Black Ice (20 page)

She wanted to cry, but the tears could wait as well as the handsome young men. She drew back, a jaunty smile on her face. “For luck,” she said brightly. And without another word she walked out into the hallway, leaving him to follow, closing the door behind them. Closing safety away, as he took her arm once more and slowly walked her toward destiny or disaster. She would find out which soon enough.

They were all there. Otomi and his assistant, whose tattoos showed beneath the elegant cuffs of his dinner
jacket. Bastien wondered idly whether Otomi was covered with the traditional colorful tattoos sported by most Yakuza, or whether he’d always been management level. He still had all of his fingers, so he might never have been in the trenches. His silent, impassive assistant was missing only part of one digit. Obviously he didn’t screw up very often.

The baron glowered at him from across the room, and Monique froze when she caught sight of them. Chloe was clinging to Bastien’s arm, nervous now that it was show time, and he patted her hand reassuringly, because he could. For an hour or so, a very dangerous hour or so, he could touch her all he wanted. It was part of a show, it meant nothing, and he could indulge himself and she’d never know how damned hard it was for him.

He figured he had a fifty-fifty chance of making it through the night, but he was getting Chloe out of there if he had to gun down everyone in the room. Some of the people in the room were ostensibly on the same side as he was, assuming he even had a side. It didn’t matter—he would sacrifice anyone to keep Chloe alive. Even risk her parents.

They should have arrived in Paris about now. His phone call had caught them at the airport—they were already on their way to France to find their missing daughter. Sylvia’s body had been found, as well as Chloe’s passport, and the gendarmes had tracked down
her parents. With luck they’d be on their way to the hotel, in time to stop Chloe from getting caught in the bloodbath he knew was going to go down.

She had no idea that when he sent her out of the room he’d be sending her to her parents. And they would make sure she wouldn’t come back, no matter what sounds they heard. He could only hope they’d be long gone from the hotel before the shooting started.

“Well, isn’t this a surprise?” Monique cooed, gliding up to them. “We wondered where you’d gone to. We figured you’d killed Hakim, but we weren’t sure whether the little American had gone with you or whether she’d left on her own. I’m glad to see you’ve kept track of her.”

“I keep track of everything, Monique,” he said, stroking Chloe’s pale, cold hand.

“So tell me, why did you kill Hakim? We’re all quite interested. It was unexpected, to say the least.”

“And does anyone really care?”

Monique smiled. “No. He was disposable. We’re simply curious.” She put out her thin, bejeweled hand and touched Chloe’s exposed skin. “I can see traces of his handiwork.” There were the faintest of marks left from Hakim’s worst wounds, and he could see the gooseflesh rise on Chloe’s arm at Monique’s touch.

He grabbed her strong wrist and pulled her hand away. “No touching, Monique,” he said. “She’s mine.”

“It’s always nice to share,” Monique replied with an
exaggerated pout. “She’s very pretty when she’s dressed up. And where did she get those very spectacular diamonds? I haven’t seen anything quite so stunning in a long time. Where did you get them,
petite
?” She turned her attention to Chloe, who jumped nervously.

“Bastien gave them to me,” she said after a moment.

Monique frowned. “I had no idea he could be so generous. If I’d known you had something quite so nice in your possession I wouldn’t have broken off our relationship.”

Her eyes dared him to correct her, but he was already getting bored. Monique enjoyed playing cat and mouse, but she wasn’t his target tonight. Compared to the man he’d come to deal with, Monique was child’s play.

“Where’s Christos?” he said. “Another no-show?” It would be a mixed blessing if the Greek didn’t bother to join them one more time. Once Christos appeared most of the attention would be directed toward him. If he didn’t, Chloe could still be a target, both of the cartel and the Committee. And while the presence of her American parents might cause the cartel to reconsider, the Committee would barely hesitate.

No, it would be better all around if Christos showed up and things went down as planned. There was always the chance that the dummy taped to his side was the only wound he’d get, but he wasn’t counting on it. As long as Chloe was safe he really didn’t give a shit what happened.

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Monique said. “If he doesn’t show up I’m sure we’ll find some way to occupy our time.” She reached out to touch Chloe again, but this time Chloe jerked out of her way.

