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“Now, now, don’t you worry your pretty little head about a thing. We’ve got you safe here. And there’s no way anyone can get to you.”
“Get to me? Who would want to?” The concussion explained the pain in her head—was it also responsible for the fact that nothing seemed to make any sense to her?
“The people who are out to get me are a very smart, very powerful group of terrorists. They’ve been after me for a long time, and you screwed that up. Thanks to you we’ve now got a pretty good idea who they are and where they come from.”
“Thanks to me?”
“They found a crumpled-up note tucked in your shorts, and they were able to trace it to the man who wrote it. The man calling himself Peter Jensen. His real name is Madsen, and he works for a group of terrorists called the Committee. Not very original, right? They’ve targeted me, though I can’t quite figure out why. Maybe my money, maybe because of my humanitarian activities. Whatever the reason, they wanted me dead, and you threw a monkey wrench into their plans. I don’t know if I’ve ever owed so much to one person.”
She was having a hard time taking all this in. “Terrorists?” she echoed. She’d thought the same thing, despite Peter’s insistence that he was one of the good guys. Didn’t villains always think they were heroes?
But Harry’s explanation wasn’t feeling right to her. Something was off, something was wrong.
“Now, don’t you fuss. He’s dead, and there’s no way he can get to either of us ever again. I just wish I’d had the chance to bring him to the justice he so richly deserved.”
The blow to her head must have really scrambled her brains, she thought dizzily. Harry Van Dorn was saying the right words, sounding brave and noble and heroic. And all she could think was that he’d stolen her letter, the one thing she had of Peter Jensen. Madsen. Whoever the hell he was.
Or had been. She could feel her eyes begin to sting and she shook her head, trying to fight the overwhelming grief.
Harry was oblivious. He sat down on the bed beside her, and for some reason she wanted to move away from him. Odd, when he was harmless, a victim as she was. Had been. “Even with Madsen dead I’m afraid you’ve made some very dangerous enemies, and I aim to make sure you don’t suffer for helping to save me.”
“Where are we?” she asked again, dismissing his facile reassurances.
“Someplace they’ll never find you.”
“Where?” she persisted. “Are we somewhere in Asia?” She glanced over his shoulder at the still, dark figure of an Asian man, could see the various servants bustling around.
“Not near any chance of tsunamis,” Harry said with an easy laugh.
“I wasn’t even thinking about that,” she said. “And as far as I can tell, we’re right on the ocean. How can that make us impervious to tsunamis?”
“Okay, not impervious,” Harry corrected with a lazy grin. “You lawyers are all so literal. Let’s just say a tidal wave would be a long shot where this house is situated.”
“Where?”
“You don’t give up that easy, do you, Genevieve? I hope you don’t mind me calling you that—I figure since we shared such an adventure we ought to be on a first-name basis.”
She wouldn’t have called those days of death and danger any kind of adventure, but then, he didn’t know that. He’d spent the entire time in a drugged-out stupor. “Where are we, Harry?” she asked once more, her patience a deception that was about to shred.
“I really can’t tell you,” he said, and she almost believed the regret in his soft, oozing drawl. “The fewer people who know about the location of this place, the better. You’ll be leaving here when things are safe, and it wouldn’t be wise to have you out in the open with that kind of knowledge. Too dangerous for you, much too dangerous for me.”
“In other words, if you tell me you’ll have to kill me?”
His smile was exquisitely charming. “You’re better off forgetting all about the time you spend here.”
She was beginning to get ever so slightly pissed off.
“And do you have some complicated reason for not telling me how long that is?”
Her slightly acid tone was lost on him. “Thirteen days.”
“What?” she shrieked, and was rewarded with a stabbing pain in the head. “That’s impossible. I couldn’t have slept for thirteen days.”
“Not exactly. You had a concussion, remember? Doc Schmidt decided to put you in a drug-induced coma in order to give you time to heal. And don’t look so horrified—my staff took excellent care of you while you were out of it.”
“You drugged me? And how is that different from what those bastards were doing to you?” she said, practically vibrating with fury. She was forgetting all her well-behaved, lawyerly manners and she didn’t give a damn.
“Because we were trying to help you, not keep you docile before we killed you,” Harry said patiently. “Besides, you were under the care of a doctor. You shouldn’t be so sensitive.”
