The carousel kept spinning, and she would see Harry, sprawled on one of the benches that moved sedately around, his huge smile unshadowed by all around him. Renaud would come into view every now and then, and the black hole in his face was lower than Hans’s—directly between his dark, staring eyes. And the merry-go-round would turn once more. the calliope loud and macabre, and Peter would be there again for a brief moment before dissolving once more into nothingness.
She clung to the darkness and pain, stubborn, even as it began to recede. The light was taking her to a place she didn’t want to be, and she fought hard to stay in the hopeless night. But in the end her will wasn’t strong enough, and she opened her eyes to a strange room.
She had no idea where she was. Presumably it was late afternoon or evening—the room was deep in shadows. She wasn’t alone—someone was moving quietly at the far end, and for a moment she wondered if she was in Harry Van Dorn’s villa.
But no, that was gone as well, and she closed her eyes again, seeking the black emptiness that had become her life.
“Awake, miss?” The voice by her side was soft, hesitant, and she wanted desperately to ignore it, but her eyes betrayed her, opening to stare into the plain, reserved face of a middle-aged Asian woman, dressed in some
sort of dark traditional clothing.
“I’m awake,” she said, but her normally strong voice was little more than a husky whisper. “Where am I?”
The response wasn’t encouraging—a rapid-fire explanation in a language Genevieve couldn’t identify much less speak.
“Where am I?” she asked again, slower.
The woman shook her head. “You wait,” she said.
At that point Genevieve doubted she could have gone anywhere at all on her own strength. “I wait,” she said, leaning back against the pillows, exhausted.
She was coming back to life when she wasn’t sure she wanted to. The first thing she noticed was the bedding. The sheets were like silk—soft and smooth and of the highest-quality cotton. The same sheets had been on the island. She’d slept, wrapped in one. She lay on top of one, clutching it in her hands while he—
She let out a soft cry, sitting up, then moaning as her head began to pound once more. Harry’s sheets, Harry’s house. But where? And how, and why? Her memories were jumbled… She could see herself kneeling in the sand. But she couldn’t remember how she got there.
Then on a small plane that took off in a swoop that almost left her stomach behind. Renaud hadn’t been on it, and she should remember what happened to him but she couldn’t.
Instead, she remembered what she didn’t want to remember. The huge yacht being blown to ashes, with Peter Jensen on board.
And she started to cry.
Once started, she couldn’t stop. The sobs racked her body, so heavy that she was shaking, and the more she tried to stop them the more powerful they became. She fell back against the pillows, and the tears ran down her face. She shoved a fist in her mouth to quiet the sobs, but it did little good. She finally she gave in, rolling over on her stomach and burying her face in the pillow.
Wherever the woman had disappeared to, it was taking her a blessedly long time to get back to her. Slowly, slowly her tears began to lessen, her sobs quieted, as reality began to drift back in odd-shaped puzzle pieces.
She wasn’t crying over Peter Jensen.
He who lived by the sword died by the sword, didn’t they say? A man in his profession would court death on a daily basis. It was only logical that one day the match would be made.
No, she had no reason to cry over Peter. It was only a natural response to the horrific few days she’d spent, a normal release of built-up tension. She would just as likely weep over Hans’s murder; she’d been forced to witness that in all its horror. Surely that was having a more powerful impact on her than Peter’s antiseptic death.
But she hadn’t slept with Hans. She hadn’t opened her arms and her body and God knows what else to him, letting him strip everything away.
No man had ever done that to her, leaving her so lost and vulnerable. And no man ever would again. She was delighted he was dead. Triumphant. She had complete revenge for what he’d done to her, how he’d made her feel.
And she burst into tears again.
“Come now, little lady.” Harry Van Dorn’s bourbonwarm voice slithered through her misery. “No need to cry over spilt milk. You’re safe and sound right here— no one’s going to hurt you.”
It was like a glass of cold water being thrown in her face—strange, when his voice was so warm and smooth. She wiped her face on the expensive sheets, her tears cut off, and looked up at him.
He looked the same—tanned, well dressed, wide, friendly smile. There was no sign of his recent imprisonment, whereas she was covered with bruises and scratches from her trip through the island paths. Either he was remarkably resilient or he had a good makeup artist.
She swallowed the last lingering shudder. “How are you feeling?” she asked.
“Hell, Genevieve, I’m fine. I’m as strong as a horse. It would take more than a few days knocked out on drugs to get me down. You’re the one who’s been through the wars. You’ve got stitches, and the doc says you suffered a concussion.”
“Where am I? How long have I been here? What happened?” Her voice sounded anxious, almost hysterical, and she wished she could call back her questions, sound calm and professional.