Black Ice (13 page)

She wrapped herself in a towel. Her wet hair was a disaster and wouldn’t wait for Sylvia’s leisurely return. She had no choice but to attack it herself. She found some scissors and started hacking away at it, letting the various lengths fall into the sink.

She’d been hoping for one of those movie makeover—the dull, bespectacled secretary takes nail scissors to her mop and becomes a gamine worthy of Audrey Hepburn. Not quite. She put the scissors down
before she went too far—maybe it would look better once it dried. Her mother’s hairdresser would cluck in horror and then dive in, and in a few days she’d be chic and adorable. Right now she felt like a drowned cat.

The heat had managed to fill the main room, but the air was still stuffy, so she opened one of the windows a crack, searching through her clothes for her warmest nightgown, a flannel granny gown that always had Sylvia in stitches. There’d be no one around to laugh at her tonight, and she needed the warmth and comfort of the soft, enveloping fabric.

There was nothing to eat but cereal and cheese. She ate two bowls of Weetabix in the darkness, washed it down with a glass of wine and crawled beneath the duvet on her thin mattress. Tonight she could be overrun with rats and she wouldn’t move. All she wanted to do was sleep.

She did, dreaming terrible dreams. The nightmares should have been the worst—Hakim’s face looming over her, his soft, insinuating voice more horrifying than anger, as he lovingly drew the knife over her flesh and dared her not to cry out.

In her dreams he didn’t stop. In her dreams she bled to death, with Hakim smiling down at her with gentle approval, and Bastien sitting in a thronelike chair, women draped around him as he sipped a glass of whiskey and watched.

And yet that was bearable. She knew she dreamed,
and no matter how real it felt, a tiny part of her brain was aware enough to convince her it wasn’t real.

But her dreams didn’t give up easily. She was no longer dying, bleeding. She was lying in a white bed, covered in lace, and Bastien was on top of her, inside her, making love to her with slow, wicked intensity, and the pleasure was so exquisite she felt her body spasm in her sleep.

She was cold, she was hot, the covers were too light, then too heavy, and she could feel Bastien around her, like an embrace, his scent teasing her as she fought her way deeper into sleep. She didn’t want to dream, she didn’t want to remember, all she wanted was warmth and darkness.

Somewhere in the distance a church bell tolled four. She should get up and close the window, but she was finally warm, and surely she could manage to fall asleep again. In the morning, in the daylight, she could face things again. In the darkness all she could do was hide.

Something didn’t feel right. Small wonder—there was very little that was right in her life, and thinking about it wouldn’t help. Only time and daylight would make things better.

She shifted on the thin mattress, tugging the duvet up around her chin, reaching for Bastien’s stolen coat to wrap around her as well, one more layer against the cold.

But the coat wasn’t there—she’d left it lying across
a chair. She opened her eyes in the darkness, only to see Bastien himself sitting on the floor beside her, leaning against the wall, watching her in utter stillness.

F
or a moment she thought she was still asleep, her nightmare come to life, and she told herself it was just a dream. When he spoke, his voice was low and calm in the darkness.

“You’re lucky you’re still alive,” he said softly.

She wasn’t going to argue with him about that, though she was tempted. She lay very still, not moving, hoping he’d just fade away. But he was distressingly real and solid, far too close to her. “How did you find me?” she finally asked. “And how did you get in?”

He didn’t move from his spot against the wall. His long legs stretched out in front of him, crossed, and his hands lay in his lap. “I told you, it wouldn’t take them any time at all to find you. I was faster, but it won’t be long before they catch up with us.”

“With us?”

He cocked his head, looking at her. “I have a tendency to finish what I started. You’ve missed one plane,
but I’ll get you out on the next one, if I have to knock you out, tie you up and ship you in a trunk.”

She reached out to turn on the light beside her bed, but he stopped her, his hand catching her wrist, and she jerked back, knocking the lamp over as she did so.

“We don’t need lights,” he said. “That was the one smart thing you did, leaving the lights off when you came back. When they come for you a little darkness won’t stop them, but you were wise not to draw undue attention to yourself.”

“Maybe I just turned off the lights when I went to bed?”

“I was here before you arrived looking like the little match girl. I decided a few hours’ sleep wouldn’t do you any harm. But you stole my coat—I’ve been freezing.”

“Tough,” she said. She didn’t ask where he’d been, what he’d seen. There was nothing she could do about it at this point, but if he’d been watching her as she bathed, as she hacked off her hair and examined the marks on her body she wouldn’t be happy. Better not to know.

He’d helped himself to her wine—the bottle and a glass sat on the floor beside him. She had no idea how long he’d been there, how long she’d been sleeping.

“Why did you change your mind?” she asked abruptly. She pulled the covers up to her chest and slid away from him to sit in the corner. And then she real
ized her fingers were clutching his coat, and she dropped it.

