by Anne Stuart
“Well, you’ve just sort of disappeared with me. Don’t you have a partner or someone who’s going to wonder where you are?” She wasn’t making things better, but she couldn’t seem to stop. Always her great failing, talking too much, she reminded herself.
“Partner?”
“You don’t need to echo everything I say,” she said, irritated and embarrassed. “I mean a significant other. Someone you live with…”
“Are you talking about another man?” He cut straight to the chase, and he looked far too amused for her peace of mind. “You’ve decided I’m gay?”
“I was trying to be delicate about it,” she said, letting her irritation show. “It just seemed likely.”
“And why did it seem likely?”
She was going to borrow his knife and cut out her tongue, she thought miserably. How the hell did the conversation ever get to this point? Why hadn’t she just shut up in the first place?
“That’s all right, Chloe,” he said, when she couldn’t come up with an answer. “You think I’m gay because I don’t want to fuck you. Isn’t that it?”
It was getting worse and worse, and his deliberate crudeness made the color rush to her face. “I’m not that conceited.”
“Aren’t you? Don’t you think the only reason a man doesn’t put moves on you is if he doesn’t like any women? And why are you so interested? I wouldn’t have thought my sexual preferences would matter one way or another.”
“They don’t.”
“Then why did you ask?”
From somewhere she found her voice. “Don’t do this,” she said. “It’s bad enough to be trapped in a dark hole with you, don’t back me against the wall verbally. I was just curious about you.”
“You’ve already been back against a wall physically. In more ways than one,” he said, and she remembered all too clearly those moments in the château, with his body inside hers, the dark, convulsive pleasure of it.
“Enough!” she said, her voice strangled.
To her amazement he dropped it, sitting back on the bed a safe distance away from her, handing her the now stale baguette. “We finished the cheese, but there are a couple of oranges left. Later on we’ll get you a decent meal.”
“Where? At the airport? Has the snow stopped?” She took the hunk of stale bread he offered and began to chew on it.
“I’ve been here with you the whole time, Chloe. Your guess is as good as mine. But we’re leaving this place before long. The trick to hiding out is to keep moving. It won’t take them long to find us here, and I want to be gone before they do. Fortunately the snow will have covered the taxi, so even if they use a helicopter they’re unlikely to see it. But the sooner we get out of here the better.”
The bread tasted like dust, but she kept chewing. “Where are we going?”
He began to peel one of the oranges. The fruit lay bloodred in his hands, even as the sweet citrus smell filled the room, and Chloe shuddered.
“I’m not sure yet. Open your mouth.” He held a section of orange, but she shook her head.
He moved, one of those lightning-fast moves that always shocked her, and he’d caught her chin in one hand. “Open your mouth and eat the orange, Chloe.”
She had no choice, not with his long fingers cupping her face, not with the dark eyes in his impassive face giving her no room to wriggle. “Open your mouth,” he said again, softer, almost seductive, and she did, letting him place the piece of fruit against her tongue, the taste sweet and tart.
And for one mad moment she thought his mouth, his tongue would follow. Madness indeed, as he sat back, away from her, and she slowly ate the orange. He didn’t want her, thank God. He would keep her safe from everyone else, and she was safe from him. She had to be grateful for that small mercy. She had to be.
“I’m sorry.” Her words came as a surprise to her, but even more of a shock to him. He turned to stare at her in the tiny, candlelit room.
“What did you say?”
She cleared her throat. She could taste the blood orange on her mouth. She could taste his fingers on her lips. “I said I’m sorry. For asking you rude questions, for arguing with you, for trying to run away and not listening to you. You’ve gone out of your way to protect me, and all I do is whine and complain. I’m sorry. And I’m grateful.”
He rose from the bed, stepping away from her, as far as he could in the tiny room. His eyes were hooded, unreadable, watching her. “Grateful? I thought you considered me a fiend from hell.”
“You are,” she said, her irritation bubbling up again. “But you’ve saved my life, at least twice, and I never said thank you.”
