be delicious in sexy underwear, but I don't think that's what you have in mind right now."
"You're not going to lock me in?" she asked, clearly astonished.
He shrugged. "There's no place to run to. The yacht is already gone."
"Then how are you going to leave?"
"They'll be back, though the SS
Seven Sins
will be looking like an entirely new boat. In the meantime there's not much you can do, and I'd suggest you steer clear of Hans and Renaud. They're not nearly as charming as I am."
She made a low, growling noise at the back of her throat, but he kept his face impassive. It was no wonder he wanted to kiss her again. How many women growled at him?
"I'm hungry," she said.
"There's a kitchen. Find it."
"What about the servants? Harry must have kept a skeleton staff out here."
He could see the way her mind was working. She was looking for an ally, but in this case she was shit out of luck. "Long gone," he said. "I've seen to it we're on our own."
Genevieve looked shaken. She probably thought he'd cut their throats and fed them to the sharks, when in fact they were enjoying an unexpected holiday at their employer's expense several hundred miles away. It wouldn't be the first time they'd been sent away—there were some things Harry enjoyed that were better off without even well-paid witnesses.
Genevieve was still standing in the middle of the room, staring at him. "Aren't you hungry?" she asked.
He gave her his most charming smile, the one that his ex-wife had told him made her want to kill him. "Just a beer and a sandwich," he said.
She threw a vase at him. He'd known it was coming, of course, because he'd been goading her to it. She had no idea of the cost of the particular vase, which was probably a good thing. He ducked, of course, and it smashed into a thousand pieces on the tile floor, seventy-three hundred dollars' worth of antique French ceramic ware.
"You need more work on stealth," he observed, opening the sliding doors to the cool tropical breezes. Harry had always kept the place air-conditioned, but the house had been well designed, and the trade winds cooled the place perfectly without the artificial air.
She didn't throw anything else at him, though he was prepared. "You know what you can do with your beer and sandwich," she said in a conversational tone. "Are you going to just let me wander around this place, unwatched? Aren't you going to tie me up?"
"Only if you really want me to. You didn't strike me as that kinky, but I'm game if you are."
There were no more vases within her reach. "What's to keep me from escaping?"
He dropped down on the couch, kicked off his shoes and put his feet up on the coffee table, stretching. "Number one, Renaud and Hans are wandering about, and while I told them to keep their hands off you they're not very good at following orders. Number two, there's nowhere to go—the yacht has gone, we're hundreds of miles from the nearest island. And number three, there are sharks in the water surrounding the island. I think mines as well, though I'm not sure."
"You're kidding! " But she knew he wasn't. "So what am I supposed to do, wait until you're ready to kill me?"
"Or try to think of some way to escape," he suggested.
"You could help me."
"I could," he said, "but I won't." He wondered whether that was true. He'd never had to kill someone who just happened to get in the way. An argument could be made that Genevieve Spenser was far from guiltless, but since he didn't know specifically why the word had come down about Harry, he could hardly know if Genevieve was equally culpable.
Was she part of the Rule of Seven, whatever the hell that was? She'd brought the papers signing over the lucrative oil fields to an untraceable dummy corporation, and the Committee had already ascertained that those very oil fields were the target of a carefully planned attack in the upcoming weeks, though the actual date was unclear.
Harry's disappearance was going to put a stop to that, or at least
"You're not going to lock me in?" she asked, clearly astonished.
He shrugged. "There's no place to run to. The yacht is already gone."
"Then how are you going to leave?"
"They'll be back, though the SS
Seven Sins
will be looking like an entirely new boat. In the meantime there's not much you can do, and I'd suggest you steer clear of Hans and Renaud. They're not nearly as charming as I am."
She made a low, growling noise at the back of her throat, but he kept his face impassive. It was no wonder he wanted to kiss her again. How many women growled at him?
"I'm hungry," she said.
"There's a kitchen. Find it."
"What about the servants? Harry must have kept a skeleton staff out here."
He could see the way her mind was working. She was looking for an ally, but in this case she was shit out of luck. "Long gone," he said. "I've seen to it we're on our own."
Genevieve looked shaken. She probably thought he'd cut their throats and fed them to the sharks, when in fact they were enjoying an unexpected holiday at their employer's expense several hundred miles away. It wouldn't be the first time they'd been sent away—there were some things Harry enjoyed that were better off without even well-paid witnesses.
Genevieve was still standing in the middle of the room, staring at him. "Aren't you hungry?" she asked.
He gave her his most charming smile, the one that his ex-wife had told him made her want to kill him. "Just a beer and a sandwich," he said.
She threw a vase at him. He'd known it was coming, of course, because he'd been goading her to it. She had no idea of the cost of the particular vase, which was probably a good thing. He ducked, of course, and it smashed into a thousand pieces on the tile floor, seventy-three hundred dollars' worth of antique French ceramic ware.
"You need more work on stealth," he observed, opening the sliding doors to the cool tropical breezes. Harry had always kept the place air-conditioned, but the house had been well designed, and the trade winds cooled the place perfectly without the artificial air.
She didn't throw anything else at him, though he was prepared. "You know what you can do with your beer and sandwich," she said in a conversational tone. "Are you going to just let me wander around this place, unwatched? Aren't you going to tie me up?"
"Only if you really want me to. You didn't strike me as that kinky, but I'm game if you are."
There were no more vases within her reach. "What's to keep me from escaping?"
He dropped down on the couch, kicked off his shoes and put his feet up on the coffee table, stretching. "Number one, Renaud and Hans are wandering about, and while I told them to keep their hands off you they're not very good at following orders. Number two, there's nowhere to go—the yacht has gone, we're hundreds of miles from the nearest island. And number three, there are sharks in the water surrounding the island. I think mines as well, though I'm not sure."
"You're kidding! " But she knew he wasn't. "So what am I supposed to do, wait until you're ready to kill me?"
"Or try to think of some way to escape," he suggested.
"You could help me."
"I could," he said, "but I won't." He wondered whether that was true. He'd never had to kill someone who just happened to get in the way. An argument could be made that Genevieve Spenser was far from guiltless, but since he didn't know specifically why the word had come down about Harry, he could hardly know if Genevieve was equally culpable.
Was she part of the Rule of Seven, whatever the hell that was? She'd brought the papers signing over the lucrative oil fields to an untraceable dummy corporation, and the Committee had already ascertained that those very oil fields were the target of a carefully planned attack in the upcoming weeks, though the actual date was unclear.
Harry's disappearance was going to put a stop to that, or at least
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