Black Ice (19 page)

“As long as you understand,” he said. “I don’t bluff, and she’s the deal breaker.”

The conversation ended, and Chloe counted to a hundred in Italian before she pushed open the door. He was sitting in an overstuffed chair, his legs stretched out in front of him, not moving. The room was dimly lit, something she was grateful for. She didn’t think she could bear the bright electric light right now.

He didn’t even seem to be aware of her presence, but then his voice came from his unmoving body. “Did you hear anything interesting?”

She should have realized he’d know she was listening. He seemed to have an almost unnatural awareness of her. Then again, that awareness probably stretched to include anyone around him—it was how he survived.

“Only that I’m a deal breaker.” She came into the
room, keeping the sheet around her. “Are you trading me for something?”

He turned his head to look at her, and there was no missing the faint light of amusement in his eyes as he surveyed her outfit. “I’m trading you for two ox and a bunch of chickens.”

“You forget, I was in on those meetings. That probably means two stinger missiles and a bunch of Uzis.”

The smile widened just a bit. “What do you know of stinger missiles and Uzis?”

“Not much,” she admitted, moving into the room.

“Trust me, they’re worth more than the life of one woman.”

She grimaced. “Life seems to have very little value in your world.” The moment the words had left her mouth she regretted them, but he didn’t even blink.

“You’re right. Which makes it even more difficult to keep you alive.”

“I don’t understand why. I must be a huge inconvenience.”

“Inconvenience is putting it mildly. I don’t know why either,” he said in a cool, dismissive voice. “There are some clothes in the foyer—you’ll need to dress for tonight.”

She ignored the alternative of not being dressed. “Why? Are you taking me out on the town?”

“You’re getting a chance to meet your old friends again. The baron and his wife, Mr. Otomi and the oth
ers. I’m afraid my unexpected departure and Hakim’s unfortunate death cut our meeting short, before a major player could even get there. He’s arriving tonight, and we’ll be finishing up our business then.”

“And you want me to come with you?” she said, disbelieving.

“You’re not leaving my side. You’ll do everything I say, and when I give you a signal we’ll have a fight. You’ll leave, head to the toilet, and I’ll be there in about ten minutes. You’ll stay there, no matter what you hear. You understand?”

“And what if you don’t come?”

“I will. No matter what happens.”

“‘I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way,’” she murmured.

“What?”

“Just an old poem. About a highwayman. I expect you’re something of a modern equivalent,” she said lightly.

“I’m not a thief. And somehow I don’t see you shooting yourself in order to warn me.”

She should have known he’d be acquainted with the poem—he was always surprising her. “So what am I wearing? Basic black? I finally realized why you always wear black.”

“Because I’m stylish?” he suggested lightly. “Or because I’m evil?”

“Neither,” she said. “Because it doesn’t show blood.”

There was silence in the room, so quiet that she could almost hear the snow falling outside the tall windows. “Get dressed,” he finally said.

The clothes were in the tiny hallway of the suite, the name of the designer on the garment bag and boxes. If Sylvia had these she would have thought she’d died and gone to heaven….

He got there so fast she barely had time to swallow the sudden gulp of pain. “What’s wrong?”

She turned to look at him, managing to pull herself together. “If you try really hard you’ll probably be able to guess. Your former girlfriend killed Sylvia, you know. She thought she was me.”

“I know.”

“Then why do you ask me what’s wrong?”

“Because we don’t have time for it. Once you’re back with your family you can fall apart. Right now you need to have nerves of steel.”

“And if I don’t? I suppose you’ll kill me, right?”

He made no move to touch her. “No,” he said. “You’ll die, but I won’t be the one to do it. And I’ll die, too. I imagine that’s more of an incentive than a warning, but you’re not going to survive without me. And you know it.”

“Yes,” she said. “I know it.”

“So you have to be strong. No tears, no panic. You’ve managed to keep it together so far, and it’ll only be a few more hours and you’ll be safe. You can hold out for that much longer. I know you can.”

