Cold as Ice - Anne Stuart [22]
The door opened with an almost inaudible click, and she pushed it open, closing her eyes against the suddenly blinding glare of the midday sun as it bounced off the waters. She squinted, then opened her eyes fully. To look straight into the impassive eyes of a man she’d never seen before.
A million emotions raced through her—instant panic, then hope as her eyes focused on the man leaning against the railing, looking at her. He was tall, dressed in loose white clothing, with long dark hair and very blue eyes, and his expression was nothing more than politely curious. She’d never seen him before in her life.
“I wondered how long you were going to stay in there, Ms. Spenser,” he said in a voice that was both Peter Jensen’s and a stranger’s. “As you heard me tell our bloodthirsty friend Renaud, there aren’t that many places to hide on a boat.”
She didn’t hesitate. Her only chance was taking him by surprise, and she dived for the side of the boat. She was halfway over the railing before he caught her with insultingly minimal effort, pulling her back onto the deck, against him. His body was warm, hard against her back, which somehow seemed wrong, she thought dizzily. He should feel like a block of ice, not a living, breathing human.
“Sorry, Ms. Spenser,” he murmured in her ear, a soft, soothing voice. “But we can’t have you complicating our very careful plans, now, can we?”
She would have said something if she could. But the stinging sensation at the side of her neck was spreading through her body, and she wondered if this was how she was going to die. If so, she wasn’t going to go without a fight. She kicked back against him, but her legs felt like rubber bands as they began to collapse beneath her, and she could hear his faint laugh in her ear.
“Feisty creature, aren’t you, Ms. Spenser? Just relax, and it won’t hurt a bit.”
Her elbow didn’t work either, as she tried to jab him in the stomach. Nothing worked at all, and she let herself sink down, knowing that this was the last thing she’d remember before she died. And then she knew nothing at all.
5
Ms. Genevieve Spenser was rapidly becoming a pain in the ass, Peter thought. He ought to finish what she started, toss her unconscious body over the side of the boat and let the fish have her. In the end he doubted it would matter. As long as they found identifiable traces of Harry Van Dorn’s body in the rubble of his island home the authorities would be satisfied. They wouldn’t go to that much trouble trying to ascertain if his pretty little lawyer was there too.
Unless, of course, they suspected foul play. He highly doubted that—he was an expert at his job, and he seldom made mistakes. Harry Van Dorn had done a magnificent job of convincing the world what a decent, charming, humanitarian fellow he was, and most people outside of a select few would have no idea just how overdue retribution was. It was Peter’s job to see to it, and if Harry’s death was supposed to look like an accident then it would. And those were his orders.
He shifted the dead weight in his arms. It would be far easier to dump her over the side than figure out what to do with her. Things had gone too far—the unpalatable fact was that she was going to have to end up dead anyway. Why complicate matters by putting it off?
Having her found on the island would be neater, and when it came to his job he tended to be fastidious. The thought would have astonished his mother. He’d never been the orderly type, and chaos had suited him very well for many years.
But his job required precision, attention to the smallest detail, a cool detachment that nothing could permeate. Ms. Spenser was undoubtedly going to die, whether he liked it or not, but now wasn’t the right time.
He could have left her on the deck and had Renaud haul her into the cabin where he could keep an eye on her, but he never delegated work he could do himself. Besides,