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This time it was his cell phone, and he pulled it from his pocket and snapped it open eagerly. Ask and ye shall receive.
It was Donahue. He’d done his usual sweep of the garage, and found two of his men in the back of his Porsche, dead. There’d been blood on the ground as well, not belonging to the two men. And a couple of strands of long, blond hair clinging to the damp wall.
Takashi had told him he’d disposed of her body through the underwater entrance, piece by piece, and Harry had been so taken with the notion that he’d wished he’d asked for pictures.
Now he knew he should have. Because Takashi O’Brien, his right-hand man for the last three years, had betrayed him.
And Genevieve Spenser was still alive.
18
“Let me up,” Genevieve gasped into the carpet fibers that held God knows what. “You’re hurting me.”
Peter released her, stepping back and slamming the door behind him, locking them in. “Serves you right. When are you going to learn to trust me?”
She sat up, pulling the sheet more snugly around her, leaning back against the foot of the bed and cradling her hand. “Never,” she said flatly. “But the fact is, I wasn’t trying to attack you. I was afraid you weren’t coming back, and I was relieved.”
He stared down at her. “Never jump a man, no matter how relieved you are, unless you’re certain he’s not dangerous. And you know that I am.”
Yes, she knew. She’d seen him kill a man not many hours ago, and knew he would do so, again and again, without a second thought. The idea should have horrified her.
But she was way past that point. She was just grateful that he could kill to keep her safe. “Sorry,” she muttered.
He’d been carrying a bunch of plastic bags and he’d dropped them on the floor when she’d jumped on him. He proceeded to pick them up again, not looking at her. “‘Sorry?’” he echoed. “You’re actually apologizing? What kind of drugs did Takashi feed you?”
She should have known he’d mock her. “What’s in the bags?” she asked, changing the subject.
He turned. She was sitting at his feet, not a good position, psychologically, and she tugged the sheet up higher.
“Supplies. Including some clothes for you. There was an all-night Wal-Mart down the road. I know their clothes are not your usual style, but they’re more secure than that sheet. And what have you got on your foot?”
She glanced down, having forgotten. “A pillowcase,” she said sheepishly, pulling it off.
“Your feet were cold?”
She shook her head. “I was trying to break the window.”
He said nothing for a moment. “I assume that’s how you hurt your hand?”
He was an observant bastard, she thought. “Just bruised it a bit,” she said, reaching her hand up and flexing her fingers. Or trying to. They felt stiff and swollen.
“Get on the bed,” he said.
There was a sudden uncomfortable silence in the room as both of them remembered the last time he’d said those words to her. And then he broke the spell.
“Don’t get your hopes up,” he added. “I just want to look at your hand.”
She did get to her feet, but not on the bed. “You don’t need to look at my hand—it’ll be just fine. Where are the clothes?”
He tossed one of the larger bags to her, and she made the mistake of trying to catch it with her bad hand. It dropped on the bed, but at least she’d managed to swallow her cry of pain.
“I assume you’re going to take over the bathroom for another hour and a half,” he said, dropping the rest of the stuff on the other bed. His bed, presumably. She was nothing special, he’d said.
“Just long enough to get dressed. I’m sure you’re just dying to primp.”
“What I’m dying to do is get these clothes off me and clean my wound. It’s a lucky thing I managed to steal a jacket from the front office—I could hardly walk around Wal-Mart with a bullet wound. Though if I could anywhere, L.A. would be the place.”
She’d forgotten all about his wound, and she felt conscience-stricken. “Do you need any help?”
