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Genevieve held her breath, half expecting an argument, but Renaud had been thoroughly cowed. “Just promise me you’ll make it hurt,” he said.
“I’ll do what I need to do to accomplish the mission, Renaud. No more, no less.”
She listened as Renaud’s footsteps retreated down the deck, then the belated clatter on the metal staircase. There was no other sound, but then, she hadn’t heard the mysterious boss approach. It stood to reason she wouldn’t hear him when he left either.
She wasn’t about to take any chances. He couldn’t stand there forever—if she counted to five hundred in French then she could probably risk opening the door to make a run for it.
Where she would run to was still a question. Over the side seemed the safest possibility, if she could find a life vest and a flare gun. A self-inflating raft would be even better—she could wait until the boat was out of sight before she inflated it. But if worse came to worst she’d simply go over the side as is, taking her chance with the cold water rather than the deadly cold voice of the unseen man. She had no idea whether there were sharks out there. She only knew about the human ones on board.
She counted to five hundred twice, her rusty French slowing her down. She considered trying it in Latin, but it had been too long since her high-school classes with Mrs. Wiesen, and besides, the chances of anyone still being outside the utility closet were almost nil. If they knew she was there
they would have simply opened the door.
She moved her hands blindly over the door, looking for the inside latch. Her eyes should have become accustomed to the darkness, but the door was sealed shut. If she stayed in that airless, lightless hole much longer she’d probably pass out from the chemical fumes.
She made no sound as she ran her hands down the inside of the door, her fingers finally reaching the catch. She breathed a tiny sigh of relief—she’d known a moment’s panic that there might be no inside latch. After all, how many people expected to be opening a tiny closet from the inside?
The door opened with an almost inaudible click, and she pushed it open, closing her eyes against the suddenly blinding glare of the midday sun as it bounced off the waters. She squinted, then opened her eyes fully. To look straight into the impassive eyes of a man she’d never seen before.
A million emotions raced through her—instant panic, then hope as her eyes focused on the man leaning against the railing, looking at her. He was tall, dressed in loose white clothing, with long dark hair and very blue eyes, and his expression was nothing more than politely curious. She’d never seen him before in her life.
“I wondered how long you were going to stay in there, Ms. Spenser,” he said in a voice that was both Peter Jensen’s and a stranger’s. “As you heard me tell our bloodthirsty friend Renaud, there aren’t that many places to hide on a boat.”
She didn’t hesitate. Her only chance was taking him by surprise, and she dived for the side of the boat. She was halfway over the railing before he caught her with insultingly minimal effort, pulling her back onto the deck, against him. His body was warm, hard against her back, which somehow seemed wrong, she thought dizzily. He should feel like a block of ice, not a living, breathing human.
“Sorry, Ms. Spenser,” he murmured in her ear, a soft, soothing voice. “But we can’t have you complicating our very careful plans, now, can we?”
She would have said something if she could. But the stinging sensation at the side of her neck was spreading through her body, and she wondered if this was how she was going to die. If so, she wasn’t going to go without a fight. She kicked back against him, but her legs felt like rubber bands as they began to collapse beneath her, and she could hear his faint laugh in her ear.
“Feisty creature, aren’t you, Ms. Spenser? Just relax, and it won’t hurt a bit.”
Her elbow didn’t work either, as she tried to jab him in the stomach. Nothing worked at all, and she let herself sink down, knowing that this was the last thing she’d remember before she died. And then she knew nothing at all.
5
Ms. Genevieve Spenser was rapidly becoming a pain in the ass, Peter thought. He ought to finish what she started, toss her unconscious body over the side of the boat and let the fish have her. In the end he doubted it would matter. As long as they found identifiable traces of Harry Van Dorn’s body in the rubble of his island home the authorities would be satisfied. They wouldn’t go to that much trouble trying to ascertain if his pretty little lawyer was there too.
Unless, of course, they suspected foul play. He highly doubted that—he was an expert at his job, and he seldom made mistakes. Harry Van Dorn had done a magnificent job of convincing the world what a decent, charming, humanitarian fellow he was, and most people outside of a select few would have no idea just how overdue retribution was. It was Peter’s job to see to it, and if Harry’s death was supposed to look like an accident then it would. And those were his orders.
He shifted the dead weight in his arms. It would be far easier to dump her over the side than figure out what to do with her. Things had gone too far—the unpalatable fact was that she was going to have to end up dead anyway. Why complicate matters by putting it off?
Having her found on the island would be neater, and when it came to his job he tended to be fastidious. The thought would have astonished his mother. He’d never been the orderly type, and chaos had suited him very well for many years.
But his job required precision, attention to the smallest detail, a cool detachment that nothing could permeate. Ms. Spenser was undoubtedly going to die, whether he liked it or not, but now wasn’t the right time.
He could have left her on the deck and had Renaud haul her into the cabin where he could keep an eye on her, but he never delegated work he could do himself. Besides, Renaud had his limitations, and he liked to hurt women. There was nothing he could do about Ms. Spenser’s upcoming fate, but there was no reason why she should have to suffer. After all, he was a civilized man, he mocked himself.
He hauled her limp body over his shoulder. She wasn’t that bad, not compared to some of the dead weight he’d carried in his thirty-eight years. Odd, but when someone was simply unconscious they weighed less than when they were dead. It made no sense, but it was true.
Or maybe it was the weight of his conscience when he had to dispose of someone. Except that he had no conscience—it had been surgically removed along with his soul years ago.
Still, maybe he retained a trace of sentimentality. Otherwise he wouldn’t hesitate with the interfering Ms. Spenser, and he wouldn’t feel the random regret about her future or lack thereof. He wasn’t used to regret at all.
He dumped her down on the huge bed in the main cabin, next to Harry Van Dorn’s unconscious body. She had long, pretty legs, and it was hard to forget the distracting taste of her mouth. He still hadn’t figured out why he’d kissed her. An aberration, a momentary indulgence…he wouldn’t let himself do it again.
He stared down at her for a long moment. He’d killed women before, it was inevitable in his line of work. At times the female of the species could be a lot deadlier than the male. But he’d never been forced to kill someone who’d simply gotten in the way. And he didn’t want to start now, no matter how goddamn important it was.
Of course, one could argue that the world would always be a better place with one less lawyer. But looking down at Genevieve Spenser’s unconscious, undeniably luscious body, he wasn’t completely sure he could make himself believe it.