“How do you know it?” Her voice was close to breaking. “I’m a wreck.”

“You’re amazing,” he said softly. “You’ve managed to stay alive this long. I’m not going to let anything else happen to you.”

“Amazing?” she echoed, shaken.

“Go get dressed,” he said. And he turned from her, shutting her out once more.

H
e’d thought of everything. At first she thought he’d forgotten to get her a bra, and then she realized she couldn’t wear one under the slinky black halter dress. The black lace panties were only one step more generous than a thong, and the matching garter belt and stockings should have revolted her. She put them on, and thought of his hands on her legs.

He’d even ordered the right color range in the makeup—the man was unnatural. There was nothing she could do about her hair. It would have to pass muster as the latest in disarranged styles. She eyed the shoes warily—higher heels than she was used to, but they fit perfectly. He seemed to know her body better than she did, and it made her more than uncomfortable. He knew and understood her body, and yet he was an enigma to her. One she was crazy enough to long for. He’d called her amazing. For some reason she cherished the compliment. Amazingly brave,
amazingly stupid, amazing curious, amazingly lucky. Amazing.

Stockholm Syndrome, she reminded herself, a silent litany to keep her absurdities in check. Once she was back home she’d remember this with astonishment. If she chose to remember it at all.

The lights of Paris were bright beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows of the living room, and Bastien stood in the center, half-dressed, fiddling with something under his open shirt. A white shirt—maybe he wasn’t expecting blood.

“I need your help,” he said, not turning to look at her.

“You don’t strike me as someone who asks for help.”

“There’s a first time for everything….” The words trailed off as he saw her. She’d been feeling awkward, conspicuous in the slinky black dress. That vanished when she saw the look in his eyes, one he quickly shielded. Maybe he had Stockholm Syndrome as well.

If so, he was able to ignore it far more effectively than she was. A moment later she might have imagined that surprising expression in his dark eyes. “I’m having trouble getting this right,” he said.

The white shirt was open, exposing his golden smooth skin. He was trying to tape something to his side, a wad of padding that looked like a bandage, when she knew his body well enough to know that he had no wound there.

She came up to him, because she had no reason, no
excuse not to. And because she wanted to. “What do you want me to do?”

“I need this adhered to my skin, just below the fourth rib. I can’t quite reach.”

“What is it?”

He hesitated for only a moment. “It’s something used to fake a gunshot wound. It has a small explosive device in it, plus an ampoule of fake blood. It’ll sound and look like I’ve been shot, and it needs to be in the right place to be a fatal hit.”

“All right.” She put her hands on the piece of padding, too close to him, breathing in the scent of his cologne. Her hands touched his skin, silky smooth, hot, and her fingers trembled. “Is this right?”

“Can you feel my ribs? It should be just below the lowest one.”

She tried to breathe normally. Feeling the bones beneath his flesh was unquestionably erotic, whether she wanted it to be or not. “Of course I can feel your ribs,” she said in a cranky voice. “You’re a skinny-ass Frenchman. Except that I don’t really believe you’re French.”

“Don’t you?” His voice was very soft. They were so close he barely had to speak above a whisper, and the hush was only increasing her reaction. “What do you think I am, then?”

“A pain in the butt.” Which sounded just fine, except that she was having a little trouble breathing with him so close. She reached under the shirt, around his side,
and pressed the tape against his skin. “Is that right?” she repeated.

“It should do. The powder will blow a hole in my clothes, and there’s enough fake blood to cover any miscalculation.” He looked down at her. Her mouth was just below his—she could close her eyes and put her head against his shoulder, sink into the heat and strength of him.

She stepped back, nervous, trying to hide it. He buttoned his shirt, then shrugged into his jacket. Black formal dinner wear, to match her slinky dress. He’d tied his long hair back and he looked elegant, unconcerned as he finished dressing. Her eyes followed his hands as they tied the black silk tie, and she found herself looking at his mouth.

