Cold as Ice - Anne Stuart [92]
He’d barely had her and he had to let go of her. It was one of those unpleasant facts of life, part of his penance. And he’d told her nothing more than the truth. The sex had been nothing special, just body parts behaving as they ought to. But she was something else.
He glanced over at her in the darkness. She’d lost a little bit of weight in the two weeks, he could see it in her hips and breasts. It was a shame—he loved her unfashionable curves—but in the end it made it easier on him. She bothered him enough already, as in hot and bothered. He’d chosen plain, baggy clothes to make her look less appealing, and they’d had the opposite effect. He probably could have put her in a burka, as she’d sarcastically suggested, and he still would have wanted her.
You can’t have her, he reminded himself. She’s off limits. You messed with her once and screwed things up. You made her life miserable—you have to leave her alone. You owe her that much.
Unfortunately his conscience wasn’t listening. And he had no interest in sleeping—despite what he’d told her, he tended to work at peak efficiency with very little rest. He could make it till the end of the week, well past the twentieth of April, without more than a quick nap. He’d just wanted her to go to sleep and leave him alone.
But even asleep she didn’t leave him alone. He could hear her breathing, sense her every movement, and he had to turn away so he wouldn’t watch the rise and fall of her breasts as she slept.
He was getting her out tomorrow, to Canada, to a safe house he knew of. He’d considered taking her to his old friend’s place in North Carolina, but at the last minute he thought better of it. No one could protect Genevieve better than Bastien Toussaint, but he had a pregnant wife and in-laws surrounding him, and it wouldn’t be fair to put them in the danger that would come with Genevieve Spenser. Nor did he necessarily want Bastien to have to put up with the annoyance.
No, he’d turn to people still in the life, who’d keep an eye on her and wouldn’t let anything get to her. While he kept his promise to Madame Lambert and stayed as far away from Harry Van Dorn as possible.
At least Van Dorn was convinced he was dead. If he had any notion Peter had been off the boat before it had exploded, he would be moving heaven and earth to find him. Harry Van Dorn was an implacable enemy. Peter knew far too well some of the things he was capable of when his ire was aroused. For the kind of betrayal he’d perpetrated, Harry would be wanting a very special kind of revenge.
But he’d had to look elsewhere, and it had only been Takashi’s quick thinking that had kept Genevieve safe. He’d read the reports on what Harry sometimes did to women, and it had turned even his cast-iron stomach.
But they’d gotten her safely away, and the only way Harry would get to her now was over his dead body, as foolish and sentimental as that was. It didn’t matter if the fate of the world rested in his hands—he wasn’t going to let Genevieve Spenser be hurt.
And he had absolutely no intention of examining why he felt that way. He didn’t have to answer to anyone, including himself. It was just the way it was.
She was making sounds in her sleep, anxious little crying noises, like a lost kitten. She was moving restlessly, kicking out, but he could tell she was far from awake. He shouldn’t be surprised—given the drugs and the things she’d witnessed, it would be a miracle if she had a decent night’s sleep for months.
He sat up and looked at her, putting his legs over the side of the bed, wondering if he should wake her from her nightmare. But then she’d start yapping at him again, and he’d say something else that he shouldn’t, something that would get him tangled in deeper than he already was, and he didn’t dare.
He looked over at her. She was crying. He’d never seen anyone cry in their sleep, and