Cold as Ice - Anne Stuart [96]
And while he was lying there angsting, she’d fallen asleep, her body totally relaxed for the first time he’d known her. There were no stray signs of worry in her peaceful face, no unconscious clenching of her fists. She lay sprawled in glorious, naked sleep in the circle of his arms, as if she belonged there.
Maybe she did, but he doubted it. It could kill her. But that wasn’t anything he could think about, not now. Right now he was going to spend exactly one hour thinking about absolutely nothing at all except the utter peace that had spread through his body, the kind of peace he might never have again.
And he closed his eyes, pressed his lips against her unlined forehead and fell asleep.
Isobel Lambert leaned back in her chair, staring at the tiny screen in her communications device. She could still imagine Harry Van Dorn’s smug, smirking image, and if she had the choice she would have smashed it. She had no choice.
The ultimatum was clear. Genevieve Spenser was to be handed over thirty six hours from now, on April 19th, put into Harry Van Dorn’s hands. He hadn’t bothered to spell out the alternative—he didn’t need to. Van Dorn was too powerful to circumvent in such a short period of time, and he didn’t bluff. They had no choice but to be prepared to make some kind of exchange. Unfortunately it was too late for Takashi.
Van Dorn had found the Committee when their very existence was under such deep cover that no one had broken it in years. If he could get a message directly to Isobel, he could do almost anything, and they needed to be prepared. It was the best chance to stop him for good.
Madame Lambert set the communications device back in its holder. Her hand was shaking, and she could only be glad no one was around to see it. She worked very hard on her image of unruffled strength, and she didn’t want anyone to have an inkling that beneath her perfect exterior she was human after all.
The answer from Peter Madsen hadn’t come in yet, perhaps he hadn’t even gotten the message yet, but she knew what that answer would be. Brief, to the point. One word, yes, to the awful, necessary thing she was asking. Not that she expected any other answer. They both knew there was no alternative, or she wouldn’t be asking. They both knew it had to be done.
She kept a pack of cigarettes in the top drawer of her desk as a reminder of her iron will. She’d given up smoking seven years ago, but each month she replaced that untouched pack of cigarettes with a fresh one, to remind herself that she could go back at any time.
She opened the drawer, pulled out the cigarettes and lit one, drawing the tobacco deep into her lungs with remembered pleasure. It never did leave you, she thought, that need for a cigarette. And it was always waiting for a moment of vulnerability, and then you were hooked again.
Too damn bad.
She moved back to the computer screen, punched in a few buttons and brought up Genevieve Spenser’s file. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d sent someone to their death, but it had always been someone who’d signed on for it, who knew the dangers and risks and chosen to accept them.
She’d never forced it on an unwilling participant.
She had no doubt that the woman would agree. She had no chance of ever being safe, being free, if she didn’t. And besides, she would do anything Peter asked of her, she knew it with the instincts that had brought her to the very pinnacle of her dangerous profession. Genevieve Spenser was madly, hopelessly in love with Peter Madsen, and if he asked her to walk unarmed into a pitched battle, she’d do it. And if she balked, he’d talk her into it.
She wasn’t as sure about Peter. She’d known him for many years, and never seen him connect to anyone outside the Committee. He kept himself on ice, away from entanglements—even his short marriage had been cold and sterile, according to the operative they’d sent in as a marriage counselor. Peter didn’t know about that, and if he did he probably wouldn