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“On second thought, you can’t smoke,” Genevieve said. “I don’t want to die smelling like an ashtray.”
Peter would have come back with some cynical crack about cremation. But Peter wasn’t there, and Madame Lambert wasn’t Peter. She put the cigarettes back in her Hermès handbag—an item so expensive even Genevieve had denied herself—and snapped it shut. “As you wish,” she said. “But I’m still not leaving you alone.”
“Suit yourself,” Genevieve said, and stomped into the tiny bathroom.
It wasn’t until she’d finished with the longest shower she could manage that she realized she hadn’t brought her clean clothes in with her. She grabbed the skimpy towel and walked into the room, throwing modesty to the winds. Madame Lambert wasn’t going to have any prurient interest in her body. In fact, Peter probably hadn’t either. It had all been part of his job.
Madame Lambert had made the bed and was lying on it, the pillows tucked behind her, her expensive shoes lying neatly on the floor beside her, and she looked at Genevieve with casual interest. The new clothes were folded neatly at the foot of the other bed, and Genevieve thought, fuck it, and tossed the towel.
“You’re probably wondering what Peter saw in me,” she said in a conversational voice as she pulled on the plain white panties and bra. “And the answer, of course, is nothing at all. He was doing his job.”
Genevieve had marks on her, and she knew it. Not just the love bite on her neck, the whisker burns on her breast. Her whole body was covered with him, and no matter how often she washed she couldn?
??t wash him away. He was inside her still, breathing through her skin, his heart making hers race.
“How very young you are,” Madame Lambert said in an obnoxiously cheerful voice. “Like a teenager who’s first discovered sex.”
Genevieve paused in the act of zipping up her jeans. “Look, I’m putting my life on the line for you guys. I don’t have to listen to condescending remarks while I do it.”
“You’re right. I’d just forgotten what it was like to be young and in love.”
“You’ll have to ask someone else. I’ve never been there.”
Madame Lambert said nothing. But her catlike smile said it all.
God, but Harry hated children. Healthy, pretty ones were one thing, but these were pallid, sickly and obnoxious. They didn’t know when to shut up, and during the twists and turns up Route 330 one of them threw up on the leather upholstery of his white limo.
It was the final straw. He hadn’t been riding in the back with them, of course. He’d been up front with his driver, in a far less comfortable seat than he should have been enjoying, and the brats behind him never shut up.
“Can’t you turn off the noise back there?” he demanded of the driver.
“Sorry, sir. This particular limo isn’t soundproofed.”
“Well, at least can you do something about the smell?”
The driver shrugged, not having the good sense to be afraid of Harry’s temper. Not enough people were afraid of him, he decided, particularly not those people who’d managed to mess with his glorious Rule of Seven.
He’d gotten past that initial disappointment, priding himself on his resiliency. He had a new goal now—destroying the Committee and everyone in it, and he’d already gathered powerful reinforcements. The shadow group was a threat to everything he held dear—free enterprise, the right to enjoy himself however he pleased, democracy. He was going to bring them down, every one of them, and then he could turn to rebuilding a new Rule of Seven, something even grander and more glorious.
Because this was personal. Not just the destruction of his carefully laid plans. The infiltration of his private life, with Jack-shit O’Brien and Peter Jensen. There was something so…underhanded about that. But then, what could you expect from people who didn’t have the advantages he’d had. Weren’t as gifted as he was.
He was going to enjoy himself with Genevieve Spenser. First, because Jack-shit/Takashi had tried so hard to have him keep his hands off her. Second, because it would make Peter Jensen turn in his grave. Hurting the woman would be the next best thing to hurting the man who’d betrayed him. Hell, it might be even better; this way he could get his revenge twice over.
But first he had to get rid of these noisy, puking, disgusting children before he grabbed a gun and shot them.
“Stop the car,” he ordered.
And the driver slammed on the brakes.
22
The Kevlar vest was too small, and Genevieve had the sudden, distressing thought that if Peter were there, if he’d been in charge of outfitting her, it would have been the right size. Of course, he’d known what size she was before he’d gotten her naked. Now he’d know even better.
She managed to fasten it anyway, then pulled her T-shirt and sweatshirt over it. Her boobs were squashed and she was having a hard time breathing, but none of it mattered. She sat in the back of the nondescript car, uncomfortably similar to the sedan Peter had showed up with, and let them drive her up the winding road into the mountains, twisting and turning.
She wondered if she was going to throw up again all over her Kevlar vest. It would serve the elegant Madame Lambert right if she puked on her designer shoes, but then some might get down into the vest and that would be very unpleasant. Not that she figured the vest was going to do a bit of good. If Harry’s plan was to have someone shoot her, he’d have them go for a head shot. Lawyer’s brains, she thought again, with a little shiver.
“Are you cold?” Madame Lambert asked. “It gets a bit chilly and damp up here, and there’s supposed to be fog tonight. I can get you a blanket.”
