Cold as Ice - Anne Stuart [97]
Isobel Lambert refused to consider what might happen if the woman didn’t survive. She’d already lost one of her best operatives—at least Bastien had somehow managed to carve himself a good life. If this latest venture fell apart, Peter Madsen wouldn’t be so lucky.
The plan had to work. There was no other choice. Genevieve Spenser had to put herself in Harry Van Dorn’s sadistic hands.
If Isobel Lambert believed in God, she would have offered up a little prayer. As it was, she simply lit another cigarette and stared out the window.
And then she picked up the phone once more.
20
Genevieve woke slowly, deliciously, her entire body feeling relaxed and sated, like a pampered house cat. It was a slow awakening, and she wasn’t in any hurry to rush it, letting the sensations drift back bit by bit, the taste, the texture, the myriad delights that were both gentle and not gentle at all. Her body glowed with a power that was foreign and irresistible, and her soul was equally enthralled.
She didn’t want to think about her heart. She knew where that was—the most dangerous place in the world. She was too smart, too careful to have done such a stupid thing, and once she got back to the safety of her apartment in New York she’d have no trouble reasoning with herself, convincing herself she’d just let a temporary dependence feel like something else.
Because in truth she couldn’t be in love with Peter Madsen. He was hard and cold and dangerous, and he’d already told her sex was one of his best weapons. He knew how to use his body, how to use hers, for maximum effect, and if she had any sense she’d be furious at the way he’d broken past her defenses again, made her vulnerable.
But she had no sense. She was bone weary, in the best possible way, she was starving, she was on the run for her life. But she was safe with Peter—he wouldn’t let anything bad happen to her—and she was in love with him. Just for now, she promised herself. Just for a few, short, indulgent days, she’d accept it and even enjoy it. Enjoy the heady rush of feelings, the way her body tightened when she thought of him. She was much too smart to let it last, but for the time being she’d enjoy the illusion, just because she wanted to.
She was alone in the bed, and there was no sign of Peter anywhere, but this time she wasn’t worried. He was coming back. He was going to take care of her. He’d gotten her away from Harry Van Dorn, charming, monstrous, good ol’ Harry, and there was no way he’d let her be in harm’s way again.
She didn’t even want to consider his feelings for her. He’d told her he had no emotions, and she had no reason to doubt him. He’d come halfway across the world for her, and he still hadn’t told her why, but she could guess. He was a man who didn’t like to accept failure. If he’d completed his assignment she never would have ended up locked in Harry’s oceanside fortress.
Then again, if he’d followed orders she’d be dead. He must have some kind of logical reason for coming to get her. But if she couldn’t even figure out her own feelings, she could hardly get a handle on his. She’d simply have to accept things as they were and go from there.
Normally that would have been anathema to her. She protected herself with the world of ideas and thoughts and arguments. Not with raw emotion and simple trust.
But the bottom line was, she trusted him. Completely. And maybe that was even more powerful than thinking she was in love with him.
There was no clock in the room, the television didn’t work, but she guessed it was sometime in the early afternoon. She’d fallen into a deep, heavy sleep in his arms, and she realized with shock that she still wanted him. Again. And again. And he’d gone somewhere and left her alone, and the more she remembered about last night the hotter, the needier she grew. She was going to take a shower, and the moment he walked through the door she was going to jump him.
No, cancel that. He’d probably