trouble trying to ascertain if his pretty little lawyer was there too.
Unless, of course, they suspected foul play. He highly doubted that—he was an expert at his job, and he seldom made mistakes. Harry Van Dorn had done a magnificent job of convincing the world what a decent, charming, humanitarian fellow he was, and most people outside of a select few would have no idea just how overdue retribution was. It was Peter's job to see to it, and if Harry's death was supposed to look like an accident then it would. And those were his orders.
He shifted the dead weight in his arms. It would be far easier to dump her over the side than figure out what to do with her. Things had gone too far—the unpalatable fact was that she was going to have to end up dead anyway. Why complicate matters by putting it off?
Having her found on the island would be neater, and when it came to his job he tended to be fastidious. The thought would have astonished his mother. He'd never been the orderly type, and chaos had suited him very well for many years.
But his job required precision, attention to the smallest detail, a cool detachment that nothing could permeate. Ms. Spenser was undoubtedly going to die, whether he liked it or not, but now wasn't the right time.
He could have left her on the deck and had Renaud haul her into the cabin where he could keep an eye on her, but he never delegated work he could do himself. Besides, Renaud had his limitations, and he liked to hurt women. There was nothing he could do about Ms. Spenser's upcoming fate, but there was no reason why she should have to suffer. After all, he was a civilized man, he mocked himself.
He hauled her limp body over his shoulder. She wasn't that bad, not compared to some of the dead weight he'd carried in his thirty-eight years. Odd, but when someone was simply unconscious they weighed less than when they were dead. It made no sense, but it was true.
Or maybe it was the weight of his conscience when he had to dispose of someone. Except that he had no conscience—it had been surgically removed along with his soul years ago.
Still, maybe he retained a trace of sentimentality. Otherwise he wouldn't hesitate with the interfering Ms. Spenser, and he wouldn't feel the random regret about her future or lack thereof. He wasn't used to regret at all.
He dumped her down on the huge bed in the main cabin, next to Harry Van Dorn's unconscious body. She had long, pretty legs, and it was hard to forget the distracting taste of her mouth. He still hadn't figured out why he'd kissed her. An aberration, a momentary indulgence…he wouldn't let himself do it again.
He stared down at her for a long moment. He'd killed women before, it was inevitable in his line of work. At times the female of the species could be a lot deadlier than the male. But he'd never been forced to kill someone who'd simply gotten in the way. And he didn't want to start now, no matter how goddamn important it was.
Of course, one could argue that the world would always be a better place with one less lawyer. But looking down at Genevieve Spenser's unconscious, undeniably luscious body, he wasn't completely sure he could make himself believe it.
Genevieve came awake very slowly, letting the strange sensations wash over her. She was conscious of an odd sense of relief, quickly washed away by an unshakeable sense of entrapment. She was lying in a bed next to someone—she could hear his steady breathing, feel the weight of his body next to hers—and her panic increased. The room was shadowed, the only light at the far end, and she blinked, trying to focus, trying to get her brain to work.
She was lying next to Harry Van Dorn, and her immediate reaction was fury. Until she noticed he wasn't sleeping, he was drugged. And her hands, ankles and mouth were wrapped in duct tape.
She struggled to sit up, making a muffled noise behind her makeshift gag. There was someone at the far end of the cavernous room, reading,
Unless, of course, they suspected foul play. He highly doubted that—he was an expert at his job, and he seldom made mistakes. Harry Van Dorn had done a magnificent job of convincing the world what a decent, charming, humanitarian fellow he was, and most people outside of a select few would have no idea just how overdue retribution was. It was Peter's job to see to it, and if Harry's death was supposed to look like an accident then it would. And those were his orders.
He shifted the dead weight in his arms. It would be far easier to dump her over the side than figure out what to do with her. Things had gone too far—the unpalatable fact was that she was going to have to end up dead anyway. Why complicate matters by putting it off?
Having her found on the island would be neater, and when it came to his job he tended to be fastidious. The thought would have astonished his mother. He'd never been the orderly type, and chaos had suited him very well for many years.
But his job required precision, attention to the smallest detail, a cool detachment that nothing could permeate. Ms. Spenser was undoubtedly going to die, whether he liked it or not, but now wasn't the right time.
He could have left her on the deck and had Renaud haul her into the cabin where he could keep an eye on her, but he never delegated work he could do himself. Besides, Renaud had his limitations, and he liked to hurt women. There was nothing he could do about Ms. Spenser's upcoming fate, but there was no reason why she should have to suffer. After all, he was a civilized man, he mocked himself.
He hauled her limp body over his shoulder. She wasn't that bad, not compared to some of the dead weight he'd carried in his thirty-eight years. Odd, but when someone was simply unconscious they weighed less than when they were dead. It made no sense, but it was true.
Or maybe it was the weight of his conscience when he had to dispose of someone. Except that he had no conscience—it had been surgically removed along with his soul years ago.
Still, maybe he retained a trace of sentimentality. Otherwise he wouldn't hesitate with the interfering Ms. Spenser, and he wouldn't feel the random regret about her future or lack thereof. He wasn't used to regret at all.
He dumped her down on the huge bed in the main cabin, next to Harry Van Dorn's unconscious body. She had long, pretty legs, and it was hard to forget the distracting taste of her mouth. He still hadn't figured out why he'd kissed her. An aberration, a momentary indulgence…he wouldn't let himself do it again.
He stared down at her for a long moment. He'd killed women before, it was inevitable in his line of work. At times the female of the species could be a lot deadlier than the male. But he'd never been forced to kill someone who'd simply gotten in the way. And he didn't want to start now, no matter how goddamn important it was.
Of course, one could argue that the world would always be a better place with one less lawyer. But looking down at Genevieve Spenser's unconscious, undeniably luscious body, he wasn't completely sure he could make himself believe it.
Genevieve came awake very slowly, letting the strange sensations wash over her. She was conscious of an odd sense of relief, quickly washed away by an unshakeable sense of entrapment. She was lying in a bed next to someone—she could hear his steady breathing, feel the weight of his body next to hers—and her panic increased. The room was shadowed, the only light at the far end, and she blinked, trying to focus, trying to get her brain to work.
She was lying next to Harry Van Dorn, and her immediate reaction was fury. Until she noticed he wasn't sleeping, he was drugged. And her hands, ankles and mouth were wrapped in duct tape.
She struggled to sit up, making a muffled noise behind her makeshift gag. There was someone at the far end of the cavernous room, reading,
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