Cold as Ice - Anne Stuart [70]
Peter Jensen had seemed the perfect assistant, given the birthday he shared with Adolf Hitler. It had seemed a sign, that he would be there, keeping things running smoothly as Harry put the final acts into motion.
They’d played him for a fool, and he really didn’t like being played for a fool.
That lying scum-sucker was dead, out of his reach, and Harry’s frustration level was making him shake. He’d have to make do with Genevieve Spenser. He’d take out his rage on her, and then Jack-shit could clean up the mess with his customary efficiency.
But somehow the notion was only slightly soothing. He poured himself a glass of bourbon, noticing his shaking hand. And then he slammed the glass against the dark oak paneling, as the rage took control of him once more.
14
Peter Madsen pulled into the weed-choked driveway, automatically checking for signs of intruders as he parked in the cul-de-sac to the right of the old house. This was the only part of the landscaping that was supposed to be untended and overgrown, to provide him just a bit more camouflage when he came home.
Not that he could call it, or anyplace, home. It was mid-April and by now the gardens should have started blooming. Instead, they were desolate—a fitting reflection of its owner, he thought grimly.
He switched off the elaborate, undetectable security system and stepped inside. Not that there was anything in the sparsely furnished house of particular value. He had little attachment to things, and apart from his grandfather’s huge desk he had little of any intrinsic worth.
He never could figure out why he’d bought his grandfather’s desk in the first place. He’d just happened to catch sight of the public auction of Dr. Wilton Wimberley’s possessions, and he’d gone on an unlikely impulse, when he was never, ever impulsive.
There would be no stray member of the family around to possibly identify him. His parents were long dead, and his mother had been an only child. The proceeds of the estate were going to endow a chair in his grandfather’s name at Oxford. One way to secure his legacy, since his offspring had failed him.
He’d be just as happy if someone broke in and carried the damn thing off, though it weighed a bloody ton. He didn’t have the kind of job that required a desk, and he was very careful never to leave a paper trail.
No, he hadn’t installed the security to protect the house. He simply wanted to ensure there were no unpleasant surprises waiting for him on the rare occasions he got down to Wiltshire. A really good operative could figure out how to bypass the system, but it would be impossible not to leave very visible proof someone had tampered with the place.
He was almost sorry they hadn’t. Avoiding a lethal trap would be a welcome distraction, and if, after all these years, his luck failed him, then so be it.
In fact, things were definitely taking a turn for the worse. Harry Van Dorn was the first mission he’d ever failed to complete, and it was little wonder he was feeling like shit. His professional pride was wounded, nothing more. The wrong person had died.
He’d done his best for her, given her tools and a map and as strong a hint as he dared. If she hadn’t gotten away it wasn’t his fault, just part of the grand cock-up that the Van Dorn assignment had become.
The house smelled stale and empty and faintly of mice. If he was going to sell the place he’d have to get a massive cleaning crew in to rid it of its neglected air.
Putting it on the market was the smart thing to do. For some sentimental fool it would seem the perfect house—slate roof, diamond-pane windows and the kind of