Black Ice (7 page)

“Stupid question. Because I want to. Because I want you. And all you have to do is say ‘no.’ But you’re not going to. Because you want this just as much as I do, no matter what you tell yourself. You want to taste my mouth. You want my hands on you. Don’t you?”

She wanted to deny it, to tell him how delusional he was, how conceited, mistaken, arrogant, wrongheaded…

“Kiss me back, Chloe,” he whispered. And she did.

She liked kissing. Loved kissing, in fact. But with Bastien it was bordering on orgasmic, and he didn’t have to move his hand any higher under her skirt to bring her almost to the point of exploding. All he needed was his mouth—moving, touching, tasting—hers—deeper, harder—and she could feel a dark shiver run from her throat to her womb. She reached out her hands to touch him.

The car came out of nowhere, headlights spearing into the windscreen, horn honking, tires sliding on the narrow road. It narrowly avoided hitting the parked Porsche, and then it drove off. But Chloe had jumped back, from him, from temptation, moving as far away from him as possible.

She wished the light wasn’t on, that she didn’t have to see him. But then, if they were in the dark maybe they wouldn’t have stopped. He was looking at her with a calm, speculative expression, seemingly unmoved by the last few minutes. “If you move any farther you’ll be hanging out the window,” he said.

“Maybe that would be a good idea.”

His smile was faint. “Not in this rain. Sit back and relax. I told you I wouldn’t touch you if you didn’t want me to. All you have to do is say so.”

“I don’t want you to touch me.” It was an out-and-out total lie. Or at least it was a lie of the flesh. Her body wanted him. Longed for him. Her brain still realized how bad he was for her, but it was fighting a hard battle against her melting body.

“If you say so,
petite,
” he said easily. “Fasten your seat belt.”

If she’d been clumsy from the cold it was nothing compared to how shaken she was now. He watched her fumble, making no effort to help her, as if he wanted to find out just how much he’d managed to disturb her. Finally he reached out and did it for her, his long fingers
brushing against her stomach, so that she jumped nervously.

“Not unless you ask, Chloe,” he said in a soothing voice, flicking off the overhead light and putting the car into gear again. The heat had finally come on, at a time when Chloe was already feeling overheated despite her wet clothes, but she didn’t complain.

At least they hadn’t gone any further, though God knew what else she might have given into, if she’d had half a chance. She could still feel the imprint of his hand on her thigh, the long fingers against the soft skin, so unbearably close to the center of her. She needed to drive that from her mind, wipe the taste of his mouth from hers, bring a wall of ice between them, one that wouldn’t melt in the heat of her body.

“You’re very good at this, Monsieur Toussaint,” she said in an admirably cool voice after they’d driven for a few minutes. “I don’t know why you bother. I imagine it’s simply a matter of male pride or too much testosterone. It must be unbearable to think that a woman doesn’t want you.”

She could see his profile from the lights on the dashboard, but he was giving nothing away. “Are you wanting to convince me that you aren’t attracted to me? I know women,
chérie,
and I know when they’re interested and when they’re not. I don’t understand your hesitation, but I am always one to accept my dismissal gracefully. There are other women. There are always other women.”

This wasn’t going the way she had planned. But then, nothing with this strange man had gone the way she wanted it to.

“And I’m sure they’ll be a lot easier to seduce.” Her voice was scathing.

“Oh, I imagine I could seduce you fairly easily if I set my mind to it.”

For some reason she found that insulting. He couldn’t be bothered to make a real effort? Why? Was she that unattractive?

She didn’t show her reaction. “You can believe anything you want,” she said. “But next time you want to seduce someone you ought to pick a better place than the front seat of a Porsche. It’s hardly the right venue for sex.”

He smiled at her. “Let me assure you, Chloe, that I could have fucked you very well indeed in the front seat of this car. I’ve done it before.”

So why would such an insulting statement be erotic? She must be suffering hypothermia. “Just take me back to the château,” she said in a low voice, giving up. He was better at this than she was, and the truth was, she probably did want him as much as he thought she did. Probably more than he wanted her—she wasn’t even sure she believed him on that score. He was the type of man to go for an exotic butterfly like Monique Von Rutter or a ruthlessly chic Englishwoman like Madame Lambert. Gauche little American girls were hardly his type.

But whether he really wanted her or whether it was just an automatic response, as long as she kept her distance she would be fine. She’d seen it happen last night—it had taken him less than five minutes to disappear with Monique von Rutter. He’d find someone else to distract him once they got there.

