Cold as Ice - Anne Stuart [48]
But he wanted it. Peter already knew his appetites were perverse and insatiable. He just hadn’t realized it included his appetite for money.
The Committee was taking a gamble, terminating Harry before they knew the full extent of his plan. They were counting on his gigantic ego—he would delegate only the barest minimum, and nothing would go down without his immediate say-so. Or so they hoped.
In the meantime, Harry would die a tragic, accidental death. And any extraneous details would be cleaned up quickly and tidily.
Extraneous details like the woman sitting across from him with calm self-assurance. Maybe she thought he couldn’t go through with it. If so, then she wasn’t as smart as he thought she was. He could do just about anything if he had to. Killing Genevieve Spenser was part of a bloody day’s work. No more, no less.
“One would think you didn’t like my cooking,” he said.
“I don’t have much appetite.”
“And you haven’t touched the wine, when we both know how good it is.”
“Neither have you.”
“Do you think it’s drugged? Poisoned? I assure you it’s not. I’m simply not drinking because…”
“Because you’re on a job?” she suggested mockingly. “Far be it from me to distract you from your duty. In fact, poison would probably be a fine idea— I have faith in your promise it won’t hurt. And if you’re simply trying to render me unconscious I don’t mind that either—as you know from my tranquilizers, I have no objection to pharmaceutical aids.”
“Then why aren’t you drinking?”
She met his gaze, her own calm and steady. “Because I don’t want to do anything foolish that would give you the excuse to touch me, thank you very much.”
“You don’t like being touched?”
“Not by you.”
That was a lie. She knew it as well, because she turned her head, staring out into the night garden. But he wouldn’t call her on it—he was neither as smug nor as cruel to push it. In truth, he had little judgment when it came to how irresistible he was. He was always playing a part, whether it was the obsequious servant who either did or did not provide sexual favors or the blandly devoted husband, whose lovemaking was as straightforward and unimaginative as he could manage. He performed just well enough to get his ex-wife to climax, figuring that a boring middle-class drug salesman could do that much, but he wouldn’t let himself go past a simple, physical release. He never did, whether his partner was a shy housewife or a kinky sadist or anywhere in between. Control was everything.
He held up his hands. “No touching,” he said. “Not without a specific request.”
She stared at him in amazement. “Oh, please touch me,” she mocked him. “I’m all atremble with desire at the thought of you strangling me. I’ve known perverts who think that death is the ultimate turn-on, and murdering someone midorgasm makes it all the better. Ever tried that?”
“Whose orgasm, mine or yours?” he murmured.
He’d called her bluff—there was a faint stain of color on her cheekbones. She had freckles. How could he be obsessed by a woman with freckles? No, he wasn’t obsessed, just…distracted. “You spend a fair amount of time around perverts?” he added, since she didn’t seem about to answer his first question.
“I didn’t always work for a Park Avenue law firm,” she said in a steady voice. “I started out wanting to save the world, working in the public defender’s office as well as the district attorney’s in upstate New York.”
“Now, that wouldn’t even begin to keep you in Armani and Blahnik,” he drawled. “Unless you come from old money.”
She looked surprised.
“The old money has been gone for generations,” she said. “And when I was younger I was much too idealistic to care about material things.”
“You don’t strike me as particularly old and jaded at the moment. Even if you were willing to whore yourself out to Harry as part of your job. You wouldn’t have