“Don’t thank me now. When you’re safely back in the States you can spare a kind thought for me.”
“Why do you care? I don’t understand why you’re going to so much trouble for me. I know you said you rescued me from Hakim on a whim, but I don’t believe it. I think you’re not as cold-blooded as you think you are, and when push came to shove you couldn’t let Hakim kill a woman. I know deep down that you’re a decent human being, even if I don’t know who and what you are, or even your real name.”
“You don’t need to know my name. Besides, you’re deluded,” he said, his voice clipped. “I’m a cold-blooded bastard. I don’t make a habit of rescuing women who wander into places they should keep away from. In your case it’s easier to get you back to the States than get rid of you here.”
“You wouldn’t kill me. I know you killed Hakim, but I don’t think you could kill a woman.”
“Don’t you?”
The faint mockery in his voice was very unsettling. Her father was right, she never could stop talking when she needed to. But she’d had to apologize, to thank him. He had saved her, was still protecting her, presumably out of the basic human decency he seemed so determined to deny. It couldn’t be anything personal.
He moved closer to her, his body blocking out the candlelight, and caught her chin in his hand, drawing her face up to his. “Look at me, Chloe,” he said softly. “Look into my eyes, and tell me you see the soul of a decent man. A man who wouldn’t kill unless he was forced to.”
She didn’t want to look. His eyes were dark, opaque, empty, and for a brief moment she could almost see the blackness inside. She tried to jerk her head away, but his hand tightened, holding her firmly, and his face was close to hers. His mouth was close to hers, and she could smell the blood oranges on his breath. “Tell me I’m a good man, Chloe,” he said in a soft, dead voice. “Show me just how stupid you really are.”
The words were cruel, harsh, and there was no light or warmth in his face. Only pain, hidden so deep inside that no one could see it, driving, wrenching pain that was tearing him apart. She could see it, feel it, like a tangible entity in the tiny room, and she put her hands on his wrist, not to pull his harsh grip away, just to touch him.
“I’m not stupid,” she said, feeling suddenly very calm and certain. He wasn’t moving away, and she was going to kiss him. She was going to put her mouth against his because she wanted to. And he was going to kiss her back, because beneath that darkness was a need as powerful as hers.
And then it wasn’t going to be up to her, because he dipped his head closer, and his mouth brushed hers, and her body rose to meet his mouth.
But it was no more than a featherlight kiss. “I’m the devil incarnate, Chloe,” he whispered. “And you’re an idiot if you can’t see that.”
“Then I’m an idiot,” she said, waiting for him to kiss her again.
But he didn’t. They stayed like that, for a long, endless moment, and then he said, “Come in, Maureen.” The hidden door slid open, flooding the tiny room with blinding light.
It slid shut again, but by then Chloe had retreated to her corner of the bed, trying to make her eyes adjust to the newcomer.
“Am I interrupting something, Jean-Marc?” The woman’s voice was rich with amusement. “I can always come back later.”
“You weren’t interrupting any
thing more than a little lesson in survival. Maureen, this is your charge, our little lost American.” He turned his dark, opaque eyes back to Chloe. “And this, ma chère, is Maureen. My sometimes wife. She’s a very good operative—I would only trust you to the best. You’ll be in her hands from now on. She’ll get you to the airport and safely on your way back home—she hasn’t failed a mission yet.”
“Oh, I’ve failed one or two in my time,” Maureen said in her rich, warm voice. “But in the end I’ve always made it right. We’ll be just fine, Chloe and me.” She was an attractive woman in her midthirties, chic, well-dressed in a suit that Sylvia would have died for.
Chloe’s thoughts stopped cold at the thought. She managed a stiff smile before turning her attention back to Bastien. Or Jean-Marc, as she’d called him. Or the man with no name. “You’re leaving me?”