“We need to talk,” she said abruptly.

“About what?”

God damn him! “About what happened a short while ago. In the bedroom,” she clarified, in case he was going to continue being deliberately obtuse.

“Why? There’s nothing to say.”

“But…”

“It was a normal human reaction. Survival of the species,
ma belle.
When one is confronted with violent death one reacts in a life-affirming way. It’s nothing personal.”

She’d been an idiot to say a word. If she’d just kept her mouth shut this weekend she might never have set
off any warning flags, and everyone would still be living their normal lives.

“You’re right,” she muttered, not caring that she sounded sulky and graceless. “Stockholm Syndrome.”

“What?”

She’d said the words out loud. It was too late to deny them, so she brazened it out. “Stockholm Syndrome,” she repeated more loudly. “It’s a documented psychological state where a hostage falls—”

“I know what it is.” He looked both alarmed and amused at the same time. He’d stopped her before she’d said the really damning words, and she could feel faintly grateful. She hadn’t managed to shame herself completely. “And you’re a victim of this particular malady?”

“It’s not surprising.” She was getting better at keeping her voice light and unconcerned. “You’ve saved my life on a number of occasions, we’re stuck together in a life-or-death situation, and before things got this bad there was a definite physical attraction between us.” She remembered his subsequent distancing, and she felt a trace of heat rush to her face. “At least, you managed to convince me it was mutual when you needed to,” she amended. “So it’s only normal that I feel a bit…dependent at the moment. It will pass, the moment I’m safely out of here.”

“Dependent?”

There was no way she was going to get out of this
gracefully, so she gave up waffling. He was trying to embarrass her, but she could give as good as she got. Her eyes met his, fearlessly, and she willed the heat away from her face. Unfortunately it moved down lower. “You’re my knight in shining armor,” she said lightly. “My hero, my savior, at least for the time being. I’ll get over it.”

The amusement had vanished from his face. “No, I’m not. No hero, no savior, no knight. I’m a killer, out for my own agenda and nothing else. You need to remember that. You’re nothing to me but an inconvenience.”

“Then why am I here?”

“Because I can’t get rid of you.”

There was something going on, something she couldn’t quite understand, but it was making her bolder, less vulnerable to his cold, empty words. “Of course you can,” she said in a practical voice. “You can break my neck, cut my throat, shoot me. You don’t seem to have any particular issues about life and death—if you simply wanted to get rid of me then why do you keep saving me?”

“Because I’m desperately in love with you and I can’t help myself. I’m a prisoner to your charm and beauty, I can’t bear to part—”

“Shut up,” she said, stopping his mocking litany. “I’m not saying I matter to you. I know perfectly well that any…feeling between us is only on my side, and
it’s the result of trauma-induced hysteria and nothing else. I’m just saying that you’re not the monster you think you are.”

“I’m not?” She was standing too close to him. He simply reached out and wrapped his long, elegant fingers around her exposed neck. He pulled her closer, exerting just the slightest amount of pressure. His fingertips were just under her jaw, his thumb stroking the soft flesh of her throat. “Maybe I feed on pain and terror. Maybe I just brought you this far to kill you the moment you begin to trust me.”

She swallowed. The touch of his hands on her throat was unnerving, and it took all her strength to keep from swaying against him. “And maybe you’re full of shit,” she said. “You may not want me but you don’t want to kill me either.”

His smile was wry. “Now that’s where you’re wrong.” The pressure of his fingers against her throat increased for just a moment, and she felt dizzy, disoriented, until she realized he’d pushed her up against the wall of the damask-paneled living room, his elegant body pressed up against hers, his fingers cradling her face as he looked down into her eyes in the gathering darkness. Wrong about what, she thought distantly. Wrong about killing, or wrong about wanting?

