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He didn’t give a rat’s ass about Harry Van Dorn. Someone would see to him, someone who wouldn’t get distracted by something as ridiculous as a cantankerous lawyer.
So here he was, halfway across the world, acting on his own with none of the Committee’s formidable resources. And he wasn’t even going to stop and consider whether this goddamn rescue mission was simply clearing up some of the mistakes he’d made, or something more personal.
The passageway was cold and clammy, the stone walls sweating, the carved steps rough beneath his feet. It would be funny as hell if he took a pratfall and broke his neck. A perfect slapstick ending to a joke of a life.
White knight to the rescue, he thought, moving deeper into the bowels of the earth. The last thing he wanted was to see Genevieve Spenser again. The last thing he needed. Yet here he was.
Thomason would have sent him after her with orders to kill. Isobel Lambert had left it up to him. Everything about this whole affair was uncharacteristic—of him, of the Committee, of the people he worked with. Renaud was one of the last people he thought could be turned—he’d had too healthy a fear of what could happen to him if he tried to sell out to a higher bidder.
Peter reached the bottom step, switching off the small flashlight he’d brought. He leaned back against the cold, damp wall, and waited for the damsel in distress.
What the hell was he doing here? Going against every one of his well-honed instincts for the sake of someone he didn’t give a damn about. If he wasn’t so pissed off he’d laugh. At himself, at the absurd situation.
As it was, he had no choice but to wait. And fume.
She didn’t make the mistake of turning on the lights as darkness closed in around her. She was supposed to be comatose once more, why would she need light?
She couldn’t make herself lie in that bed a moment longer, but she kept her ear out for any unexpected sound so she could jump back under the covers without being caught.
Her nerves were screaming with anticipation. If she was getting out it would have to be tonight. Somehow she didn’t think it was going to be as easy as being put on a plane for the safety of the U.S. Sooner or later Harry was going to want proof that she was dead. Unless this was all an elaborate, sadistic hoax on the part of O’Brien, and he was simply using the easiest way to get her out of here and into a death trap.
She considered laughing at her own paranoia, except that it wasn’t paranoia if people were really out to kill you. But at this point she had no choice—it was Takashi O’Brien or nothing.
She ended up back in bed, lying in total darkness, when the door opened and someone slipped inside. Something soft and silky was dropped on her head as she lay still, and for a moment she was afraid he was going to smother her.
“Put those on.” O’Brien’s voice was barely a whisper, and she sat up, pulling the dark cloth from her face.
“But what…?” she began.
“Be quiet!” He barely made a sound, but the point was made. He took a step away from her, and her eyes, already accustomed to the darkness, could see that he’d turned his back. Obviously he meant her to strip down here and now, and just as obviously she wasn’t about to object. He had probably seen more of her when she’d been unconscious, and h
e was clearly uninterested.
The clothes were a pair of black silk pajamas. An odd choice, presumably to give her some camouflage in the darkness, and she pulled off the lacy confection they had dressed her in with relief. She’d never been a glutton for frills and lace; when she was on her own she usually slept in a ratty T-shirt and panties.
The pajamas must belong to Harry—the silk was so fine she could barely feel it against her skin. The sleeves and legs were too long, but at that point there wasn’t much she could do about it. She fastened the buttons up to her neck, and he turned, instinctively knowing she was done.
He reminded her of Peter—that preternatural awareness, that calm, waiting watchfulness. Was he a part of Peter’s shadow Committee? And if he was, did that make him a good guy or a bad guy?
As far as she knew he’d decided not to kill her, which clearly made him a good guy.
He pushed her down on the bed and proceeded to tie her wrists together, tight enough to hold, just short of pain. She didn’t bother to ask why—even in the hushed darkness she could make a reasonably intelligent guess. It was to provide a good cover in case they ran into Anh or any of Harry’s other inquisitive servants.
She held still as he braided her long hair into a thick plait, his hands efficient and impersonal. He put some sort of slippers on her feet, then pulled her to a standing position.
He was going to gag her—she could see the cloth in his hand, and she tried to move away, shaking her head vigorously, but it was too late. A moment later she was silenced before she could say a word.
She half expected him to put a leash on her and make her walk like a dog, she thought impatiently, her mind filled with all the insulting things she wanted to say.
And then they were moving, out of the room where she’d been for so long, down a long, narrow corridor. It was almost as dark as her unlit room.
She lost count of the doors, the flights of stairs. If she had to retrace her steps she’d be totally lost. The last door he opened was different, the air beyond was damp and cold, smelling of the sea.
He said nothing, pulling her inside and closing the door behind them, closing them into darkness.
It felt like a grave—cold and damp and black. Genevieve never like confined spaces, but having a panic attack wouldn’t help matters, particularly with the gag covering her mouth. She forced herself to take deep, calming breaths through her nose as he put her bound hands on his shoulder and started to descend into the earth.
She thought she should count the steps, anything rather than think about the darkness and the night closing in around her.
