Cold as Ice - Anne Stuart [21]
One thing was crystal clear in the claustrophobic confines of the closet. She didn’t want to die. And she wasn’t going to go without a fight.
“Lost something, Renaud?” The voice came from almost directly outside her hiding place, and the cold feeling in the pit of her stomach turned to ice. She hadn’t heard anyone approach, and she’d been listening intently. She didn’t recognize the voice either—it was low, cool, expressionless.
“That bitch.” Renaud’s voice was muffled.
“Got the drop on you, did she? Maybe you should go clean up—you’re bleeding all over the deck.”
“I’ve got a score to settle with that little—”
“You don’t have any scores to settle, you have a job to do. I’ll take care of Ms. Spenser.”
“She’s got to be a plant.”
“Because she managed to get away from you? I doubt it—I think you just underestimated her. Madame Lambert just came through with the best possible intel—she’s simply a high-priced lawyer who stumbled into something unpleasant. Too bad for her, but no particular problem for us. Harry was just as likely to have someone with him when the mission went down.”
“She’s the one who’s going down,” Renaud snarled.
“You’ll do what I tell you to do and nothing more.” The voice was cold, cold as ice, and Genevieve could feel the goose bumps form on her arms. She didn’t want to meet the owner of that emotionless voice—the cold water of the open sea would be warmer than the man who was dangerously close to her hiding place.
“Whatever you say, boss,” Renaud muttered, clearly unhappy.
“After you get cleaned up why don’t you go to her room and get rid of her stuff. We don’t want any loose ends, do we?”
“What about her?”
“It’s a boat, Renaud. There aren’t many places to hide in the middle of the water. I’ll take care of her when the time comes.”
Genevieve held her breath, half expecting an argument, but Renaud had been thoroughly cowed. “Just promise me you’ll make it hurt,” he said.
“I’ll do what I need to do to accomplish the mission, Renaud. No more, no less.”
She listened as Renaud’s footsteps retreated down the deck, then the belated clatter on the metal staircase. There was no other sound, but then, she hadn’t heard the mysterious boss approach. It stood to reason she wouldn’t hear him when he left either.
She wasn’t about to take any chances. He couldn’t stand there forever—if she counted to five hundred in French then she could probably risk opening the door to make a run for it.
Where she would run to was still a question. Over the side seemed the safest possibility, if she could find a life vest and a flare gun. A self-inflating raft would be even better—she could wait until the boat was out of sight before she inflated it. But if worse came to worst she’d simply go over the side as is, taking her chance with the cold water rather than the deadly cold voice of the unseen man. She had no idea whether there were sharks out there. She only knew about the human ones on board.
She counted to five hundred twice, her rusty French slowing her down. She considered trying it in Latin, but it had been too long since her high-school classes with Mrs. Wiesen, and besides, the chances of anyone still being outside the utility closet were almost nil. If they knew she was there they would have simply opened the door.
She moved her hands blindly over the door, looking for the inside latch. Her eyes should have become accustomed to the darkness, but the door was sealed shut. If she stayed in that airless, lightless hole much longer she’d probably pass out from the chemical fumes.
She made no sound as she ran her hands down the inside of the door, her fingers finally reaching the catch. She breathed