“Changed my mind?” he repeated.

“About me. I had a lot of time with Monsieur Hakim, and he enjoys talking while he hurts people. If it hadn’t been for you he wouldn’t have known I’d been looking on the Internet. He wouldn’t have thought I was anything other than what I am.”

“Anything other than what you are? And what’s that?” He didn’t wait for her answer. “Once Hakim decided not to trust you there was nothing I could do to stop it. Showing him your clumsy tracks through the computer only sped things up.”

“So what made you change your mind and come to save me?”

“I didn’t.”

She was cold, so cold, but she didn’t reach for his coat. “Then why were you there? Had you just come to watch?”

He shrugged. “I was surprised you were still alive. Hakim must have been enjoying himself more than usual, to have barely touched you.”

“Barely touched me?” Her voice rose, and he moved so fast he was a blur in the darkness, his hand over her mouth, silencing her as he held her against the wall. He’d held her against another wall, not that long ago, and she wondered what he was going to do.

“Don’t raise your voice,” he said, his eyes staring
into hers in the darkness. So close. “Try not to be as stupid as your behavior suggests.”

He moved his hand away and she was silent, looking up at him. Waiting for him to touch her. He was going to kiss her, and she wasn’t sure what she was going to do about it.

But he didn’t. He moved away, sitting back on the floor several feet away. “I came to find Hakim about another matter, saw you were still alive, and on a whim I killed him.”

“On a whim?”

He shrugged, so very French, and yet she didn’t believe he was French. “Part of my own death wish, I expect. I’m living on borrowed time as it is, and taking you out of that place only made things move a little faster. God knows when you walked out today I should have just let you go, but you annoyed me. If I’m going to that much trouble you might at least do as I say.”

“I was never very obedient. I wouldn’t be here in Paris if I wasn’t accustomed to doing what I want.”

“I don’t give a damn what you want. You’re going back home to the States and you’re staying there. You understand me?”

At that point there was nothing she wanted more, but some inner devil prompted her to object. “And if I refuse?”

“Then I’ll cut your throat and leave you here. It seems a shame, since I’ve already gone to so much
trouble. That stuff I put on your wounds is very valuable, and I wouldn’t have wasted it on you if I’d known I was just going to have to kill you a few hours later. But that won’t stop me. You’re a liability, a drain and a danger, and perhaps I never should have stopped Hakim, but since I did I may as well see this through. It’s up to you. You want to die now and get it over with? Or do you want to get back to your family and a normal life?”

He spoke so matter-of-factly about death and killing, and she had not the slightest doubt that he would do just as he said. All she had to do was look into his dark, empty eyes. “How do I know you can keep me safe?”

“You don’t. There are no guarantees in this life. You certainly stand a better chance with me than on your own. And if I fail, I can promise I’ll be the one to kill you before you get in the hands of someone worse than Hakim. I’ll make it fast and painless.”

Chloe swallowed. “There are worse men than Hakim?”

“Actually, the very best at torture and interrogation are usually women. Which is no surprise.”

She stared at him in the darkness. “Who the fuck are you?”

His cool smile was far from reassuring. “You no longer believe I’m an arms dealer from Marseilles? It’s taken you long enough.”

“Then who are you? Is Bastien Toussaint even your real name?”

“Do I look like a saint to you, Chloe? And you don’t need to know who I am. Suffice it to say I’m part of an international operation few people know exist, and it’s better they don’t. Just keep quiet and do as I say.”

She stared at him, a cold, sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. “Can you tell me one thing? Are you part of the good guys or the bad guys?”

“Trust me,” he said wearily, “there’s not much difference. We need to get out of here before dawn. Get out of that sexy lingerie and put some clothes on. Only Americans would dream of sleeping in such a garment.”

She looked down at her soft flannel nightgown. “I’m supposed to wear a lace negligee when I’m freezing and running for my life? You’ve seen too many movies.”

“I never go to the movies.”

She crawled across the mattress, keeping as far from him as she could. Not that it mattered—he seemed to have no interest in touching her. She kept her clothes in a small chest by the window, and rose, pulling out some clean underwear, a pair of jeans and a warm shirt. She started toward the bathroom, when his voice stopped her.

“Where are you going?”

“To the bathroom. I’m going to pee and then I’m going to change in there, unless you have any objections.”

“You don’t need to be modest, Chloe. I have no interest in your naked body.”

He’d already made that clear, but for some reason his calm statement was the final straw. She slammed her clothes down in a nearby chair and yanked her nightgown over her head, hearing it tear in her anger. She threw it at him, then picked up her clothes and stalked into the bathroom, her naked body illuminated by the moonlight.

