Black Ice (8 page)

But she did have to, if she was going to get out of here alive. She could hide her panic—she’d never been a very good liar but the stakes had never been so high. Just think of it as an act, she told herself. Like Blanche Dubois in
A Streetcar Named Desire
…No, someone more self-sufficient! She wasn’t going to find any strangers with kindness to rely on in her situation.

The suitcase was a jumbled mess, and she didn’t care. She went into the tiny bathroom, swept the toiletries in the embroidered satchel Sylvia used, and went back to toss it into the suitcase before she closed it.

“Going somewhere?” Bastien Toussaint drawled from the open doorway.

C
hloe Underwood stared at him as if he was an axe murderer, Bastien thought lazily. She was in a panic—a tear-streaked, mindless panic, which seemed one more bit of evidence that she was a complete innocent who’d accidentally got caught up in this mess. Except that Bastien didn’t believe in accidents.

It was like looking into a hall of mirrors, he thought. You couldn’t tell where the original began, and what was merely a reflection of the real thing. Was she an innocent? An inept agent? A very good agent pretending to be an innocent? Pretending to be inept?

Time was running out, and there was only one way to get to the truth of the matter. Hurting her would get him nowhere—she’d be trained to withstand pain and she’d give up nothing she didn’t want to give up.

But there were other, much more pleasurable ways of finding out what he wanted to know. He kicked the door shut behind him, watched the alarm in her eyes grow.

He knew where the security cameras were—he’d scoped them out last night when he’d searched her room. They covered almost the entire room, including the bed and the bathroom, and he had little doubt that if they didn’t have an avid audience they were at least being taped for posterity. He was going to need to put on a good show—Hakim and company wouldn’t be easily fooled.

That didn’t mean he had to have an audience. There was a corner of the room that was mostly out of range of the cameras, a little foyer with a gilt Louis XV chest. Probably a genuine Louis XV. It would do.

She was standing in the middle of the room, unmoving, but when he came toward her she moved back nervously. She thought she knew who he was, what he was capable of. She didn’t know the half of it.

He opened the armoire, exposing a television set, and turned it on. Turned the sound up, loud, and then switched channels until he came to what he wanted. Hakim would have hard-core pornography running twenty-four/seven, and the moans of simulated pleasure filled the room.

“What are you doing?” Chloe demanded, aghast, averting her gaze from the low, wide television screen. Two men were servicing one woman, not his favorite fantasy, but the sound was enough to drown out most of their conversation.

He stood there, saying nothing as he stripped off his
jacket, tossing it onto a chair. He was just out of range of the camera, and the sounds emanating from the television would muffle anything they said. “Come here,” he said.

He might as well have suggested she jump off a building. She shook her head stubbornly. “I don’t know what you’re doing here, but I want you to leave.”

“Come here.”

She wouldn’t have started to move if she didn’t want to. He’d laid the groundwork well—she was mesmerized by him and he knew it. It was a good thing he hadn’t finished what he started in the car—he still had a major advantage. She was afraid, and yet her body still felt the power of her arousal. And that was almost stronger than her fear.

She stopped short of him, still in camera range. “I don’t enjoy watching porn,” she said. She was clearly hoping for a cool voice, but it came out strained anyway.

“I didn’t think you would. After all, Americans tend to be squeamish about sexuality.”

“I’m perfectly healthy when it comes to sexuality,” she snapped, momentarily forgetting her fear, as he’d wanted her to. “I’m not some repressed little American virgin, no matter what you might think.”

“Then come here.”

She hadn’t noticed that he’d been moving back, drawing her out of range of the camera. Then again, she
might have no idea there were cameras in the room, in every room in this renovated château.

She came right up to him, shoulders squared, like someone going into battle. “I’m not afraid of you,” she said.

“Of course you are, my pet,” he said. “That’s half the fun.” He slid his hand behind her neck, under her heavy fall of hair, and drew her face up to his. She was looking up at him, her eyes wide and panicky, and he almost felt…something. Pity? Reluctance? Mercy? There was no room for any of those emotions.

