Cold as Ice - Anne Stuart [28]
She wanted to say something cutting, but in fact she preferred Peter Jensen to Renaud’s unimaginative brutality, even if she stood a marginally better chance of getting away from the Frenchman.
Jensen wasn’t even breathing hard. The eyes that she’d thought colorless were actually a very clear blue, which reminded her…
“Have you got any contact-lens solution?”
He stared at her, momentarily astounded. If she couldn’t take him off balance with her amateur selfdefense training she could at least sideswipe him with her words.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You must have been wearing tinted contacts before, which means you must have some wetting solution somewhere on this boat, and I need it. I’ve had my contacts in for almost forty-eight hours and they’re killing me. I should have taken them out when I still had my purse, but I was more interested in getting out of here.”
He didn’t stay off balance for long. “Be honest, Ms. Spenser. You were more interested in your little pills,” he said. “The stuff is in the head. And don’t bother looking for a weapon, there’s nothing in there you could use, and the window’s too small for you to climb through.”
“Is that another crack about my weight?”
His small grin was reluctant. “It’s a porthole, Ms. Spenser. No one could get through it. Why are women so ridiculous about their weight, anyway? Ten or fifteen extra pounds don’t make any difference. Except when I’m having to haul your unconscious body around.”
He was still holding her wrists, or she would have hit him. Of course he knew exactly how much extra weight she was carrying, as well as what size clothes she really wore. “You know the answer to that, don’t you?” she said with false sweetness. “Stop knocking me out.”
“Then behave yourself.” He released her, and for a moment she didn’t move. They stood there for a long moment. He was probably watching to see what her next move would be, but since he’d already made it clear he’d counter it before she’d even tried, she gave up. For now.
“You want to move out of the way?” she asked. “Or am I supposed to go through you?”
He stepped back, out of her way but close enough to grab her again. It was an intensely uncomfortable feeling, being trapped with someone who could guess her every move. She stalked past him, though that was hard to manage in bare feet, and slammed the bathroom door behind her.
He was right, there was nothing the slightest bit lethal in there. She ran some cold water on her face, then stuck her tongue out at her reflection. Her hair was tangled down her back, and she braided it, tying the end with dental floss, before she took her contacts out. She had no idea where her purse was, and she realized her head was aching and her hands were shaking.
She opened the bathroom door and stuck her head out. He was back where she first saw him, reading once more, as if finishing his book was the only thing that mattered. It probably was—he was the one who was completely in control of the situation.
“Hey,” she said. “I need my purse. I need my glasses and my pills.”
“No pills,” he said. “But I’ll see if Hans can find your glasses. In the meantime there’s a pile of clothes on the table—find something that fits you. Armani doesn’t really work for being a hostage at sea.”
Naturally he knew it was Armani, the son of a bitch. She scooped up the clothes and went back into the bathroom, reaching for the lock. It didn’t work, of course. She bit back a snarl as she stripped off her ruined suit. She didn’t even want to think about how much it had cost her. She had more important things on her mind than the loss of her wardrobe.
She pulled on a baggy pair of khakis and a loose white T-shirt. The pants hung down around her hips, and even with her long legs they were trailing on the floor, so she rolled them up several times. She didn’t bother looking at her reflection in the mirror—her eyesight was problematic without the contacts or the glasses and besides, what she looked like was of no importance in the current scheme of things.