Black Ice (18 page)

But Chloe’s mind wasn’t interested in accelerants. “You’ll cut my throat?”

“It works quite well. It’s quiet—no noisy gun, and you won’t be able to make anything more than a gurgling noise for as long as you live. The drawback in your case is that you don’t die right away, but for me that’s one of the perks. I have a personal grudge this time. Not just for Jean-Marc’s sake. I don’t usually make mistakes, but because of you I made a major one. And I intend to make it right with a vengeance.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Are you totally dim-witted? Your friend. I had the apartment number, a general description, and there she was. How was I to know you had a roommate? It was very embarrassing to be told I’d killed the wrong woman.”

“Embarrassing?” Chloe echoed. The empty wine bottle was still on the table. It wouldn’t be much pro
tection against a knife or a gun, but it would be something. If she just had the nerve to dive for it.

“Though in the end there’s no real harm done. I would have had to kill her anyway—it just would have been done in a different order. And this time I’ll complete my mission with no more mistakes.”

“You killed Sylvia?”

Maureen made an exasperated noise. “Haven’t you been listening? Of course I killed her. And she put up far more of a fight than I’m expecting from you. In the dark she must have thought I was a thief, because she fought like the very devil. I still have bruises. But I know you’re not going to give me any trouble—”

Chloe slammed her across the face with the empty wine bottle. The heavy glass shattered, but Chloe was already sprinting past her, running for her life, as Maureen screamed in rage behind her.

She couldn’t remember much about the layout of the old house, but even in her panic she managed to find the stairs. She could hear Maureen following her, but she had a good head start, and she ran down the stairs as fast as she could.

She slid on the last flight, going down hard and losing precious moments. By the time she’d managed to scramble to her feet again Maureen was in sight on the next landing.

The stairs ended, and Chloe kept moving, running
blindly, listening to the sounds of Maureen’s heavy breathing as she closed in on her.

At the last minute luck was with her—she stumbled through a door that led into the murky, snow-lit outdoors. She was at the top of an outside flight of stairs leading down into the yard. She could even see the snow-covered mound of the taxi that had brought them here, but all trace of footprints had been covered up by the heavy snow, and it lay on each step at least a foot deep.

Chloe started down the stairs, fighting her way through the heavy wet snow, but it was too late. She was halfway down when Maureen caught up with her, grabbing her short hair and yanking her back.

“Bitch,” she spat, and her face was covered in blood. No longer chic and pretty, she was murderously angry. She took her and slammed her against the snowy stairs, holding her down. The knife in her hand was small but capable, and Chloe knew a bleak, surrealistic moment of despair. Why did it always have to be a knife? Why couldn’t someone just try to shoot her, cleanly and quickly, instead of carving into her flesh like a surgeon on amphetamines.

She closed her eyes, no longer brave, ready to face death, and she heard Maureen’s throaty laugh. “That’s the girl,” she said. “No more arguments.”

“Maureen! Stop!”

It couldn’t be Bastien’s hoarse voice—he’d set this
up. Had he changed his mind, come back? Changed his mind as he had at the château, and decided to save her?

“Go away, Jean-Marc!” Maureen said in an eerily calm voice, not bothering to look away from Chloe as she lay on the snow-covered stairs. “You know this is for the best. We have no choice.”

“Leave her alone!” The voice was closer, calmer now, but Maureen wasn’t listening.

“Make your choice, Jean-Marc,” she said. “Her or…” Her voice broke at the sound of the muffled gun, and she looked down in surprise. “Shit,” she muttered. And fell backward, sliding down the snowy slant of the stairs until she landed at the bottom, at Bastien’s feet.

There was a wide trail of bright crimson blood on the snow where Maureen’s body had slid, harsh red against the brilliant white. Chloe tried to move, but Bastien’s voice stopped her.

“Stay where you are,” he said, sounding oddly hollow. He bent down, effortlessly lifting Maureen’s limp body in his arms. For the moment he seemed to forget Chloe, as he carried Maureen toward the abandoned taxi, kicking the deep snow away, opening the door against the heavy drifts.

