sat bolt upright. They’d been under the shelter of an overhanging deck when Harry had ensconced her on the chaise, but now the sun had advanced far enough that it was halfway up her legs. It was a reasonable explanation, but she wasn’t buying it.
She swung her legs over the side of the leather couch, slipped on her killer shoes with barely a wince and rose. “I hadn’t realized it had gotten so late—I’ve been so interested in your stories,” she lied with the talent she’d honed over the years. “I really do need you to sign those papers—I have a plane to catch. I’m due in Costa Rica tomorrow afternoon.”
“Nonsense. I wouldn’t hear of you leaving,” he replied. “We’ll have a lovely dinner, you’ll spend the night, and tomorrow I’ll have my private jet take you wherever you want to go.”
“I couldn’t—”
“And don’t think I have wicked designs on you,” he said with a wink. “I do, but my mama taught me to be a gentleman where ladies are concerned. This place has seven bedrooms, each with its own bath, and there’s nothing like sleeping in the rocking arms of the ocean. It’ll rock your cares away.”
“I don’t have any particular cares at this moment,” she said, lying through her teeth with utter charm. “And I couldn’t ask you to go to so much trouble.”
“No trouble at all.” He overrode her. “I have a jet and a pilot just sitting around with nothing to do— he’d love a chance to get out for a day or so. He can even wait for you while you do your business down there and bring you back, either here or to New York.”
“I’m staying for six weeks, Mr. Van Dorn.”
“No one calls me Mr. Van Dorn,” he protested. “That was my daddy’s name. And why in hell would you spend six weeks in Costa Rica?”
“I’m going on a hiking expedition in the rain forest.” She waited for his reaction.
He blinked, and for a moment she wondered just how deep his humanitarian commitment ran. “The Van Dorn Foundation has always been active in environmental issues as well. After all, this is the only earth we’ve got.”
She wasn’t about to tell him that her vacation choice of rain forest had been motivated more by the notion that she’d be unreachable than by any charitable instincts. “Indeed,” she murmured. “But I really do need to be going…”
“Peter!” Harry barely raised his voice, but Peter Jensen was there instantly. He must have been hovering just out of sight. “I need you to get in touch with my pilot and tell him to get the jet ready. Ms. Spenser will be flying down to Costa Rica tomorrow, and I want her to be comfortable.”
She opened her mouth to protest again, and then caught an odd expression lurking behind Peter Jensen’s rimless glasses. It was unreadable, but definitely there, and very curious. Enigma, she thought, remembering the crossword puzzle.
“If you’re certain it’s no trouble,” she said, keeping her pleasant demeanor firmly in place. It looked as if she was going to have to spend the night on this boat, in the middle of the damn water.
“Very good, sir,” Jensen murmured tonelessly.
“And have them make up the mate’s cabin for her, would you? She’s going to spend the night.” He turned back to Genevieve with a winning smile. “You see? All open and aboveboard. I intend to be a perfect gentleman.”
For some reason Genevieve found herself glancing at the assistant. She must have imagined the sheen of contempt in his colorless eyes—a good servant never betrayed his emotions, and she suspected Jensen was a very good servant indeed. Harry could afford the best, and she’d already witnessed Jensen’s machine-like efficiency.
“Very good, sir.”
“You’ll need to have someone fetch Ms. Spenser’s bags.”
“I’m afraid that’s impossible, sir. I checked on them when I went to secure a new chef—it seemed prudent since I was on land. Ms. Spenser’s bags were already sent on their way to Costa Rica on her scheduled flight.”
Prudent. Now, there was a word you didn’t hear every day, Genevieve thought. She would have been annoyed, but Jensen’s “prudent” action gave her the excuse she needed.
“That was very kind of you to try, Mr. Jensen. It seems I’d better try to catch my plane after all.”
“Simply doing my job, Ms. Spenser,” he murmured. “I’ve arranged for the boat to be ready in an hour’s time.”
“Well, you can just unarrange it,” Harry said grandly. “Ms. Spenser is spending the night. Don’t tell me there aren’t clothes on board to fit a pretty little thing like her, because I know different. Besides, it’s April seventh, and you know seven is my lucky number. I bet your birthday’s on the seventh of October, Ms. Spenser. Isn’t it?”
For a moment she wondered where he’d come up with such an outlandish notion, but then she remembered she’d agreed when he asked if she was a Libra. Would he give up trying to keep her here if she said she was born on the fifteenth?
“You really are amazing,” she said in a light voice, avoiding the issue altogether.
“I’m afraid all the women’s clothes on board are more likely to fit a size two or four. On your orders, sir.”
Genevieve didn’t know who pissed her off more, Harry Van Dorn for assuming she’d do what he wanted, or Peter Jensen for his implied suggestion that she was fat.
“I wear a size six,” she said in a dulcet tone. In fact, she was an eight and sometimes even a ten, and she suspected in cheaper clothes it might even be worse than that, but she wasn’t about to admit it. She just had to hope Jensen wouldn’t be able to turn up some size sixes that she would have to try to squeeze into.
He didn’t look skeptical—he probably knew what size she wore, even down to her shoes—but he was too well trained.
“Hell, we’re informal around here,” Harry said. “I’m sure you can rustle up something for her, Jensen. I wouldn’t put anything past you.” He turned to Genevieve. “He’s an Aries, remember. Tight-assed son of a bitch, if you’ll pardon my French, but he gets the job done. Whereas I’m an Aquarius—more of an ideas man. I don’t usually get along with Libras, but I expect you’ve got one hell of a rising sign.”
The only thing rising about her was her temper, but there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it. She wasn’t getting out of this, she thought. Given that she worked for him, he could expect just about everything he wanted from her. So she gritted her teeth and smiled. “I’m sure I’ll be fine,” she said.
Peter Jensen nodded, his face as impassive as ever. She half expected him to back away like some medieval Chinese servant, but he turned and left, and she watched him go, momentarily fascinated. He looked different from the back—taller, leaner, less generic. Maybe it was the glasses and the slicked-down hair that made him appear so ordinary. Or maybe she was even more in need of a vacation than she had thought, to be having paranoid fantasies about a nondescript personal assistant.
In the end it wasn’t important. She’d been efficiently roped and tied by the charming Texan—she’d let Harry Van Dorn wine and dine her and