He drove too fast, in complete silence the rest of the way. He pulled around to the back of the sprawling building, and she glanced at her expensive little watch, half expecting it to have stopped working.

It was only half past six, and a long night lay ahead of them. And all Chloe wanted to do was take a long, hot bath and crawl into bed.

Somehow she didn’t think that was going to happen. He stopped the car, leaned over and unfastened her seat belt. “I thought you’d prefer a different entrance. This is the door closest to your rooms, and you can take a shower and change before anyone sees you and asks questions.”

“What’s wrong with questions? I wasn’t anywhere I shouldn’t have been, I didn’t do anything I shouldn’t have done.” The moment the words were out of her mouth she regretted them. Kissing Bastien had been a very unwise move, and she would have done a lot worse if something hadn’t stopped them.

“Really?” he murmured. “In that case I can come up with you and finish what we started.”

She almost called his bluff. Fortunately she still had
an ounce of sanity left. “No, thank you. I think we’ve already finished.”

“Do you indeed?” When he smiled that slow, annoying smile she wanted to hit him. He leaned toward her, and she was terrified he was going to kiss her again. But instead he simply opened the door for her. “I’ll see you at dinner.”

She grabbed the ruined shoes, the drenched leather purse and her dignity, and stepped out into the courtyard. The rain had changed to a fine mist, but the air was turning colder, and her clothes felt clammy. She looked back at the Porsche, but she couldn’t see Bastien in the dark interior. Just as well.

“Thanks for the ride,” she said, and slammed the door with a little too much force.

And before he drove away, she thought she heard him laugh.

B
astien didn’t like to be wrong about things. He’d been observing human nature, sussing out people for longer than he could remember, and his instincts were usually infallible. And now he was beginning to have second thoughts about Chloe Underwood.

Logic dictated that she was a dangerous operative. It would be absurd to think that there was any other possibility. And she was either very, very good or very, very bad. He just couldn’t figure out which.

She came down late to dinner, no surprise, and he kept out of her way. She was acutely aware of him—anyone with half a brain would have noticed, and there was no one in the room who was mentally deficient. She sat quietly, ate little and looked everywhere but in his direction. Under different circumstances he might have found it amusing. But right then nothing was particularly funny.

She didn’t look quite as polished as when she’d first
arrived. Her dark hair was curly from the rain, her makeup more minimal, her mouth red and slightly swollen. He hadn’t kissed her that hard, had he? Maybe he had, but she’d kissed him back with equal enthusiasm, until the fucking headlights had interrupted them.

He could have found out a great deal once he got inside her. He still could.

Monique von Rutter had honed in on Chloe with the instincts of a great white shark, just looking for a limb to tear off. Bastien watched in silence as she focused in on her, chatting with Chloe in the most charming of voices that would have fooled no one but a complete innocent. Chloe was looking at her warily, answering Monique’s provocative questions in monosyllables, and she didn’t touch her wine. Too bad—he’d been counting on alcohol making his task easier.

But then, he wasn’t the kind of man who looked for the easiest way out.

“I find French men utterly tedious, don’t you, Miss Underwood?” Monique was saying. “They’re more interested in their own performance than in a woman’s pleasure. And vain! Take Bastien, for example. Only a very shallow creature would dress that well.”

Chloe’s eyes darted in his direction, then focused back on her barely touched plate, and she didn’t answer. Not much fun for Monique, Bastien thought lazily, twirling his wineglass in one hand. Maybe he should help her out.

“But you’re missing the point, Baroness,” he drawled. “A man who is fixated on his sexual performance is devoted to pleasing his lover. If he were more interested in his own pleasure it would be one thing, but if his pride insists that he be a great lover then that can only be to a woman’s benefit, is that not so?”

There was a faint stain of color on Chloe’s cheeks as she stared into her plate, a stain that everyone around the table noted.

But Monique was in full flower. “Unless, of course, the woman realizes she’s nothing more than a prop for her lover’s vanity. That her pleasure is simply a reflection of his prowess, not real desire on his part.”

Bastien shrugged. “What does it matter? As long as she is pleased.”

“And you are so good at pleasing women,” Monique cooed. And then added with a touch too much haste, “Or so I’ve been told.”