Chloe rose on unsteady legs, making her way down the stairs, following the trail of blood, her movements muffled by the thick snow. She should run, into the streets, and maybe he’d give up trying to find her.

She wasn’t going anywhere.

He had laid Maureen on the back seat. Her eyes were open, and he reached out a hand and gently closed them. “I’m sorry, love,” he whispered, before backing away and closing the door.

He seemed shocked to see her standing there, so close. She was fine, Chloe thought dazedly. She had gone past the ability to react, all she could do was stand there in the silence of the winter day, staring up at him, as the snow began to fall around them.

A
few feet separated them, a few feet of blood and snow. She didn’t even think about it, she went to him, into his arms, pressing her face against his shoulder, clinging to him, shaking so hard she thought her bones would shatter, shaking to keep from screaming.

His arms came around her, strong, safe arms, holding her tight against him. He was powerful, warm, and the faint tremor in his body had to be her imagination.

He put a hand against her head, gently stroking her hair. “Breathe,” he whispered in her ear, like a lover. “Just breathe, slowly. Calm, deep breaths.”

She hadn’t even realized she’d been holding her breath. His hand was cupping her chin, his thumb gently stroking her throat, almost massaging her into breathing once more, and she took a deep, shuddering gasp, and then another, and then another.

“We need to get out of here,” he whispered, and she wanted to laugh, somewhere near hysteria. There was
no one there to hear her—Maureen was dead, the world was a whirling mass of blood and snow, and if she screamed no one would hear….

But she wouldn’t scream. She could absorb his heat, his strength, his breath into her bones. She stayed that way, clinging to him, and he made no effort to make her move, giving her the time she needed.

She raised her head finally. He looked the same, but then, he always did. She’d seen him kill twice, and he betrayed no reaction at all. He was a monster, not even human.

But he was her monster, keeping her safe, and she was past the point of caring. “I’m ready,” she said.

He nodded, releasing her, keeping hold of her hand. She was icy cold, wet from the snow, and she clutched his hand so tightly it hurt her fingers, but she wouldn’t let go. He led her away from the old house, pausing long enough to kick some snow over the trail of blood that spilled down the last few stairs. The sky was growing darker now, though she wasn’t sure whether it was the storm or the hour. Or maybe her own willfulness, closing down a life that was becoming unbearable. She might be calling the darkness in around her, so that it would eventually close over her like a dark blanket, shutting out everything, the light, the horror, the pain….

He was being very gentle with her, she thought absently, as he opened the door of a shiny car she didn’t recognize, settling her into the front seat, fastening the
seat belt. She’d left his coat behind, and suddenly it seemed terribly important, as if she’d left her only security back in the house.

“Your coat…” she said, taking in a shuddering gasp of breath.

“Fuck the coat. I don’t need it.”

“I do.”

He didn’t move, standing there in the open door, looking down at her, blotting out the sky. Wondering if she’d lost her mind, Chloe thought. The answer was yes.

After a moment he nodded. “Don’t move,” he said, closing the door of the small car.

She wanted to laugh. She couldn’t move. He’d fastened the seat belt, and her fingers wouldn’t work to unfasten it, her legs wouldn’t work to support her. It was taking all her strength to keep breathing as he’d told her to do, slow, deep breaths, and she concentrated on that.

It seemed as if he’d only been gone a moment. He opened her door and tucked the coat around her shoulders, then looked down into her face. “Are you all right?”

“Of course,” she said.

Wrong answer, she presumed, because a frown crossed his face for a moment. But he simply nodded. “Just hold on.”

What else did he think she would do, she thought, letting her head fall back against the seat and the bunched up coat. Run for it? Her running was over.

She closed her eyes as he drove fast, into the heart of Paris, listening to his calm voice with only a small part of her brain. The rest of her was drifting with the snow, snuggled inside his coat. “The airport is open again, but you’re going to have to wait. I have to get to the hotel—I’ve let things hang for too long, and the only way to keep you safe is to keep you with me.”

