you these orders?" she demanded.

"It wouldn't mean anything if I told you. Believe it or not, we're the good guys."

"The good guys?" she scoffed. "And you're going to kill a harmless dilettante like Harry Van Dorn in cold blood?"

"I assure you he's not quite as harmless as he seems," Peter said.

"And what about me?"

"What about you?"

"You said you were told to kill Harry Van Dorn and anyone who got in the way. Does that include me?"

He should have lied. People were better off if they didn't know they were going to die. They got panicky, did unexpected things and made his job that much harder. "Would you believe me if I told you no?"

She shook her head. "Then trust me, you aren't one of the good guys. I've never done anything remotely worth getting killed over. And I don't particularly want to die."

"Few people do."

"So how am I supposed to change your mind?"

He considered it for a moment, as he'd been considering it for the last several hours. "I don't think you can. For what it's worth, I promise it won't hurt. You won't even know what's happening."

"I don't think so." She set the empty Tab can down beside her and met his gaze quite calmly. "If you're going to murder me you're going to have to work hard to do it, and I have no intention of letting go easily. I'm going to kick and scream and fight all the way."

"It's a losing battle, Ms. Spenser." He was amazed at how calm he sounded. As if silencing unfortunate witnesses and accomplices was a normal part of his duties as one of the best-trained operatives in the Committee. He was the best marksman, brilliant with a knife and in hand-to-hand combat, and he never showed or felt emotion. The Iceman, as always, both in temperament and his specialty in putting unwanted evil on ice.

But Ms. Spenser wasn't evil. This was the first time he'd ever made the mistake of letting someone unwitting get caught in the careful trap he'd set, and he was going to have to live with the consequences. They were in the middle of one of the most complicated operations in his memory—Harry Van Dorn was up to something and all the resources and manpower of the Committee had been unable to uncover anything more than a few hints. Harry was a control freak—this wouldn't go further without him overseeing it. They needed Harry on ice, permanently, with no interference, so they could find out what the hell the Rule of Seven was, and how they could stop it.

He couldn't afford to let her go…she had already seen too much, knew too much. She was a smart woman—give her time and she could put together far too much information on the Committee. She'd jeopardize the lives of the men and women who risked everything. It was an equation with only one solution, whether he liked it or not.

"I specialize in losing battles," she said. "I'm not going to die, and neither is Harry. You, I'm not so sure about." She rose, stretching with all the intensity of a lazy cat, and smiled at him with utter sweetness. "In the meantime I think I'll take a shower and change into something more comfortable, and then we can continue our negotiations."

He didn't move. The door to the cabin was locked, and she wouldn't be able to get very far. "We have nothing to negotiate, Ms. Spenser," he reminded her.

"I disagree. There's a great deal of money at stake here, and if you're deluded enough to think Harry's some kind of evil monster, then your information is wrong. I have excellent instincts when it comes to people, and Harry Van Dorn might be a horny, superstitious, spoiled baby, but he's miles removed from anything evil. You wouldn't be killing one innocent bystander, you'd be killing two, and I don't think you want that. Not when the alternative is so much money your mysterious employers would never be able to find you."

"They'd find me," he said. "And everyone on this boat knows the mission. I'm sorry, but even if I wanted to let you go I couldn't. Renaud or one of the others would see to things, and they tend to be a bit more… brutal."

He saw the nervous shift in her eyes and felt a pang of something. It couldn't be regret or guilt, he didn't allow himself either of those emotions, no matter what the circumstances.

"If you say so," she said airily. "That doesn't mean I won't try. Tell me, is this door locked or can I come and go as I please?"

"It's locked."

"Then please unlock it," she said, more a demand than a request. "I'd like to go back to my room and change my clothes."

He knew what she was going to try, probably even before she did. It would have worked under normal circumstances, but she had no idea who she was dealing with, and that her body was telegraphing her plans loud and clear.

Best to get it over with, he thought, rising. "I don't think so," he said. And caught her as she tried to jump him, turning her easily, twisting her arm behind her back. A second later she was down on the floor, his knee in the center of her chest, and she was staring up at him with mute shock.

Madame Lambert set her encrypted PDA down on the table beside her untouched glass of wine. She prided herself on being able to make the hard decisions and do them in public—she was enjoying a solitary dinner at a quiet little restaurant not far from the office, and she had no trouble sending and receiving the information she needed.

No, she wasn't enjoying her solitary meal, she amended, picking up the glass of very fine wine and taking a sip. Right now she wasn't enjoying much of anything. She had just sent orders to Peter Jensen that he would have to kill the young woman who'd gotten in the way. And it made her sick inside.

Peter would do it, of course, no questions asked. And he'd do it in as humane a fashion as possible. But each death, no matter how justified, left a psychic wound that never healed over. The death of an innocent would be far worse. She'd known Peter too long to be happy about that.

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.

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G
enevieve 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."