Bastien was no longer amused. Everyone at the table knew he’d been fucking her, including her voyeuristic husband. Including innocent Miss Chloe. They were all scheduled to leave in less than forty-eight hours, and as far as he could tell very little had been accomplished. They had gotten no closer to choosing a new leader, and Christos had yet to arrive. But then, he had probably sent Chloe on ahead to do the groundwork. The rest of them were fools not to realize how tenuous the situation was. And how unlikely their substitute translator was.

The cartel, whose success depended on strict secrecy, had the dangerous presence of an unknown in their midst, and Monique’s jealous little games weren’t helping matters. She needed someone else to focus on, to leave him and Chloe alone, but there was no one else available. Hakim preferred young boys, Madame Lambert was fastidious, Ricetti gay and Otomi a devoted family man. Which only left her husband, and Monique had grown tired of him long ago.

“We should work tonight,” Hakim broke in, and it was clear he was equally annoyed with Monique’s behavior. “We’re behind schedule and we can’t afford to wait for Mr. Christopolous any longer. We have too many things to decide in too short a time—the redivision of territories, our new leader and what kind of response we should make to Remarque’s assassination. These are things of monumental importance, and we can’t waste any more time.”

Ah, Chloe, Bastien thought. She’d turned to look at Hakim in surprise, and he could read what was going on in her mind. Why should the importation of grocery products and livestock be of monumental importance? Why was their leader assassinated? She was either impossibly gauche or incredibly clever.

“So we’ll work,” the baron said.

“Those of us who need to. Miss Underwood, your services will be dispensed with tonight. We can manage without you.”

Chloe took that as the dismissal it was, and she rose. “I’m sorry I forgot the books,” she said.

“What books?”

“The ones you sent me to buy.”

Hakim waved a dismissive hand. “Unimportant. We’ll be working in the conference room—I’m sure you’ll be most comfortable in your own rooms.”

It was as clear a directive as possible, a warning, but Chloe was still performing her artless act. “I wondered if there’s a computer around I might use? I wanted to check my e-mail.”

Dead silence, and Bastien leaned back, wondering how Hakim planned to deal with it. To his surprise Hakim nodded. “In the library just off the stairs on the first floor. Feel free to browse all you want.”

“Just my e-mail,” she said, rising from the table. The rest stayed put—no courtesies for the hired help, Bastien thought, resisting his own urge to rise. And if she only wanted to check e-mail then he was the prima ballerina with the Ballet Russe. But would she be smart enough to cover her tracks?

The door closed behind her, and conversation broke out immediately. “I don’t think having the woman here was a very good idea,” von Rutter said in German. “We could have muddled along well enough without a translator. Why bring a stranger into the place?”

“The woman I originally hired was an airheaded blonde with just the marginal skills to make things eas
ier and the self-absorption not to notice anything unusual,” Hakim replied in the same language. “I’m not so sure of this one.”

“Not sure?” Monique said sharply. “I never thought you were the kind of man who left things to chance, Gilles. You should get rid of her, immediately.”

“If necessary,” Hakim said. He wouldn’t like being told what to do—he thought his time had come and he was ready to sit at the power table. “You know I have no qualms about doing what needs to be done. But I never act rashly. If an American disappears without a trace there might be too many questions. I need to be convinced that either no one would miss her, or that her presence was too incriminating. I’m not sure of either. As soon as I am, Miss Underwood will cease to be an issue.”

“English or French, please, if you can’t speak Italian,” Ricetti grumbled. “What are we talking about?”

Monique turned and smiled sweetly. “We’re discussing whether Miss Underwood is a danger, and if so, how we can neatly dispose of her?” She spoke in her flawless Italian.

“Kill her and set up a fake auto accident,” Ricetti said.

“Perhaps,” Hakim responded. “But she’s traveling with my chauffeur, and I’m not sure I want to give up my Daimler just to cover an execution. I would have a hard time replacing my driver as well.”

“Just kill her and stop fussing about it,” Mr. Otomi said. “If you are too squeamish I can have my assistant take care of it. We are wasting our time arguing when we have more important things to do. I want to know how we are going to transport the four dozen Legolas weapons into Turkey without anyone noticing.”

“That’s your problem, Otomi-san,” Bastien said smoothly. “I want to know where the money’s coming from before I put my goods on the table. And trust me, they’re very impressive. The finest that American military research can come up with.”

“No one trusts you, Bastien,” Madame Lambert said. “None of us trusts each other. That’s why we work so well together. Between us, we control the selling and buying of illegal weapons throughout most of the world. Trust would simply interfere with things.”