That was enough to make her open her eyes. “Why did you come back?” She didn’t recognize her own voice—it was small and strained. What on earth was wrong with her? She felt encased in ice.

He didn’t even look at her, concentrating on driving. That was the one thing she’d never done—drive on the Paris streets. She was brave enough to tackle most things, but driving in Paris was too much even for her. Sylvia had always laughed and called her a wuss. Sylvia…

“Breathe,” he said sharply. And she did.

He drove right up to the front of the Hotel Denis. One of the very best in Paris, small and exclusive and elegant, and he was driving up to the discreet front entrance, jumping out and coming to her door before the doorman could do more than open it. He said something to the man, but she wasn’t listening, and he unfastened her seat belt and helped her out, keeping the coat around her shoulders, his arm around her waist, his head low to hers like an attentive lover.

“Look sleepy,” he whispered in her ear. In German,
she realized without surprise. “I’ve told them you’re just in from Australia and you’re jet-lagged. They won’t expect anything from you.” He brushed a kiss against her temple, part of his act, and if she could she would have turned and kissed him on the mouth.

They moved through the small, tasteful lobby of the old hotel. It seemed as if a thousand eyes were upon her, watching their progress as he guided her toward the elevators, his arm around her shoulder, holding the coat around her. She was cold anyway, her chest wet from the snow, and not even the coat could warm her.

He somehow managed to get her up to his room—she was past the point of noticing. He closed the door behind them, switching on the light, and she was barely aware of her surroundings. “I’m cold,” she said, her voice unnaturally loud. She dropped the coat off her shoulders, onto the floor. “I’m cold and I’m wet.” She touched the front of her shirt, pulling the damp fabric away from her body. She couldn’t figure out how she’d gotten snow on her front.

“You need to rest. I’ll have some new clothes sent up for you. I wasn’t expecting to bring you back here. The bedroom’s behind you. Why don’t you get under the covers and try to warm up?”

She pulled at the soft silk jersey, then looked down at her hands in sudden horror. They were streaked with red.

She looked up at him, into his impassive face. He’d
wiped his hands, but she could see the brownish red traces of dried blood on them. And his shirt was wet—she could see the shiny dampness in the afternoon light.

“Have you been hurt?” she asked. “Your shirt…” Without thinking she put her hand against his chest. Against his beating heart.

He shook his head. “It’s Maureen’s blood,” he said. “It’s on both of us.”

It was the final straw. “Get it off me!” she cried, yanking at her shirt, sobbing. “Please…I can’t…” The soft knit fabric simply stretched beneath her panicked hands, and she lost whatever calm distance she’d had. She was there, in the present, covered with a dead woman’s blood, as he was, and if she didn’t get it off her she was going to explode.

“Calm down,” he said, reaching for the hem of her shirt and yanking it over her head. Exposing her body, the lacy black bra, the streaks of blood on her pale skin.

He swore. She was past the point of speech, yanking at her clothes as she gasped for breath, and he simply picked her up, carried her through the darkened bedroom, into the bathroom. It was instantly flooded with bright light, illuminating her skin. He put her into the shower, half-dressed, and turned it on full force, getting in with her as the hot water blasted down on them both.

He stripped off the rest of her clothes, quickly, efficiently, taking the soap and washing her as she stood
there, frozen, shivering beneath the steamy downpour. His hands were fast, rough, covering her body, shocking her into action, and she pulled at his clothes, at the blood-soaked fabric, sobbing now.

He pulled his shirt over his head, his chest streaked more darkly with blood, then stripped out of the rest of his clothes, keeping a steady arm around her as he did so. She took the soap from him and scrubbed at his chest, covering him with lather, desperate to wash any trace of blood away, desperate for it all to be washed away….

“Enough,” he said, taking her hand, making her drop the soap onto the tiled floor of the shower, pulling her against him under the full force of the shower, her body pressed up against his, wet and naked, the both of them.

She needed it to go away, all of it. The water wasn’t enough, the soap couldn’t banish it. She needed more, and his erection against her belly was proof that he did, too. In normal times he might not want her, but at that moment he needed her just as badly as she needed him. Needed the oblivion.

