Cold as Ice - Anne Stuart [103]
The one he liked least, a tall, skinny black girl, had clearly appointed herself leader. “We don’t want to go with you,” she said, stubborn.
“Well, now, ain’t that too damn bad?” he said, actually amused. “Because you’re just a bunch of sick little kids and I’ve got twenty big strong men who live just to see that everything I want happens. So do as I tell you and get in the fucking limo.”
A smaller child spoke up, the feisty little shit. “You’re not supposed to swear,” he said sternly.
“Well, hot damn, you’re right. I do beg your par- don. Follow my men and you’ll get a nice ride in a big white limousine up a big tall mountain.”
“And if we don’t?” the leader demanded.
It would be so easy to snap her scrawny little neck, he thought dreamily. Maybe, when the deal went through, as he had no doubt it would, he’d return five kids instead of six.
“What’s your name, little girl?” he asked.
“Tiffany Leticia Ambrose.”
Tiffany. That was the funniest damn name he’d ever heard for a ridiculous little piece of trash. “Well, Tiffany, if you don’t shut your mouth, your little friends are going to pay the price for it. Understand?”
Any other child would have dissolved into tears. She simply nodded, and stepped back, and Harry flashed his benevolent grin over all of them. “So, we’re all agreed? Off to the mountains?”
And without waiting for an answer he took off, leaving them to trail behind him, like sheep to the slaughter.
When Genevieve woke, it was mid-morning—she could tell that much because the infomercials had switched to mindless cartoons. Not even decent Americanized anime, she thought foggily. And then she heard the sharp, staccato footsteps, the firm knock on the door, and she knew it was time to wake up. A good day to die?
She certainly wasn’t expecting what waited patiently at her motel-room door. The security hole had been blocked by some previous inhabitant, but she figured Peter wouldn’t let anyone dangerous up to her door. Or if he did, then she was screwed anyway.
She opened the door, staring at the creature in front of her. Elegant, ageless, with a cool, serene beauty that was almost eerie, the woman met her shocked stare with a smile. “I’m Madame Isobel Lambert,” she said, pronouncing her last name the French way, even though her accent sounded British. “I’m Peter’s boss, the current de facto head of the Committee. May I come in?”
Without a word Genevieve opened the door wider, resisting the impulse to peer over the walkway and see if Peter’s car was still there, with Peter in it. Madame Lambert was about five foot four, though her stiletto heels brought her up higher, but even in bare feet Genevieve felt as if she was looming over her.
“Sorry I can’t offer you a chair or some coffee,” she said, her voice brittle. “But I’m not equipped for entertaining.”
Isobel Lambert looked at the bed, the one she’d shared with Peter, and Genevieve wanted to scream. Did all these people have some kind of sixth sense? Why didn’t she look at the other bed where people had slept alone?
Genevieve sat, claiming the other bed, and let the woman think what she wanted. Hell, it was probably simpler than that—Peter had doubtless given her a full report. Or even worse, he’d been following her instructions in the first place.
She couldn’t go there. Not if she wanted to make it through the day, though that was already not a sure thing. She’d slept in her clothes—stupid, when she only had one change—and she was feeling rumpled and grungy. Then again, she might only need one change of clothes.
Madame Lambert had taken a seat on the other bed, crossing her elegant legs at the ankles and taking out a cigarette. “Do you mind? I’ve just started again.”
The room already smelled of stale smoke, and Genevieve didn’t care. “I don’t know that I’m going to have to worry about dying from secondhand smoke,” she said. “Go ahead.”
“You aren’t going to die, Ms. Spenser.”
“Call me Genevieve. No need to stand on formalities when you’re turning me over to a murderer.”
Madame Lambert