He made no effort to hide his amusement. “I’m abandoning you, my sweet, leaving you to Maureen’s tender mercies. I’ve let my work slide for far too long, and I’m afraid I can’t wait any longer. Have a safe trip home and a good life.”
And then he was gone.
17
“Another one of Jean-Marc’s conquests,” Maureen said, moving into the room. “Poor thing. You’re all alike, with your pathetic eyes and pretty faces. Jean-Marc never could resist a pretty face.” She sounded affable enough, and she set the suitcase she was carrying down on the bed. She tilted her head to one side, surveying Chloe. “Though maybe you’re not his usual type, come to think of it. He’s never been one for the damsels in distress. I’m surprised he didn’t get rid of you himself.”
Her offhand words shocked Chloe into speech. “He wouldn’t—”
“Oh, I assure you he would. And has. But for some reason he wants to keep you safe, so he’s enlisted my help. What have you been calling him?” She snapped open the suitcase, pulling out some clean clothes.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Well, he certainly wouldn’t go by Jean-Marc. I doubt that’s even his real name. He’s probably forgotten what it is. Last I heard he was using Étienne.”
“Does it matter?”
“No,” Maureen said. “You’ll want to change into some fresh clothes before we take off. And what in God’s name happened to your hair? You look like you’ve been attacked by Edward Scissorhands.”
“I cut it.” There was a pair of black trousers, black shirt, even black bra and panties. Must be regulation issue for all…spies. Operatives. Whatever they were.
“I can see that you did,” Maureen said. “Never mind—I’m sure someone can fix it when you get back home. Go ahead and change.” She leaned against the wall, her arms crossed in front of her, waiting.
The last thing Chloe was going to do was strip down in front of her. “Could I have a little privacy?”
“You Americans are all absurdly prudish, aren’t you? I would have thought spending a few days with Jean-Marc would have gotten you over such squeamishness.”
Chloe said nothing. Clearly Maureen wasn’t going to move, and she had no choice but to pull the turtleneck off.
The room was cold. She looked down at her arms, but the livid marks were almost gone. Two days ago she’d been tortured and bleeding. Now she looked nothing more than a little worn-out and a little cold.
She reached for the new shirt, but Maureen stopped her. “Take off everything,” she said. “You’d be surprised at what people can trace when it comes to clothing. We don’t want to give anything away.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Of course you don’t. Take the bra off. Though where the hell you could have gotten such a thing astonishes me. Not in Paris. It’s the sort of thing nuns would wear. Don’t you have any sense of style?”
“Not much. And who says those clothes will fit me?”
“Jean-Marc told me what size to get. Trust me, they’ll fit. So tell me, how was he?”
Chloe was reluctantly changing her bra before Maureen’s interested eyes, removing her plain white cotton one for the black lace confection that did indeed fit her perfectly. “How was he?” she echoed.
“In bed, girl,” she said, impatient. “We had an affair a number of years ago, and I still remember his…inventiveness…quite fondly. You don’t look as if you had the stamina to keep up with him.”
She finished changing quickly, not giving Maureen any more time to catalogue her physical deficiencies. “It’s none of your business.”
“Of course it is. I need to know how enraptured he is. He’s been acting strangely for the past few months, and falling for an innocent little bird like you is one of the oddest things he’s done.”
“He hasn’t fallen for me. He simply felt responsible after he…” Her voice trailed off, uncertain as to how much Maureen really knew.
“After he killed Hakim.” Maureen finished the sentence for her. “Well, at least he got that part of the mission right,” she muttered. “Though why he didn’t wait until after you were dead is beyond my comprehension. And why he didn’t just finish you when he realized you were still alive.” She shook her beautifully coiffed head.
“He hadn’t planned to kill Monsieur Hakim—”
“Of course he had. That was what he was there to do, among other things. You just happened to be in the way. Don’t tell me he managed to convince you he’d wasted Hakim for your sweet sake?”
“No,” Chloe said bleakly.
