Cold as Ice - Anne Stuart [76]
And here he was, risking everything for the sake of a stupid girl who kept getting into trouble. If Genevieve Spenser had just followed his implied directions she’d be safely home in New York, her sojourn in the Caribbean a nightmare she’d rather forget. She would suffer a convenient case of short-term amnesia, brought on by the finest drugs money could buy, and she’d never remember a thing. And more than likely, no one would bother to ask.
But he’d fucked that up by letting himself get distracted. Once she’d stepped in harm’s way she should have been the least of his concerns. And instead, whether he wanted to admit it or not, she’d overshadowed everything, the mission, Harry Van Dorn, his own safety. And he had ended up compromising everything.
Thirty-eight was too damn young to be having a midlife crisis. But then, his line of work aged you, he thought. Made you stupid when you needed to have all your wits about you.
Leaving him with the task of cleaning up some of the mess he’d made.
He didn’t give a rat’s ass about Harry Van Dorn. Someone would see to him, someone who wouldn’t get distracted by something as ridiculous as a cantankerous lawyer.
So here he was, halfway across the world, acting on his own with none of the Committee’s formidable resources. And he wasn’t even going to stop and consider whether this goddamn rescue mission was simply clearing up some of the mistakes he’d made, or something more personal.
The passageway was cold and clammy, the stone walls sweating, the carved steps rough beneath his feet. It would be funny as hell if he took a pratfall and broke his neck. A perfect slapstick ending to a joke of a life.
White knight to the rescue, he thought, moving deeper into the bowels of the earth. The last thing he wanted was to see Genevieve Spenser again. The last thing he needed. Yet here he was.
Thomason would have sent him after her with orders to kill. Isobel Lambert had left it up to him. Everything about this whole affair was uncharacteristic—of him, of the Committee, of the people he worked with. Renaud was one of the last people he thought could be turned—he’d had too healthy a fear of what could happen to him if he tried to sell out to a higher bidder.
Peter reached the bottom step, switching off the small flashlight he’d brought. He leaned back against the cold, damp wall, and waited for the damsel in distress.
What the hell was he doing here? Going against every one of his well-honed instincts for the sake of someone he didn’t give a damn about. If he wasn’t so pissed off he’d laugh. At himself, at the absurd situation.
As it was, he had no choice but to wait. And fume.
She didn’t make the mistake of turning on the lights as darkness closed in around her. She was supposed to be comatose once more, why would she need light?
She couldn’t make herself lie in that bed a moment longer, but she kept her ear out for any unexpected sound so she could jump back under the covers without being caught.
Her nerves were screaming with anticipation. If she was getting out it would have to be tonight. Somehow she didn’t think it was going to be as easy as being put on a plane for the safety of the U.S. Sooner or later Harry was going to want proof that she was dead. Unless this was all an elaborate, sadistic hoax on the part of O’Brien, and he was simply using the easiest way to get her out of here and into a death trap.
She considered laughing at her own paranoia, except that it wasn’t paranoia if people were really out to kill you. But at this point she had no choice—it was Takashi O’Brien or nothing.
She ended up back in bed, lying in total darkness, when the door opened and someone slipped inside. Something soft and silky was dropped on her head as she lay still, and for a moment she was afraid he was going to smother her.
“Put those on.” O’Brien’s voice was barely a whisper,