Harry didn’t look pleased at Jensen’s rapid appearance.
“I can find my own way,” she protested, just as the boat shifted beneath her, and she had to reach out and catch the back of the banquette.
“The wind has picked up a bit, and we wouldn’t want you to slip or get lost. The SS Seven Sins is a big ship. Besides, Jensen’s here to serve, aren’t you?”
“Yes, sir,” he murmured, his voice as colorless as his eyes.
She almost changed her mind. Stupid, of course, she chided herself, but for a brief, wine-fogged moment she felt safer with Harry Van Dorn and his straightforward attempts at seduction than the almost invisible servant with the empty eyes.
But she hadn’t had that much to drink. She put her best smile on her face. “If you wouldn’t mind, Mr. Jensen?”
“It’s his job, Genevieve,” Harry drawled.
She glanced up at Jensen’s impassive face. She really needed this vacation—she had no reason at all to feel so uneasy in his presence. Maybe the pills she took to calm her down had backfired, making her more paranoid.
None of it mattered. She’d be gone by tomorrow, and she wouldn’t have to be anyone but herself.
“This way, Ms. Spenser,” he said, opening the door for her, and she squashed down her misgivings.
“Thanks again for a lovely evening,” she said to Harry. It wasn’t really a lie—it hadn’t been that unpleasant. She just desperately wanted to be somewhere else.
“It was entirely my pleasure. Jensen will see you safely to your room and we’ll meet for an early breakfast.”
She knew she should make some polite response, but right then she was too tired for social amenities. She’d smiled and laughed and responded till she felt like a trained monkey, and she hadn’t even gotten the papers signed. Papers he’d insisted on having brought to him. First thing tomorrow morning, she promised herself hazily. And then if he didn’t let her go she’d damn well jump overboard.
She followed Jensen along the outside passageway. She could see the lights of the island, too close and yet too far away. The faint rocking of the boat was even more pronounced as the wind whipped through her carefully coiffed hair, and then they were inside again, the passageway small, dimly lit, almost claustrophobic. “Is this the way we came?” she asked, unable to disguise the faint nervousness in her voice.
“I’m taking a shortcut. You looked like you needed to get to your cabin as soon as possible. Unless…”
He stopped, and she barreled into him, much to her embarrassment. He wasn’t a ghost at all, but warm, solid flesh. “Unless what?”
“I could arrange for a launch to take you back to the island. That way you could catch a flight out tomorrow morning and not have to bother with Mr. Van Dorn’s pilot.”
Her contact lenses had been in for far too long, and she was having trouble focusing. For a moment she was tempted—dry land, no more Harry Van Dorn or business of any sort. But the goddamn papers weren’t signed, the reason she was sent here in the first place, and she couldn’t afford to offend an important client by disappearing and refusing his hospitality and his private jet. She was on the fast track at Roper, Hyde, Camui and Fredericks, and she wasn’t ready to throw that overboard. Literally.
“I’m sure this will be fine. Besides, what sane woman would trade a ride on a private jet for a commercial flight?” she said flippantly. Me, she thought, in a New York minute.
He said nothing for a moment, and then nodded. “As you wish, Ms. Spenser,” he murmured in that bland, empty voice that didn’t seem quite real, and continued down the passageway.
He’d tried, Jensen thought. He could go one step further, knock her cold and have one of the men take her back to the island, but that would leave far too many questions, and he couldn’t risk it. Collateral damage was a necessary evil, something he’d done his best to avoid most of his career, but if she was going to end up dead then it was due to her own greed. He should make peace with that unpleasant fact and take her back to her room.
He wondered how many of those pills she’d taken. He’d searched her purse, of course, more out of habit than any particular suspicion, only to discover that Ms. Genevieve Spenser had a fondness for tranquilizers. Maybe he could just keep her drugged the entire time, until Harry and the rest of them could disappear. But that would leave her wondering why Harry had chosen to take off to his private island and leave her behind, doped and groggy. She was too smart not to be suspicious. Discretion was as much a part of his assignment as getting it done.
He’d also gone through that slim black briefcase, photographing the details and sending them on to London. One more piece of the puzzle of the Rule of Seven. But what did oil fields in the Mid East have to do with a dam in India? What did it have to do with anything?
Apparently Madame Lambert had decided it wasn’t worth waiting to find out. Which was fine with Peter, if this goddamn woman hadn’t stumbled into his path.
He was taking her the long way on purpose. She was slightly out of it and hiding it very well indeed, but with his roundabout path she’d never find her way back to Harry Van Dorn, assuming she even wanted to.
The one thing that didn’t make sense was her not sleeping with her host. People didn’t say no to Harry Van Dorn, and she had to have. She might be a lesbian, but he doubted it, his fine-tuned instincts ruling out the possibility. More likely she was frigid. Or maybe she only liked it when she could be in control, and Harry was a topper if ever there was one.
Peter had asked London for intel on her, but they didn’t seem in any particular hurry to get back to him, and he was still working in the dark. It would be easier if he knew a little more about her.
But he didn’t need to waste his time thinking about how Genevieve Spenser liked or didn’t like sex. He needed to figure out how to get rid of her without sacrificing discretion. Collateral damage, he reminded himself as he turned down one of the narrow service passageways.
“You might want to take off those shoes, Ms. Spenser,” he said in his empty voice. “The sea’s getting a bit choppy. Do you need something for seasickness?”
“I never get seasick.” She stopped anyway, leaning against the side of the passageway to slip off her ridiculously expensive shoes. She was a tall woman, but the heels had added a good three inches, and she now seemed more vulnerable. He didn’t like it when they were vulnerable.
“Never?” he echoed. “You strike me as someone who doesn’t like boats very much, and I assumed it was a tendency toward seasickness that caused it.”
Her eyes jerked up, suddenly sharp, and he could have kicked himself. Jensen might have noticed her dislike of boats, but he would have gone no further than that. He certainly would never have mentioned it.
“I don’t like feeling trapped,” she said in a tight voice.
“Then you must not like this passageway either,” he said, another mistake. It was long and narrow, with the dim lighting Harry considered atmospheric, and if she had a problem with claustrophobia she’d be hyperventilating at any moment.
“I don’t.