She stood, and to her horror Maureen began examining the blanket, then stripped it from the bed. “It doesn’t look like the two of you did anything while you were here, but you never can tell. We’re better safe than sorry when it comes to DNA testing.”
“You’re way off base. Bas…Jean-Marc has no interest in me. I’m an inconvenience that he’s passed on to you.”
“So it seems. But I can’t imagine he didn’t at least sample the wares. He’s got a strong appetite, and he’d find you attractive in a wholesome, American sort of way.”
Chloe said nothing. Even with the light from the open door the room felt more claustrophobic than it ever had, probably from Maureen’s poisonous cheer. “Could we leave? I’d like to go straight to the airport if we could.”
Maureen snapped the suitcase shut, the discarded clothes and sheet tucked inside. “Yes,” she said cheerfully. “It’s time to leave. But I’m afraid you’re not going to the airport.”
It was getting colder by the minute. The old house was unheated, and even with the bright sunlight reflected from the snow it only seemed icier.
“Where are we going then?” she asked.
“I’m going to meet with my supervisor and tell him I finally accomplished my mission. And you, my dear, aren’t going anywhere. You’re going to die.”
Bastien’s instincts had always been infallible. He would know when a mission was going to go south, when a mole would turn, when to strike and when to abort. He would know who he could trust, and just how far he could trust them, and he would know who, in the end, would betray him.
He’d lost that skill in the past year. Either lost it, or just didn’t care. His job had been simple—get rid of Hakim, keep track of the new division of territories and make certain Christos wasn’t put in charge of the cartel.
But he’d stopped listening to the voices that warned him of danger. They hadn’t gone away—they were whispering in his ear, insidious voices, warning him. Warning him of what?
He drove through the snow-blanketed streets of Paris with his usual suicidal speed. There was marginally less traffic than usual, but those who were out had less room to move, and the snow hadn’t improved their attitude. The car Maureen had brought him was a late-model BMW, with too much power for the snowy streets, but he slid and spun his way toward the hotel with dexterity, only clipping a taxi once.
A taxi. They’d found the man he’d trussed and gagged in the basement parking garage. Found him dead, his throat cut open like Chloe’s friend. He should have been prepared for that—even with all hi
s precautions they’d managed to keep track of him. He’d grabbed the paper when he’d gone to find Maureen, and he’d spared a thought for the driver’s wife the water buffalo and their four children. If he made it through the next few days he might even see about getting some money to them. It wouldn’t replace their husband and father, but it would lessen some of the difficulties the work of the Committee had delivered.
It would have been Thomason who’d ordered the hit, Thomason who was having him followed and cleaning up any witnesses, any survivors. He must have seen through Bastien’s usually adept lies. It was standard operating procedure—an organization such as theirs wouldn’t exist for very long if people were left alive to talk and to wonder. Secrecy was the most important tenet, even more important than whatever mission they’d been assigned. They were all the same—to save the world. And yet no matter how many people he’d killed, the world never seemed to be saved.
He was nearing the hotel. A small suite was reserved for him, and most of the cartel was already assembled, awaiting the arrival of Christos. He was dressed and ready to resume his life, knowing Chloe Underwood was being taken care of by the best agent he knew. Maureen had worked on a number of missions with him, including the latest as his wife. She would get her safely on the plane, and then Chloe would no longer be their problem. His problem. In fact, by putting her in Maureen’s hands, he’d already finished his part of it. He was ready to move on, concentrate on what mattered and not a momentary distraction.
Except that something wasn’t right. It was gnawing at him, tickling his nerve endings, and he couldn’t quite place what it was. He’d trust Maureen with his life. Their affair had matured into a deep friendship that went beyond the boundaries of the all-powerful Committee, and he knew he could count on her.
So why did he keep wanting to turn back, to make sure?
Maybe it was simply that he was having a hard time letting go of Chloe. He hadn’t allowed himself to care about another human being for a long time. He wasn’t sure he actually cared about Chloe, but he’d chosen to protect her, and that had put some sort of connection between them that sex hadn’t.