She reached down and touched him, and he jerked in her hand, big and heavy, engorged with the same need that swamped her.

She looked up at him through the heavy downpour of the shower. “Please,” she whispered, letting her fingers slip down the solid ridge of his cock. “I need…”

“I know,” he said.

He didn’t turn off the shower. He simply picked her up and carried her into the darkened bedroom, laying her down on the bed, following her, covering her, pushing inside her before she could even catch her breath.

But then, she didn’t want to breathe. She just wanted this, hard and fast and deep, and she came almost immediately, hard around him, tight and clenching as her entire body suffused into heat and light and a kind of star-studded prickly darkness that went on forever, as he moved inside her, seeking his climax with mindless concentration.

It didn’t take him long either. She was still shivering around him when she felt his cock thicken and jerk inside her, and her own climax began again. She tightened her legs around his hips as he spilled inside her. Hot, wet life filling her, driving away death and darkness.

She must have made some sort of noise, because he covered her mouth with his hand, silencing her. She welcomed it, letting go of the very last of her strength, sobbing against the hard flesh of his fingers, until there was nothing left of her, nothing at all.

Bastien pulled away from her, and her arms fell away. She was already unconscious. He would have liked to think he’d fucked her into oblivion, but he knew better than that. She craved the release, the for
getting, as strong as a junkie craved his drugs, and he’d given it to her, taken it for himself, and she’d found healing sleep before he even pulled out of her body.

Her body hadn’t followed her mind yet—the last, stray shiver of orgasm stirred her body. He’d needed her so badly, and he still couldn’t believe her need had been just as strong.

He hadn’t kissed her. But then, this hadn’t been about kissing. It had been about life, reclaiming it. It had been about sex and rebirth, pain and need, and he was getting hard again, just looking down at her.

He wondered if it would ever be about them. About him wanting Chloe, and Chloe wanting him, or whether it was just a weapon, a drug, a tool. He wasn’t going to find out. He was going to finish his job, tonight, and get Chloe on a plane. He was going to survive, because he had to, because he had to make sure she was safely out of there. And then he was going to wait to see what happened, if they would come for him or let him go.

The shower was still running. The Hotel Denis had unlimited hot water, as befitted an exclusive, discreet establishment. He looked down at her, envying her sleep, envying her oblivion. He had too many things to do, to keep her safe, to finish this. He couldn’t crawl beneath the sheets with her, wrap his body around hers and sink into the warm, sweet pleasure of her. All he could do was pull the covers from under her, covering her body.
All he could do was lean over and put his mouth against her lips.

All he could do was leave her.

Chloe opened her eyes. She didn’t want to. For a brief moment she couldn’t remember where she was. Her dreams had put her back in her bedroom at home, but the light coming from the open door wasn’t right, and she didn’t recognize the muffled voice from the other room. Her body felt strange, languorous and yet oddly tense.

And then it came back like a hammer blow, everything. Every detail, in sharp, living color, and she put her hand to her mouth, stifling a moan. What the hell had she done?

She’d had sex with Bastien. Again. But in the end that was the least of her worries. It was nothing compared to the litany of death and blood and danger.

She could only hear the distant timbre of his voice and no other. He was talking on the phone, low, calm, and maybe she should go to the door and listen in but she wasn’t going to. She was going to wash off, wash him from her body, and then she was going to find some clothes and get the hell out of here.

There was no sign of their drenched black clothes on the floor of the large bathroom. He must have removed them, thank God. She washed quickly, then wrapped herself in one of the oversize towels and headed into the bedroom.

It wasn’t enough. She dragged the sheet off the bed and pulled that around her instead, wrapping it like a toga before she went to the door.

She couldn’t resist temptation. She paused, listening to his calm, unemotional voice.

“I’ve made the final arrangements. Just keep your end of the bargain. If something happens, anything, then all bets are off, you understand me?” It was a threat, in a calm, gentle voice that sent chills down her spine. There was a pause, and she held her breath, straining to hear.