Cold as Ice - Anne Stuart [105]
“Don’t be silly, child. You Americans are all so prudish. I promise not to look. But we’re not letting you out of our sight for the next few hours.”
“In case I change my mind?”
“You can always change your mind. Harry Van Dorn has just suffered a series of disappointments, and he’s not about to leave anything to chance at this point. He’ll be working on any number of ways to grab you. He’d much prefer not to have to barter—we’ve already screwed the pooch for him with his grand and glorious scheme, and he wants revenge. Killing Takashi and Peter isn’t enough.”
“What?” Panic swept through her, and she didn’t even try to hide it.
Madame Lambert’s smile was smug and reassuring. “He thinks Peter died on the island. If he knew he was alive he’d much rather have him than you.”
“Then why don’t you just let him go in my place?” It wasn’t what she wanted, but surely Peter would have a better chance with Harry than she did.
“Because he’s much more valuable when Harry thinks he’s long gone.”
“And I’m dispensable.”
“I didn’t say that. You can change your mind.”
“Stop saying that! You know I won’t. You might be able to live with the deaths of six children on your conscience, but I can’t.”
“Trust me, child, I live with far worse on my conscience,” she said, reaching for her cigarettes again.
“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