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

reprimand he could go below and enjoy the undeniably luscious Ms. Spenser. Hell, he might even turn to fat women if he liked her curves well enough. There were some interesting variations on force feeding…
    He heard a noise, and he looked up. The engines were running again, making an odd noise, and Harry had a sudden, unpleasant premonition. His horoscope said today had a potential for disaster, but whenever he didn't like his forecast he skipped to his rising sign for something more pleasant.
    He rose, wandering over to the window to look out at the shoreline, when he realized the goddamn ship was moving. He let out a scream of rage, slammed open the door and headed out on deck, only to run smack into Peter Jensen.
    "You son of a bitch—" Harry managed to say, before blinding pain exploded in his head. And as he sank into darkness his body climaxed in pure, murderous rage.
     
    The boat was moving. It wasn't Genevieve's paranoid imagination, it wasn't a remnant from her nightmare. The goddamn boat was moving.
    She scrambled out of bed. She was still wearing the silk slip of a dress she'd worn last night, with her bra and pantyhose in place, if a bit rumpled. She hadn't been that out of it, had she? She'd had a little too much to drink on top of a three-pill day, but still, she shouldn't be having blackouts.
    She sank down on the floor beside the platform bed, dropping her head in her hands. She couldn't remember anything, not since she left Harry Van Dorn's side and headed for her room. She'd left with the gray ghost, hadn't she? But she couldn't remember anything about the walk to her cabin, whether he'd turned down her bed or kissed her good-night.
    Holy shit
. She'd been facetious, trying to reconstruct her last conscious moments, but the memory, no longer elusive, came flooding back. The son of a bitch had kissed her.
    At least, she thought he had. Or maybe it was just part of her dreams, an earlier, less nightmarish part. Though if it involved kissing someone like Jensen then she'd almost prefer the nightmares. She'd learned how to fight back with them.
    She rose on unsteady feet. At least she hadn't slept in her shoes. She walked in what she hoped was the direction of the window, feeling her way, and when she reached the heavy curtains she tugged, trying to open them.
    They stayed put, obviously on some kind of heavy-duty curtain rod, but she could push the fabric out of the way enough to have her worst fears confirmed. It was midday, when she should have already landed in Costa Rica, and they were out at sea.
    Harry's multi-million-dollar yacht ran smoothly and quietly through the waters, but there was no mistaking the feel of the engine beneath her, the sound of the water as the boat cut through the swells. She let the curtain drop again, swearing under her breath. If this was Harry Van Dorn's idea of a joke then she wasn't amused.
    Maybe he was taking her to Costa Rica via the yacht; across the open water it wouldn't be that far, and she hadn't actually come right out and told him she hated being on a boat. Maybe it was his twisted idea of flirtation—he was so used to women falling at his feet that he assumed anyone would be thrilled by his attention.
    Genevieve was definitely not thrilled. She had every intention of tracking him down and giving him an ultimatum. She hadn't seen a helicopter landing pad on this floating mansion but she was willing to bet he had one, and she was going to give him an hour to provide her with a flight out of here.
    If he set Jensen to it then it would be there in half an hour. He couldn't have kissed her, could he? The man seemed totally asexual, and besides, what an absurd thing to do. She already knew how badly she needed this vacation—this paranoid delusion only proved it.
    She took long enough to shower and change back into her business clothes. She'd slept in her contacts—always a mistake—and she felt rumpled and gritty and vulnerable. It took her less than fifteen