“Hands off, you skanky bitch,” she said in her sweetest voice. In Monique’s native German.

Monique blinked, and her smile widened. “Oh, she
is
a little treasure, Bastien. I’m going to have fun with her. And yes, I know. Over your dead body.” And she blew them both a little kiss before sauntering back to her glowering husband.

“Perhaps not a wise idea, Chloe,” he murmured. “Not that I blame you.” She looked up at him, and in the bright light he could see her more clearly than he wanted to. The troubled brown eyes that would fill with tears when she heard he’d died. The full, soft mouth that would find someone else to kiss, someone who would kiss her back.

“Is that the worst?” she asked.

There was a commotion at the door, and he tore his gaze away from her to look at the group of men who walked in. “I’m afraid not,” he said softly. “Christos has arrived.”

C
hristos didn’t look like the monster Bastien had painted him, Chloe thought. Compared to Gilles Hakim he seemed like nothing more than a well-dressed businessman, albeit surrounded by a small army that could only be bodyguards. Part of her had been expecting Zorba, but this was no jovial fisherman. He stood in the doorway, flanked by his men, and let his eyes scan the room, cataloguing the inhabitants. He had strong eyes—clear, almost colorless, and when they rested on Chloe’s skin she felt a cold rush.

“I’m glad to see you’re all still here,” he said. His English was perfect though heavily accented. A good thing, because Chloe’s Greek was marginal at best. “I’m sorry I couldn’t join you sooner, I had business matters to attend to. But that doesn’t mean I don’t mourn the loss of our dear friend August Remarque and his excellent leadership skills. I gather we’ve lost Hakim as well. Another sorrow.” He turned his gaze on
Bastien, who was watching him with total impassivity. “But seeing old friends will help to make up for the loss.”

“Who have you brought with you, Christos?” Mr. Otomi demanded, clearly displeased. The six men surrounding Christos’s small, elegant figure trumped Otomi’s lone assistant cum bodyguard.

“A man can never be too careful. What with all these sudden deaths I thought it would be wise to ensure my safety. Don’t look so concerned, my dear friends and colleagues. My men are very well trained. They won’t do anything I don’t tell them to do.”

None of the others in the room looked particularly gratified by that information, Chloe thought, moving infinitesimally closer to Bastien. He’d been right. The previous meetings had been mere skirmishes compared to this highly charged atmosphere.

“We need to discuss the disposition—” Signore Ricetti began in a strident voice, but Christos cut him off with a wave of his hand. Pale, small hands, Chloe noticed.

“There’ll be time enough for business,” he said. “In the meantime I’d like a drink. Some decent French wine for a change. I’m sick to death of retsina.”

“Of course.” Madame Lambert seemed to have taken on the role of hostess—she signaled for the waiter. “And for your men?”

“They don’t drink when they’re on duty,” Christos purred. Chloe felt the tension in the room rise.

Bastien put his arm around her waist, steering her toward a less-crowded section of the room. It had taken all her initial self-control not to jump when he touched her, then an even stronger effort not to sink back against him. His touch was an illusion. It offered no more safety than a cobra sliding up her back. But it made her feel better.

He settled her onto the smooth pale leather banquette, then sat down beside her, close but not touching. Had he brought a gun? She couldn’t remember. She’d been far more interested in his skin and his body than what kind of weapons he carried. It would serve her right if she died, she thought in disgust. Besotted little idiot.

Someone had given her a glass of champagne. She hadn’t even noticed how it got in her hand, but she sipped at it for something to do, saying nothing as she watched the remaining members of the arms cartel circulate around the room with perfect party manners.

Monique was flirting with Christos—a temporary reprieve, but after a moment she turned, looking directly into Chloe’s eyes. And then she came straight toward them, a wicked smile on her deep-red lips.

Chloe could feel the tension radiating from the man beside her. “Time to pick a fight,” he murmured.

It should have been easy enough. He was equal parts
irresistible and maddening, and she could have concentrated on the maddening part. Except that she could read the tension in the room, see Christos’s phalanx of bodyguards, and she wasn’t going anywhere.

“I’m fine,” she said in a dulcet tone.