He kissed her. He remembered the taste of her mouth, the soft, sighing sound she made, the way her lips moved against his. Remembered, and wanted it. He was suddenly very glad that he’d decided to do this, been forced into it. Otherwise he would have had to find some other excuse.

He deepened the kiss, putting his arm around her waist and lifting her. She was clinging to him, and he swung her over to the alcove, pressing her up against the mirrored wall as he reached for her breasts.

She’d pinned the dress closed. He drew back for a moment, breathing heavily. “What the hell did you do with that dress?”

She didn’t try to escape. “It was too loose. I pinned it.”

“It’s supposed to be loose. Undo it.”

She blinked, her only sign of hesitation. And then she reached up and unfastened the tiny safety pin.

“Now open it,” he said.

He thought she was going to balk. But she didn’t. She pulled the silk wrap dress open, and he recognized the silk and lace underwear beneath it. From the most expensive lingerie store in all of Paris, they were the sort of thing no mere translator could afford, the sort of thing bought to entertain wealthy lovers. Another lie.

Then again, hadn’t he already figured out she was wearing the wrong bra size? Her soft skin looked pinched against the black lace, and he wanted to take it off her. But time was running out.

So he simply kissed her again, pulling her up tight against him, her nearly nude body hot against his open shirt, and she kissed him back with enough enthusiasm that he believed it when she said she was no tremulous virgin. Even though she was shaking in his arms.

The moans were coming from the television, loud and heartfelt, punctuated by screams and grunts. It didn’t matter what kind of sound they made—no one would be able to tell the difference between the film and the real thing.

Her skin was hot to the touch, soft as silk against his hands. She had her arms around his neck now, holding on to him as if she might blow away in a strong breeze, and he liked that. “Take off your underwear,” he said.

Her eyes, which had been half-closed in dreamy delight, shot open. “What?”

“What do you think we’re doing, Chloe? Take off your panties. You can leave the bra on if you insist.”

She had frozen, and the color had drained from her face. “Get away from me,” she said, shoving at him.

But it was too late. It had been too late since he’d set foot in her bedroom. Perhaps it had been too late from the moment he’d first seen her.

The upscale underwear was meant to be easily disposed of. He reached between them and caught the lace in one hand, yanking hard, and the ties tore.

“No,” he said. Merciless, he reminded himself, as he pulled her up against his body. This was a job, something he had to do. He kissed her again, and while her hands tried to push him away her mouth answered his.

And then it was too late. He picked her up, moved her to the antique chest and set her down on it, moving between her legs. He didn’t know if she realized what was going to happen, or if she was capable of rational thought. It didn’t matter.

She was wet, as he thought she’d be. It took him only a moment to unfasten his pants, and then he was inside her, deep inside, and he felt the unmistakable shock of a tiny orgasm ripple through her before she was able to stop herself.

She was going to cry, going to push him away from her, and he wasn’t about to let that happen. He stopped her mouth before she could protest, wrapped her legs around his hips and began to move, not releasing her mouth until he knew he had her with him, that she was
trying to get closer to him, wanting to thrust back but unable to because of her seat on the chest of drawers. He could feel the shivers building, knew that whatever her consciousness was telling her, her body had overruled it, and all she wanted was completion. Satisfaction. Him.

And he pulled out, almost completely, drinking in her anguished cry like the honey it was. “Who are you?” he whispered in her ear. “What are you doing here?”

She clawed at him, trying desperately to bring him back, but he was much stronger than she was, and he held her still, his hands pinning her hips to the gilded top of the dresser. “Who are you?” he demanded again, his voice as cold as his body was hot.

Her eyes were dazed, her mouth a soft wound. “Chloe…” she said in a choked voice.

