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Personally, Genevieve thought she had every right to be a little high-strung, given the circumstances, but she kept silent on that subject. “And how much longer am I going to stay in this mystery location?”
“Until you’re well enough to leave, and until the danger is gone. That treacherous son of a bitch might have been blown to hell, but there are a dozen others to take his place, and they don’t give up lightly.”
“But…”
“Jack, I want you to see that our guest has everything she could possibly want.” Harry overrode her objection, rising to his full height. “This here is Jack O’Brien, one of my executive assistants.”
“Like Peter Jensen?”
Harry grimaced. “Jack’s been with me too long to question his loyalty. Besides, he would never betray me, would you, pal? After all, I know where the bodies are buried.”
The man standing in the shadows stepped forward, bowing slightly. “Anything you wish, Ms. Spens
er,” he said in a soft, deferential voice.
“See?” Harry said, clearly pleased with himself. “You couldn’t be in better hands. Jack’s one of the best. I know what you’re thinking—what’s an Oriental man doing with a name like Jack O’Brien? His father was white, his mother a Jap. His real name is something I can’t pronounce, so I just call him Jack.”
The man nodded again, seemingly oblivious to Harry’s casual racism. “You’ll be perfectly safe here, Ms. Spenser.”
Now, why did they keep emphasizing her safety? Harry was the one who was making her feel unsafe.
“I’ll need to leave you in Jack’s capable hands, Genevieve. I have a lot of irons in the fire right now, and I’ve been away too long. Just know that you can trust Jack as you trust me.”
For some reason that wasn’t comforting, she thought as the door closed behind him, leaving her alone with another of Harry’s ghostlike assistants. Her energy was nonexistent—whether from the drugs they’d used or thirteen days of inactivity, she couldn’t be sure. And for some reason she wanted to cry again. All over someone who deserved to die.
The man took in her grief-stricken face with a polite air of acknowledgment. “Is there any way I can be of service, miss? I’m afraid I’m the only one here who speaks English, but I’d be glad to offer any assistance you might need. With Mr. Van Dorn’s resources my abilities are almost limitless.”
“Can you bring people back from the dead?” she said, then slapped her hand over her mouth, horrified at her inadvertent words. She wasn’t going to cry for Peter Jensen, she absolutely wasn’t. She hadn’t even known his real name—how could she mourn him?
The man didn’t look daunted, though there was a slightly odd expression in his dark eyes. “I haven’t done so as yet, Ms. Spenser.”
“Never mind. I was just being ridiculous.” Her brave smile was probably pathetic, but Jack O’Brien politely pretended not to notice. “I just want to…” She stared up at his cool, impassive face. “What’s your real name?” she asked. “I don’t care if Harry’s too lazy he can’t master it—I’d be more comfortable calling you by your real name.”
He hesitated for a moment. “Takashi,” he said finally. “Very much like Jack—I’m used to it.”
“And your last name is O’Brien?” she persisted.
She might almost have thought he’d smiled. “He’s right about that. My father was an Irishman. I take after my mother’s side of the family in all ways.” He frowned, as if he’d already said too much. “I have things to attend to, Ms. Spenser, if there’s nothing else I can do for you.”
“You can arrange for me to get out of here.”
“That’s almost as difficult as raising the dead,” he said. “But I’ll see what I can do. Anh will be bringing you something to eat in a little while. If you don’t feel like drinking the tea, you could just pour it out when no one’s looking. That way no one will be offended.”
Either that was an incredibly strange thing to say, or the drugs in her system were still confusing her. She looked up at him, but his cool expression gave nothing away. “I certainly wouldn’t want to offend anyone,” she said finally.
He nodded. “It’s always better that way,” he said. “If you need anything just say my name to one of the servants and they’ll come and find me.”
“What name?”
He didn’t smile. “Either one, Ms. Spenser. Call, and I’ll come. In the meantime, I’ll see what I can do about your requested miracles.”
She should have asked for Tab while she was at it. It was just as likely as bringing Peter back from the dead.
Except…
It hit her with stunning force. He wasn’t dead. She didn’t know how she knew it, but she just did. He hadn’t been on that boat when it exploded into a shower of nothingness. She could feel it, in her bones, in her gut. Peter whoever-he-was wasn’t dead.
And she was probably still too hopped up on the meds they’d been giving her to know her own mother.