At the last minute she remembered not to slam the door, much as she wanted to. Not enough to die for it, and certainly not enough to risk having him get up from his spot on the floor and put his hands on her again. He couldn’t have been clearer—he’d used sex for one thing and one thing only. To gain information. Now that he knew everything he needed to know he had no more use for her.

She wanted a shower, but that might be pushing it. She used the toilet, then dressed quickly. Her shortened hair had dried in a messy tumble that looked better than she’d hoped, but was still a far cry from a Hollywood makeover. But then, he didn’t go to the movies. And what he thought clearly didn’t matter, since he wasn’t interested. Thank God.

She’d do what he said, all right. She would be quiet, obedient—anything to get the hell out of France as quickly as possible. She wouldn’t be safe until she did, and despite those horrifying hours with Gilles Hakim she couldn’t really believe she was in that much danger. No, the most important thing was to get as far
away from her mystery man, and not have to worry about him showing up again once she thought she’d escaped.

He caught the nightgown in one hand while he watched her walk from the room. Her body was pale in the moonlight, and he could see that the gunk had done its work.

He almost could have laughed. She was so offended, with little idea just how desirable she really was. He’d wanted nothing more than to strip off his clothes and crawl beneath the duvet with her, to lose himself in her body, in the darkness. He was tired, so very tired.

But he’d kept his distance, even when he read in her eyes that he could have her. He buried his face in the soft flannel, inhaling the scent of her body, her soap, her skin. She had no idea just how powerfully erotic the juxtaposition of soft, shapeless flannel covering a lithe, sexual body was. And he wasn’t about to tell her.

If he were a man with any softer feelings left inside him he would have taken the nightgown as a souvenir, to remember her by. She was unlike anyone he’d ever dealt with—vulnerable and angry and surprisingly brave. But then, he didn’t need a nightgown to remember her for the rest of his life. It wasn’t going to be that long.

She’d torn the nightgown when she’d yanked it off—he’d been too busy covertly admiring her body to no
tice. The fabric was old and well laundered and very soft—it must have been in her possession for many years. She’d slept in it since she’d been no more than a girl—she wasn’t that old as it was.

He didn’t know why he did it. But he did. He took the fabric and yanked at the tear, ripping a piece from it. She wouldn’t notice. He wasn’t going to give her the chance to pack anything. He had the piece shoved in his pocket, conveniently forgotten, by the time she emerged from the bathroom, looking just as furious as she had when she went in, though unfortunately more clothed.

Nothing like telling a woman you didn’t want them to really piss them off, he thought. He couldn’t afford to have her start having second thoughts. The sex they’d shared had been nothing but that—short, powerful, even harsh. She belonged in a field of daisies with a tender lover. Not on the run for her life with a murderer.

He’d only begun to think of himself as that, but it fit as well as anything else. He’d killed in self-defense, he’d killed in cold blood, he’d killed by assassination and he’d killed in formal combat. He’d killed women and men, and he hoped to God that he wouldn’t have to kill Chloe. But he would if he had to.

Maybe he’d tell her before she died, if it came to that. He could make it very fast, so she barely knew what was happening, but before he drove the knife up into her heart he could tell her the truth. At least she could die feeling smug.

He was getting ahead of himself. If he was forced to kill her it would be a failure, and he wasn’t a man who considered failure to be an option. As long as they kept moving they’d be fine. And as long as he kept his hands off her they’d keep moving.

“Do you have a coat of your own, or do I need to let you have mine?”

“Mine’s at the château. I can borrow one of Sylvia’s—I’ve already lost some of her best clothes.” She sat down in a chair and began to put on her socks and shoes. He didn’t need to tell her to wear comfortable shoes—her boots were well-worn and serviceable looking, with low heels. She’d be able to run in them if she had to.

He hadn’t seen her in jeans and a sweater before. She looked even more American, and even more desirable. She got up and opened the door to the bedroom, and he recognized the smell before she did.

He tried to get there in time, but it took him a second to spring to his feet, and she’d already gone in. The room was darker than the rest, even with the early light of predawn, and she wouldn’t be able to see anything. But she must have known, because she turned on the light.

His hand was already over hers, turning it off again, but not fast enough that she didn’t see the woman’s body lying on the floor. She hadn’t been dead for more than a few hours, probably just before Chloe had arrived
home. The smell would have been more noticeable if she’d been there awhile.

He’d put his arm around Chloe, clapped his hand over her mouth to silence her scream and dragged her from the room, kicking the door shut behind them, closing the body away from them. But the smell filled the room, and they had to get out of there, fast.

She was gagging, and he didn’t blame her, but he couldn’t afford to be gentlemanly about it. He’d come in the back way, over the roofs and through the storage room window, and he’d go back that way, taking Chloe with him, if he had to sling her over his shoulder and carry her.