He thrust into her, hard, then withdrew before she could stop him. She cried out again, but he was without remorse. “Your clothes don’t belong to you,” he whispered, and in the background the noise from the television increased in intensity, matching his own ruthless arousal, “you speak languages you pretend you don’t. You’re here for a reason, and it has nothing to do with translating. Are you here to kill someone?”

“Please!” she cried.

Again he thrust, and he could feel her hovering on the edge, ready to explode, helpless as he knew he
could make her, knew that he needed to make her. “What do you want, Chloe?” he whispered, knowing that he’d finally get the truth from her.

Her eyes were swimming with tears, and she was shaking. “You,” she said. And he believed her.

He stopped thinking then. He pulled her off the table, wrapping her legs around his hips, burying himself deep inside her, and the climax hit her so hard she cried out, louder than the voices on the television, a strangled cry of helpless pleasure.

He wasn’t ready—he was tired of playing games. He thrust inside her, slowly, deliberately, leaning up against the mirrored wall for support, holding her hips, fucking her slowly, sweetly, until it took him over as well, and he poured himself into her, losing everything, drowning in her hot, sweet flesh, her soft, sweet mouth.

He waited until he caught his breath, waited for the tremors to finish washing over his body, and then he withdrew, supporting her limp body against the wall until her legs could support her. He held her up for a moment, and he could see his face in the mirrored wall, dark and ruthless. He looked like the bastard he was, and there was nothing he could do about it. He’d accepted the fact long ago.

He stepped back from her, fastening his clothing. She was looking up at him as if he were a ghost, and he wanted to pull her into his arms, to comfort her. She
looked so bereft. For all her claims of sophistication she was clearly not used to what he’d just put her through, and she looked disoriented, lost.

But he couldn’t. He closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against hers, pulling the dress back around her body and tying it at the waist. He couldn’t keep her out of sight of the cameras any longer, but he could keep it from being too easy for them.

When the logical answers get ruled out, you have no choice but to believe the impossible. Chloe Underwood was exactly what she claimed she was. An innocent, caught in a maelstrom far too powerful for her to even understand. And oddly enough, it was the so-called good guy who had done the most damage. Up to this point.

He was going to have his work cut out for him, distracting Hakim from his own suspicions. He needed to get back to that computer, erase little Miss Busybody’s virtual fingerprints and convince the others they had nothing to fear from her.

But first he had to finish with her. He kissed her on her mouth, lightly, carelessly. “
Eh bien,
sweetheart,” he murmured. “That was very nice. Too bad we don’t have time for more.”

She stared up at him, lost for a moment. And then she reached out and slapped him, using all the shattered strength in her body, and it jarred his head.

Regret was useless, remorse an unknown emotion,
and his body was still humming with satisfaction. He gave her a crooked smile, picked up his discarded jacket and walked out of the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

Chloe leaned against the wall. Her legs felt weak, barely able to support her, and she slid down, slowly, ending on the beautiful parquet floor. She began to shake—it started slowly, as nothing more than a faint vibration that grew until she was shivering uncontrollably. She wrapped her arms around her body, but she couldn’t get warm. She closed her eyes, but the television was still on, the moans a staccato accompaniment to her confusion, and she opened them again. The torn lace underwear lay on the floor in the little foyer, in front of the antique chest of drawers that had probably never seen such usage in its long, elegant life. Then again, this was France.

She wanted to throw up. There was no question about it—she was horrified and sick inside at what had happened, and she still couldn’t understand why.

She hadn’t said no. There was no way she could avoid that simple truth—she hadn’t told him no. Whether he would have taken that for an answer was beside the point. She’d let him do that to her.

And the awful, sickening thing was, she’d liked it.

No, that was the wrong word. Like had nothing to do with it. She hadn’t liked being manipulated, intimidated, tormented and used.

But he’d managed to make her climax anyway, despite it all. Or, most horrifying of all, because of it?

No. She had no hidden, dark need to be punished, humiliated, used and discarded. There were no dark shadows hidden in her past, no twisted self-loathing that begged to be treated with carelessness.