He was about to tell her. “If this were a different time, a different place, I would take you to bed with me and make love to you for days,” he said, his voice slow
and deep and intent. “I would use my mouth on you, until no part of your skin went untouched, and I would make you come, over and over again until you could stand no more, and then I’d let you sleep in my arms until you were rested and then I would start all over again. I would kiss your wounds, I would drink your tears, I could make love to you in ways that haven’t even been invented yet. I would make love to you in fields of flowers and under starry skies, where there is no death or pain or sorrow. I would show you things you haven’t even dreamed of, and there would be no one in the world but you and me, between your legs, in your mouth, everywhere.”

She stared at him, eyes wide. “Breathe,” he said softly, with a self-deprecating smile, and she realized she’d been holding her breath.

“You would?” she gasped.

“I would. But I won’t. It wouldn’t be a very good idea.”

“Why not?”

“It wouldn’t be very good for you.”

“Why don’t you let me be the judge of what’s good for me?”

He laughed then, and she realized she’d never heard him laugh before. For a moment he looked beautiful, gilded by moonlight, a perfect man in a perfect place.

And then the shadows closed down around them once more. “You have Stockholm Syndrome, remem
ber?” he said with gentle mockery. “It won’t be much longer. By midnight you’ll be safely away from this, and by next week it will all be a distant nightmare. In a year you’ll forget you ever met me.”

“I don’t think so.”

But the subject was closed. He took his hands away from her throat, and she realized he’d been caressing her. “You’ll do what I told you, yes? When I give you the signal you pick a fight with me, then storm out of the place and go hide in the toilet. I will come and get you as soon as I can.”

“And if you don’t come?”

“Though hell should bar the way,” he said lightly. “You’ll be seeing your old friends from the château. Such good times.”

“Yeah, right,” she said. “I promise to keep my mouth shut.”

“You don’t need to. This will all be over tonight. It doesn’t really matter what you say, as long as you don’t tell them about the device I’m wearing. Just keep away from Christos.”

“Who’s Christos?”

“You haven’t met him yet. He’s arriving tonight, and he makes Hakim seem like Mother Teresa. Steer clear of him if you can. Your artless prattle might get on his nerves, and he’s not a man to cross.”

“Artless prattle…?”

He ignored her outraged protest. “If you just keep
your head about you and do as I say you’ll make it through the night in one piece.”

“As will you?” It was a question, not a statement.

She didn’t like the faint irony in his smile. “As will I,” he said. “One more thing. You haven’t finished dressing.”

“There was no bra,” she said nervously.

“I know. That’s why I chose it.” He might as well have been discussing orange prices. He reached in the pocket of his tuxedo and pulled out a glittering string of diamonds. “You need proper ornamentation. Turn around.”

He was holding a heavy, old-looking necklace that had to be diamonds. She didn’t, couldn’t move, so he simply put his arms around her neck, fastening the clasp behind her. The light splintered and danced through the jewels, and the white-gold setting was oddly warm against her skin. He looked down at her, tilting his head to one side to judge the effect. “They look good on you.”

“Whose are they? Stolen swag? Or the best fakes money can buy?”

“Does it matter?”

“Not really.” He’d opened the door, and she knew she wasn’t coming back to this place. She was never going to spend time alone with him again, and when he took her arm she held back, just slightly.

“Would you do me a favor?”

“What is it?”

“Would you at least tell me your name?”

He shook his head. “I’ve told you, you don’t need to know. The less you know, the safer you are.”

She’d expected no more. “Then would you at least kiss me? Just once, like you really mean it.” If he didn’t kiss her she might not make it through the next few hours. If he didn’t kiss her she might not want to.

But he shook his head. “No,” he said. “Once you’re back home there’ll be dozens of handsome young men wanting to kiss you. Wait until then.”

“I don’t think so.” She put her arms around his neck and yanked his head down to hers and kissed him, hard. She half expected him to fight, to push her away, but he simply let her kiss him, not reacting, not participating. She might have been kissing her own reflection in the mirror.