He swiveled on the banquette to give her his full attention. “Time to leave,” he said in a low voice. “Things are getting dangerous around here.”

She gave him a bright, limpid smile. “I’m not going anywhere without you,” she said in a low, sultry voice that wouldn’t carry beyond the two of them.

His dark, dark eyes could freeze her in her tracks, but she refused to be cowed. “Don’t play this game, Chloe,” he said in a dangerous voice.

“It’s no game. I’m not leaving this room without you. If I do, you’ll die, and I don’t want that to happen.”

“If you stay, you’ll die.”

“Probably. Which means if you’re still determined to keep me alive you have no choice but to come with me.” She didn’t have long to feel pleased with herself for her plan—his expression was calm and faintly bored, but the look in his eyes was sheer fury.

He’d been sipping at a glass of whiskey and ice. He proceeded to dump it in her lap, leaping up in fake consternation. “Forgive me, my dear,” he said loudly. “I don’t know how I could be so clumsy.”

The icy liquid soaked through the gown, onto her thighs, and it took all her effort to smile up at him, un
moving. Black could cover things other than blood. “It was just a drop, my love,” she murmured, reaching up for his arm. “Don’t worry about it.”

“I really do think you should go clean yourself up,” he said.

“I’m fine.”

“He’s trying to get rid of you, child.” Monique, unfortunately, had joined them. “Go away and give us a few minutes alone. We need to renew our acquaintance.”

“I don’t think so,” she said in a firm, pleasant voice.

“Stay, then.” Monique dropped down on the leather seat, pulling Bastien down between them. “I’ve never minded an audience.” And putting her hand behind Bastien’s head, she pulled his mouth down to hers.

He kissed her back. He put his arm around Monique’s slender waist and pulled her up against him, and gave her a lingering, lazy kiss. The kiss he’d refused Chloe just a short time ago.

It wasn’t just her imagination that the tension in the room ratcheted up several notches. Monique’s husband was watching with avid fascination and not the faintest amount of discomfort, and the others were witnessing their little soap opera with various degrees of interest. Except for Christos’s bodyguards, who’d managed to station themselves around the room instead of surrounding their employer. And why wasn’t Bastien paying attention to this alarming development, Chloe
thought, instead of having his tongue halfway down that woman’s throat?

If she was supposed to sit there looking like a fool he’d miscalculated. He probably hoped she’d storm off in tears, and while she was tempted, Christos’s men were at every exit. Whether he liked it or not, she was trapped in there with them.

She put her hand on his shoulder and yanked him away from Monique. He looked down at her, his face icy. “Go away,” he said, loud and clear for the room to hear. “I’m tired of you.” And then he turned back to Monique.

The bitch was clearly enjoying herself tremendously, Chloe thought, taking a deep breath to steady herself. The expressionless men surrounding the room weren’t paying any attention to the groping session on the banquette—their attention was glued to the man who controlled them. Christos was watching with what almost might be called amusement, but he wasn’t going to be distracted for long, and when he gave the signal they would all be dead. Chloe knew it as well as she knew her own name.

As far as she knew Stockholm Syndrome might be a fatal disease. She turned, and Monique had one hand in Bastien’s long, silky hair, the other on his crotch.

That was the last straw. If she was going to die, she was going down in flames. She stood up, grabbed Monique’s skinny arm and hauled her away from Bastien
before either of them realized what she was doing. “Get your goddamn hands off my boyfriend.”

It was the most ridiculous thing she could have said. The entire room was frozen in silence, watching them, and then Monique smiled. “I don’t mind a threesome,
chérie,
if you’re that jealous. You may not be enough for him but I imagine I can fill in the gaps.”

Chloe lunged at her, and Bastien caught her midair, hauling her against him. And then she went down, hard, on the floor, his body covering her, as all hell broke out.

She was crushed beneath him, unable to see, but the noise was hideous. The gunshots—some of them silenced, some of them deafening, the screams and curses and sounds of a panicked stampede.

And then the smell—cordite and the heavy, coppery scent of blood. He was holding her down, but he was alive, she could tell that much. He was breathing heavily, and she could feel his heart beating against her back. She didn’t move, didn’t want to move. Maybe they could just lie there forever, and no one would notice they weren’t dead.

