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He worked with his customary efficiency, and when he left a note by her sleeping form, he only hesitated a moment. He was ignoring a basic tenet—don’t put anything on paper, don’t leave anything of yourself behind. He’d done both, but he couldn’t worry. The note would be gone in the coming conflagration—there’d be no way to trace him. His tracks were covered.
He squatted beside her as she slept. He wanted to push her wet hair away from her face, kiss her one last time and maybe convince himself that a kiss meant nothing.
But he knew better than to take the chance. The chance of waking her up, the chance of finding out that kissing her meant everything he was afraid of.
And he was supposed to be afraid of nothing. He let his hand hover over her face for a moment, tempted, so tempted.
And then he turned around and walked away. Forever.
It was broad daylight on the last day of her life, and Genevieve lay wrapped like a mummy on the livingroom sofa, trapped.
It only took her a moment to fight her way out of the enveloping shroud, and she almost didn’t see the note on the marble-top table beside her. It was brief and to the point. “Don’t go in my room.”
She didn’t even know which room was his in this rambling estate, so how could she avoid it? What had he done, booby-trapped it so he wouldn’t have to factor her into any more of his plans?
She wrapped the sheet back around her and stood up. The house was surrounded by shrubbery, but from the floor-to-ceiling windows she could see the ocean, and it was just as likely someone could see in. How many people were on the island—three? Peter, Hans and Renaud, the brute force. Whoever else was involved in this operation had taken off with Harry’s boat.
And of course, Harry was on the island, dead or alive, as much a victim as she was. Maybe Peter was off having sex with him as well—he’d done as much before when he was on assignment, or so he told her.
But then, he had no reason to sleep with Harry. He had him where he wanted him.
He had no reason to sleep with her either. None at all, and yet he had. Finally, finally she’d felt him tremble in her arms, his heart racing. Because of her.
And was that a triumph or, in the end, a defeat? It didn’t matter. Time was running out, and she wasn’t about to waste even a minute thinking about Peter Jensen. She couldn’t afford to.
Victoria’s Secret and microbikinis were out of the question—so were the enveloping caftans that would trip her up if she tried to run. And she suspected that might be a very real possibility.
Her discarded clothes were gone, thanks, no doubt, to Peter. The butcher knife lay on the floor beside the bed, unmarred by his blood, more’s the pity.
She hiked the sheet higher around her, trying to dismiss memories of Animal House and toga parties. She wasn’t in any kind of mood to be thinking about gonzo comedies. The Great Escape, maybe.
But she couldn’t escape wrapped in a sheet. There must be something else to wear in the place—more of Harry’s expensive sportswear. It had fitted her well enough on the boat—she could find something similar here, hopefully without courting death from Peter’s traps.
She was half-afraid to touch the doorknob of the adjoining room, expecting a lethal shock, but it opened easily enough beneath her hand. Another bedroom suite, this time with no spare clothes at all.
Three others, all the same. Which left two bedrooms—the master suite and one other small one. Peter would have co-opted Harry’s rooms as he’d coopted everything about him, so she could save that one for a last resort, and she opened the small room off the kitchen, hoping for a maid’s uniform at least.
She’d miscalculated. This was Peter’s room— smaller than the guest rooms, spare and utilitarian for the servant he’d been pretending to be.
The sliding glass door was open to the out
side, and she could see a clear path into the shrubbery, away from her luxurious prison. Surely escape couldn’t be that easy?
She turned, and froze. A carefully drawn schematic lay stretched out on the table, drawn with a precise hand by a man who paid attention to details. The house was diagramed, including the security system, and so was the entire island. He provided his own escape plan, probably something he always did, complete with food, radio and flares, on the far side of the island. If she could make it that far she could hide until they were gone, then call for help on the radio, assuming she could figure out how to work it. She had a decent chance at surviving after all, simply because he’d underestimated her resourcefulness.
Or had he? There was a handgun lying on the table, a nine-millimeter Luger with a full clip. Most people wouldn’t know how to use it, but it was identical to the gun she’d been trained on, after the attack. She’d never be a terribly accurate shot, but at least she knew how to aim and shoot, and maybe that would be enough.
So, had Peter gotten sloppy all of a sudden? Or did he change his mind about killing her, when he’d told her he didn’t have that luxury?
It didn’t matter. She couldn’t waste her time thinking about it—she had to concentrate on getting out of there as fast as she could. Getting to safety.
She found a heavy white T-shirt and a pair of khakis in his dresser. The khakis were identical to the ones she’d cut up on the boat—she hadn’t been wearing Harry’s clothes after all, but his. It shouldn’t have mattered. It mattered.
She didn’t bother with underwear. She dressed, picked up the gun and tucked it into the waistband of the pants, pulling the T-shirt down over it. She’d have to go barefoot; her Manolo Blahniks were long gone and even her size-ten feet would disappear in Peter’s shoes. She’d just have to manage.
She stood over the schematic, taking in every detail. He might not realize she’d been in there if the paper was still in place, and she had a semi– photographic memory, even under such stressful conditions. All she needed to remember was the path to the bunker. And where they were keeping Harry.
She was an idiot to even consider trying to save him. What good was she, up against three men who could only be described as terrorists