“Most of the world,” Bastien echoed. “But not all of it. Where the hell is Christos? I don’t like this delay—it makes me edgy. Shouldn’t we be worrying about him, not a hapless young woman with the guile of a rabbit?”

Monique laughed. “She is a bit of a bunny, isn’t she? All big eyes and twitching little nose. We just don’t know if that’s an act or not. And I, for one, don’t propose we endanger our enterprise by waiting around to find out. If Christos were here he’d say the same thing.”

“Christos isn’t here, and we’re wasting too much time on the girl,” Hakim said, clearly displeased.
“Bastien, go after her, see what you can find out. I don’t want to attract any official attention, but neither do I want to waste our time squabbling about her. We’ll start with Ricetti’s proposal for redividing our Middle East customers—that should give you enough time to make a determination. If she’s a danger, kill her. If not, come back to the table and we’ll get some work done.”

Bastien raised an eyebrow. “And why do I get charged with this little assignment?” he demanded. “I already spent the whole damned day with her and didn’t find out anything.”

“You didn’t push hard enough. You’re the one who’s spent the most time with her—you’ll have the best chance of finding out what’s going on.”

“Besides,” Monique purred, “she has a crush on you. Any fool can see that.”

He didn’t bother denying it. Any fool could see that she was almost hypersensitive to his presence. He drained his wineglass and pushed away from the table. “My pleasure,” he said lazily.

And he strolled from the room, hands shoved in his pockets, entirely at ease with his task.

There was no sign of her in the upstairs library, but the computer was out of sleep mode, proving she’d just been there. She’d made an inadequate attempt at covering up her Internet snooping, but it didn’t take much to find her footprints. She’d been looking up Legolas,
and she’d found the right site to tell her just how very dangerous and illegal those weapons were. She’d also looked up half the people in the room, including him.

He didn’t bother to check—he knew exactly what she would and wouldn’t discover in her clumsy tripping through the Internet, about the others and about him. Bastien Toussaint was thirty-four years old, married, no children, rumored connections with various terrorist organizations, never proven, suspected to be an international dealer in illegal weapons and drugs. Connected to the murder of three Interpol agents. Considered to be a very dangerous man.

She would have read that, but then, it should be nothing new to her if she’d been properly briefed. If it was news to her he was going to have a hard time getting any closer to her, to find out exactly who and what she was.

And he was going to find out just how hard to get she was. And exactly how good his performance, as Monique termed it, was. No more graceful little dance. The time had come to find out why she was really here.

And then to do something about it.

Chloe was scared shitless. Sitting in the middle of her elegant room, crying. Her freshly applied makeup would be running down her face, she thought, and she’d look like a raccoon all over again. And this time Bastien wouldn’t be there to mop up the mess with one of
his soft, clean shirts. He wasn’t going to get anywhere near her.

She had to get out of here. How in God’s name had she managed to land in such a nest of vipers? She should have realized something odd was going on, but her parents had always told her she had an overactive imagination, and she’d decided they were right. An addiction to thrillers and fantasy novels probably hadn’t helped.

But this was no imaginary danger. These weren’t grocers, and why the hell she’d ever thought they were was a total mystery. Did Bastien Toussaint look like a chicken importer? Did Baroness Monique von Rutter buy her designer clothes and magnificent diamonds with the proceeds from soybeans?

“Idiote!”
she said aloud. She needed to get the hell out of there, fast, before they decided she was a liability. She’d left the dining room immediately, not even pausing when she heard her name in the midst of a German sentence. Getting to the Internet before anyone could catch her was too important. Baron von Rutter was a sweet old man—he wouldn’t allow them to harm her. Unless, of course, he was equally ignorant of what was actually going on here.

Her suitcase was in the bottom of the armoire. She dragged it out and began throwing Sylvia’s clothes into it, including the ruined silk blouse and shredded stockings. It was simple enough—she would tell Monsieur
Hakim that she’d received an e-mail from her roommate informing her that her grandmother was desperately ill and she needed to fly home to her family immediately. She could even tell them her ticket on Air France was already booked, and she was due to fly out in less than twelve hours. Just enough time to get back to Paris, throw a few things in a bag and fly home. For the first time in her adult life she was actually frightened.

She was hardly set for travel. She’d picked the plainest dress Sylvia had sent—a clingy black wrap dress that showed too much cleavage, though she’d managed to pin it closed. Beneath it were black French lace underthings that belonged on a rich man’s mistress, and if she had to put another pair of too-small heels on she’d cry.