And then he rolled off her, onto his side, taking her with him. The room was shrouded in darkness, only the spit of gunfire providing any illumination. Not that Chloe wanted to see the tangle of bodies, the writhing ones, the motionless ones, the blood everywhere.

He half-dragged, half-carried her behind the banquette, hauling her toward one of the curtained win
dows. He shoved her behind the fabric and slammed her up against the wall, one hand over her mouth so she couldn’t speak, couldn’t scream, couldn’t breathe. In his other hand he had a gun—she could feel it against her skin.

“Are you hurt?” he whispered.

She managed to shake her head, just barely, he was holding her so tightly.

The windows led out on a small, snow-covered balcony. She couldn’t see how many flights up they were, and she didn’t care. They were trapped in the tiny alcove, and there were only two ways out. Through the gunfire. Or out the window.

“Stay put,” he said, pulling away from her, turning to the enveloping curtain.

“No!” she cried out, clinging to him, but he simply knocked her away from him, so that she fell back against the wall. He opened the curtain, and she squeezed her eyes shut, put her hands over her ears to drown out the awful noise.

And then he was back. “Let’s get the hell out of here,” he said, his voice strained. “We might as well go.” He opened the floor-to-ceiling window, and the cold air whipped inside, making the enveloping curtains billow out. He cursed, shoving the gun into his belt, and she could see the stain of fake blood on his shirt. “Come on.”

She didn’t have time to ask where. He simply picked
her up and tossed her over the side of the balcony, dropping down after her.

It was two flights up, and she landed hard, but the snow was deep enough to keep her from hurting herself. He must have hit harder, because he stumbled as he rose, grabbing her hand and pulling her into the shadows just as people appeared on the balcony overhead, a babble of languages she didn’t want to understand.

“My car’s over there,” he said, breathless, as he pushed her ahead of him. “I’m always prepared for contingencies. You can drive a stick, can’t you?”

“I don’t drive in Paris!” she said sharply.

“You do now.” He yanked open the driver’s side, grabbed her arm and shoved her in, and she had no choice. At least the traffic would be lighter at this hour.

He collapsed into the passenger seat beside her. “Drive,” he said. “Head north.”

She gave him one, assessing glance and then decided not to argue. The BMW started like a charm, when she half expected it to explode. She spun the tires backing out, slid as she started forward and stalled out.

Bastien was leaning back against the seat, his eyes closed. “If you don’t get moving we’re going to be dead,” he said, very calm.

“I’m doing the best I can.” She started the car again, shoved it into gear and headed into the street, just miss
ing three cars and a motorcyclist. “Shit,” she said under her breath. “Shit, shit, shit.”

“What’s your problem?” he asked wearily. “Why don’t you drive in Paris?”

“The drivers are too dangerous. I’m afraid to.”

He was silent for so long she thought he might have fallen asleep. “Chloe,” he said, infinitely patient, “you have just been the target of some of the most ruthless people in the world today. You’ve survived a bloodbath, you’ve seen people die. One or two impetuous drivers is nothing to worry about.”

She turned the corner, driving too fast, and went up over the curb. If it were midday they’d be dead, in the middle of a twenty-car pile-up. At this hour they might have a slight chance of reaching where they were going. Wherever the hell that was.

She wasn’t going to ask him. “A bloodbath?” she said after a long moment.

“What did you think that was? A parlor game? I couldn’t see much before we left, but the baron was down, as was Mr. Otomi and Monique.”

“Monique?”

“She was shot in the face. Does that make you happy?” He sounded so tired.

“Of course not. What about Christos and his men?”

“Christos is dead. At least that part we got right.”

“How can you be sure? It was so dark….”

“Because I’m the one who killed him. And in case
you hadn’t already realized it, I don’t miss.” He closed his eyes again. “Just keep driving. I need to figure out what to do next.”

“Is that what you were supposed to do? Kill Christos?”

“If it came to that.”

“So now I should be safe, shouldn’t I? You accomplished what you were supposed to do.”

“They don’t like witnesses, Chloe. You won’t be safe until you’re back home.”