Cold As Ice. Anne Stuart
The boat was moving. It wasn’t Genevieve’s paranoid imagination, it wasn’t a remnant from her nightmare. The goddamn boat was moving.
She scrambled out of bed. She was still wearing the silk slip of a dress she’d worn last night, with her bra and pantyhose in place, if a bit rumpled. She hadn’t been that out of it, had she? She’d had a little too much to drink on top of a three-pill day, but still, she shouldn’t be having blackouts.
She sank down on the floor beside the platform bed, dropping her head in her hands. She couldn’t remember anything, not since she left Harry Van Dorn’s side and headed for her room. She’d left with the gray ghost, hadn’t she? But she couldn’t remember anything about the walk to her cabin, whether he’d turned down her bed or kissed her good-night.
Holy shit. She’d been facetious, trying to reconstruct her last conscious moments, but the memory, no longer elusive, came flooding back. The son of a bitch had kissed her.
At least, she thought he had. Or maybe it was just part of her dreams, an earlier, less nightmarish part. Though if it involved kissing someone like Jensen then she’d almost prefer the nightmares. She’d learned how to fight back with them.
She rose on unsteady feet. At least she hadn’t slept in her shoes. She walked in what she hoped was the direction of the window, feeling her way, and when she reached the heavy curtains she tugged, trying to open them.
They stayed put, obviously on some kind of heavyduty curtain rod, but she could push the fabric out of the way enough to have her worst fears confirmed. It was midday, when she should have already landed in Costa Rica, and they were out at sea.
Harry’s multi-million-dollar yacht ran smoothly and quietly through the waters, but there was no mistaking the feel of the engine beneath her, the sound of the water as the boat cut through the swells. She let the curtain drop again, swearing under her breath. If this was Harry Van Dorn’s idea of a joke then she wasn’t amused.
Maybe he was taking her to Costa Rica via the yacht; across the open water it wouldn’t be that far, and she hadn’t actually come right out and told him she hated being on a boat. Maybe it was his twisted idea of flirtation—he was so used to women falling at his feet that he assumed anyone would be thrilled by his attention.
Genevieve was definitely not thrilled. She had every intention of tracking him down and giving him an ultimatum. She hadn’t seen a helicopter landing pad on this floating mansion but she was willing to bet he had one, and she was going to give him an hour to provide her with a flight out of here.
If he set Jensen to it then it would be there in half an hour. He couldn’t have kissed her, could he? The man seemed totally asexual, and besides, what an absurd thing to do. She already knew how badly she needed this vacation—this paranoid delusion only proved it.
She took long enough to shower and change back into her business clothes. She’d slept in her contacts—always a mistake—and she felt rumpled and gritty and vulnerable. It took her less than fifteen minutes to put on her business persona once more; she’d become an expert at constructing Genevieve Spenser, Esquire, in record time, even without makeup and fresh underwear and shoes. Her reflection in the mirror wasn’t reassuring. She didn’t look as polished and inviolate as she usually did. It didn’t matter. Her justifiable anger would make up for any lingering vulnerability.
Except that the door was locked from the outside. At first she couldn’t believe it—it must have been some kind of mistake. But no matter how hard she tugged and twisted the polished brass doorknob, the door wouldn’t move.
She lost it then. She began pounding on the door, kicking it, yelling at the top of her lungs. “Unlock this door, you son of a bitch, and let me out of here! How dare you do this—it’s kidnapping, and just because my firm represents your goddamn foundation doesn’t mean I won’t sue the daylights out of you, you slimy weasel.” She kept pounding, kicking, yelling, until a sudden slam against the locked door momentarily silenced her.
“Be quiet!”
It was a voice she hadn’t heard before, someone with a heavy accent, possibly French.
“Then unlock the goddamn door and let me out of here,” she snapped.
“You have a choice, lady. You can sit down and shut up and wait until we’re ready to deal with you, or you can keep making noise and force me to come in and cut your throat. The boss said to leave you alone, but he’s a practical man and knows when you have to cut your losses, whether he likes it or not. I promise you I would have no problem killing you.”
Genevieve froze. She wanted to laugh at the melodramatic absurdity of that disembodied voice, except that it wasn’t absurd. She believed that flat, unemotional tone.
“What’s going on? Why are we in the middle of the ocean and why have you locked me in here?” she asked in a deceptively calm voice.
“You’ll find out when the boss says you need to. In the meantime be quiet and don’t remind me that you’re causing trouble. Not if you want to have any chance of making it back to your expensive lifestyle.”
She should have kept her mouth shut, but right now she was having a hard time being docile. “Who’s the boss?”
“No one you want to fuck with, lady.”
“Is it Harry?”
The sound of retreating footsteps was her only answer. She was half tempted to call out after him, but wisdom kept her mouth shut. In her short foray into pro bono law she’d met enough sociopaths and career criminals to recognize the sound of one. The man who’d stood on the other side of the door would have no qualms about killing her. And he said his mysterious boss was even worse. Not Harry. Harry was just a harmless good ol’ boy and the logical target of whatever was going on. It had to be someone else.
She tossed her jacket on the bed and proceeded to prowl around the room. She’d managed to figure out how to work the power-operated curtains, and she could open the window itself a scant ten inches. She might be able to get through it sideways, except that there was nowhere to go. It looked straight over the water, with no railing or deck beneath it, and she didn’t fancy dangling off the side of a fast-moving yacht while she tried to make her way to another level.
What the hell was going on? The man had said his boss was ready to cut his losses, and it was clear she was one of those losses. The obvious center of whatever was going on had to be Harry Van Dorn and his billions of dollars. Was he being held hostage? If so, she’d be an obvious negotiator. Maybe that was why the unnamed boss had decided to keep her alive.
And where was Jensen in all this? Probably already dead—he would have been expendable. Unless he was part of whatever was going on. Though someone less like a terrorist or extortionist she couldn’t imagine.
She had a Swiss Army knife in her makeup bag. No pockets in her silk suit, but she could tuck the weapon in her bra just in case. Most of all, she had to stay calm. She’d learned that, and a great many other things in the months following the attack. Just to ensure it, she found her pill bottle and swallowed two of the yellow pills. Not enough to impair her, but enough to make sure she didn’t overreact. Thank God she had them.
She grabbed her briefcase, but the contracts she’d brought with her were gone, taken sometime during the night. It was the least of her worries. She pulled out a legal pad of paper with its elegant tooled-leather binding and started making lists, always a way of calming herself. There were any number of possibilities right now. Harry Van Dorn could be playing an absurd practical joke. A comforting idea but unlikely. He was more likely to be the target of whatever was going on. Kidnapping? He’d be worth an unbelievable amount of money. Or was it a political act by some disgruntled militants? What did they want with Harry? Money? Publicity? His death?
God, she hoped not. He was harmless enough, despite his faintly annoying flirtatiousness and his crackpot superstitions. He must have an army of bodyguards—anyone with real wealth did—though the only person she’d seen much of had been Jensen, and he would have been useless