Cold as Ice by Anne Stuart Read Free Book Online Page A

mine, and it's time somebody taught you a lesson."
    He was right, the telephone was dead. That was when she felt her first inkling of fear, but there was still the button beneath her desk. She held it, thinking fast.
    "We can talk about it during office hours, Mr. Whitman," she said, not a trace of nervousness showing through her calm demeanor. "In the meantime I'll have to ask you to leave."
    He laughed. He didn't bother to close the glass door of the cubicle behind him—he knew there was no one there to help. "I think we'll talk about it right now. And I don't think talking is gonna cut it."
    She tried to run, but he slammed her against the cubicle, and the heavy glass shattered beneath her body. There were times when she could almost forget it, and times when it came thundering back. The feel of his fists against her face, her body, so that when she fell she landed on the broken glass, as he kicked her, over and over again, and the broken shards dug into her skin. It seemed to go on forever; just when she thought he'd finished and was leaving her, another blow came, another kick, and she moaned, her mouth full of blood.
    He leaned over her, yanking her up so that her face was just inches from his. "Hell," he said, "you ain't even worth killing." And he dropped her back on the floor.
    She must have lost consciousness. When she woke up she was alone in the pitch-black building, lying in a pool of blood.
    She'd had to crawl over the glass. She'd made it as far as the stairs and then collapsed, lying in a broken heap, unable to move, unable to speak. She could only cry.
    She'd spent a week in the hospital. By the time she could talk, Whitman had disappeared, along with his wife and two children. People said Marge had gone willingly, and Genevieve had believed them. After all, hadn't she received a bouquet of flowers with an almost illegible, unsigned note? "I'm so sorry." It could hardly have come from Whitman.
    The police looked for him, but it was a halfhearted attempt. She wasn't dead, she wasn't even permanently injured. Her body healed with the help of medicine and physical therapy, her mind healed with the help of the best therapists, and she'd learned to be comfortable around men once more. She'd learned to defend herself and she'd left for the safer pastures of New York City, where she could live a peaceful life.
    Until she woke up screaming. Remembering.
    As she did right now.
4
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    H arry wasn't in the best of moods. He'd been ready to make his move on the luscious Ms. Spenser when Jensen had stuck his unwanted limey nose into the room and taken her away, and now he was feeling restless, bad-tempered and ready to take it out on someone. Preferably Ms. Spenser.
    It would be no problem—the rooms were soundproofed, and even if she made a lot of noise no one would interfere. They'd either assume she was an enthusiastically noisy fuck, or that something was going on they didn't want to know about. Either way, no one would interfere.
    He had better equipment in his massive stateroom, though, and he didn't like having to compromise. He firmly believed in indulging his whims whenever he could, and being refused even the tiniest little treat made him very cross indeed.
    He was going to have to explain a few things to Peter Jensen. He'd been an excellent servant for the four short months he'd been working for him, but then, he'd come with impeccable references. The kind of people he'd worked for in the past required someone with the utmost discretion, the ability to look the other way and the willingness to do whatever was asked of him, with no arguments or questions.
    Jensen had proved remarkably efficient, and it hadn't been his fault that the young Thai girl last year had run away before he'd finished with her. He could blame that on one of the men who'd caught her in the first place, and he'd taken care of him in a fitting manner.
    No, this was only a minor transgression, and once he gave Jensen a sharp