Cold as Ice - Anne Stuart [112]
Leaving her alone in the cavernous room, hog-tied and ready for a lynching, staring at the sign over the fireplace: The Truth Shall Set You Free.
It wasn’t much of a noise overhead—it might have been the scurrying of mice left behind to clean up after the troubled teenagers, or maybe the faint flutter of bats outside. The wind in the trees, except there was no wind—the damp fog had closed down around everything.
She was afraid to move her head, to look up. Her balance was so precarious, the rope around her neck so tight, that she was afraid any movement at all might send her tumbling to a slow, agonizing death. But she heard the sound again, barely more than a breath of noise, as something moved in the balconies overhead.
It wasn’t Peter. She would know if Peter had come, she would feel it in her bones and she wouldn’t want to die. It was someone, something else. Maybe the ghost of one of those poor kids, maybe the old movie star haunting the place. No, anything human would have made more noise.
Harry breezed back into the room, a glass of what was doubtless bourbon in one hand, another hank of yellow rope in the other.
“Keeping busy?” he inquired cheerfully. “I bet you’re thinking of all the terrible things you’d like to do to me if you had the chance. I’m afraid you won’t, but I encourage you to fantasize. The giving and taking of pain is one of life’s most intimate acts, and I doubt you’ve had much time to explore them. I considered instructing you, but in the end, poor old Jackshit…oh, excuse me, I think you knew him as Takashi…had it right. I don’t want Peter Whatsisname’s leavings.”
He took the new section of rope and tied it around one leg of the chair he’d bound her to, then moved back to the built-in couches surrounding the fireplace. “Wish I could start a fire—make it right cozy. Wouldn’t want you to get a chill, but then, you’ve got that extra vest on underneath, don’t you? You didn’t think I wouldn’t notice, did you? I hate it when people underestimate me.”
He glanced at the huge, empty hearth. “No firewood though,” he said. “I could go get some of the broken furniture from the dining room but I still wouldn’t have any kindling. No, I’m afraid you’re just going to have to sit very still and freeze, Ms. Spenser. But I promise you, it won’t be long.” He took another sip of his bourbon and leaned back on the mouseeaten cushions, perfectly at ease.
She moved her head just a fraction of an inch, and her balance held. She didn’t know whether she imagined the shadow or not, flitting across the dusty pine floors. She didn’t look up, and Harry seemed unaware that things might not be quite as he hoped.
If it was a ghost she hoped it was a ghastly one who scared Harry to death in a particularly unpleasant manner. Anything that happened to appear out of the dark would be no problem for her—Harry was more terrifying than any supernatural creature could ever be.
But then, ghosts wouldn’t leave even the trace of a shadow. Or was she thinking of vampires?
One moment she was thinking of vampires, in the next everything changed. Someone had walked in the door behind her, with a slow, lazy stroll that could only be Peter’s, and she tried to call out, to warn him.
“Just in time,” Harry said gaily, yanking the yellow rope so that Genevieve fell backward, and the rope tightened, cutting off her breath. The last thing she saw was Harry taking off, and Peter following him, leaving her to die…
The pressure lifted, and the chair she was tied to went over backward. The ropes went slack, and she could see up into the rafters, into the face of a man she’d never seen before.
Maybe he was the ghost of the old movie actor; he leaped over the side of the balcony and landed on the floor, as light as a cat. “Hold still,” he said, his voice just faintly tinged with French. “I’m a friend of Peter’s. I cut the main rope but the others are still a little tricky.” He picked something up from the floor and began cutting through the ropes. He must have thrown it