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“How fitting,” Harry said. “Then you must have Pisces rising. Either way, it means we can work together.”
Renaud hooted with laughter. “Those drugs work better than you think. You’re crazy.”
Harry didn’t like it when people called him crazy. It tended to make him a little…unstable, but in his current position there wasn’t much he could do about it, so he overlooked the insult. For now. “You don’t strike me as a man of high moral principles,” he said. “Are they really paying you enough to off me? Because I can assure you, I have more.”
“You don’t even know who’s behind this,” Renaud scoffed. “These people don’t make mistakes, and they don’t like traitors. You couldn’t pay me enough money to help you—I’d be dead in a matter of hours.”
“You look like a man who’s willing to take that kind of risk.” He named a sum extreme enough to make Renaud’s dark little eyes widen. Not that he’d ever see a penny of it, Harry thought, but it was enough to lure him.
“Shit,” Renaud said. “You really are crazy.”
Harry allowed himself a brief, soulful vision of exactly how he would disembowel the Frenchman, and then he smiled. “I have the money. And I want to live. Do you doubt me? I’ve got so much money I can protect you from your bosses. I can send you someplace they’ll never find you.” A grave, he thought. Damn, the Frenchman was stupid.
Harry could see that Renaud was considering it. “I’m not alone in this. There’s another man taking turns watching, giving you the drugs.”
“If you want to share all that money it’s your choice,” Harry said. “I’ll leave that decision up to you. Otherwise I’m sure you won’t have any trouble disposing of inconvenient obstacles.”
Renaud smiled then, an ugly little grin. “You’re right about that,” he said. “Maybe I’m a Pisces after all.”
Harry Van Dorn nodded his head. “I never doubted it for a minute, my friend.”
9
Peter Jensen pushed the sunglasses up on his forehead and pinched the bridge of his nose in a futile effort to vanquish the tension that had been sitting there for what seemed like days. His usual calm practicality had abandoned him, and every time he was on the verge of achieving his normal sangfroid, Ms. Genevieve Spenser would pop up and blow it all to hell.
She was right—he should just kill her and get it over with. He could think of no way out of the current mess, and the more he struggled the tighter the bonds. He knew it would happen sooner or later— that an innocent would get caught in the crossfire. He was far from the only closer in the Committee, and everyone else took collateral damage in their stride. Why couldn’t he?
He could tell himself it was a matter of professional pride. If he was good enough at his job, then only the guilty would pay the price.
But he never lied to himself, and he knew that was only part of the problem. He could live with killing an innocent, if it was for the greater good. It was a decision faced by soldiers every day.
He just didn’t know if he could live without Genevieve Spenser in this sorry world.
The air was warm, and the Iceman was in danger of melting. And it scared the hell out of him.
Once she went back to her room to change out of the bathing suit she should have stayed put. It didn’t matter that she was trapped by the electrified doors and feeling claustrophobic, it didn’t matter that nighttime was a smarter time to try to escape—she’d have a better chance of eluding them in the dark. Even so, she still should
have stayed where she was once she’d showered and changed out of the borrowed bathing suit.
But she didn’t.
Thank God there were caftans in the closet, long, flowing garments that covered her from head to toe. She wanted layers and layers between her flesh and Peter Jensen’s enigmatic, disturbing gaze. The underwear was a problem of Einstein proportions. There were drawers of new underwear with tags still attached. All of them designed for skinny models more interested in displaying their assets rather than supporting them. She couldn’t even find anything resembling a 34–C, and the closest thing she could find made her look like a Sports Illustrated swimsuit model.
The panties were worse. Thongs, all of them. And she couldn’t decide what made her feel more conspicuous and vulnerable—going commando or wearing the tiny bit of silk.
She finally went with the “any layer is better than nothing” defense, secure that at least the caftan covered her from her neck to her toes.
She’d forgotten that Peter seemed able to see right through her and everything about her, including an opaque layer of fabric. She just knew he could see the skimpy lingerie she’d been forced to choose.
He was in the kitchen, chopping vegetables with ominous speed and precision, but he stopped long enough to give her a thorough once-over before returning to his work.
“Too bad you couldn’t find a veil to go with that nun’s habit,” he said. “Help yourself to a glass of wine. It’s one of Harry’s best—from one of his private vineyards. It’s got to be tasted to be believed.”
“I’m not drinking stolen property.”
“Then you shouldn’t be wearing stolen property,” he said, unfazed. “By tomorrow night, all of this will be gone in a fiery explosion. We may as well enjoy what we can.”
“I’m not in the mood to enjoy things.”
