Black Ice

Black Ice Anne Stuart Her new job was a Killer Chloe Underwood had come to Paris looking for adventure and landed up living hand-to-mouth as a children’s book translator. So when she’s offered a lucrative weekend translating at an international business conference in a remote ch?teau, she leaps at the opportunity. Then Chloe discovers her employers aren’t the boring businessmen they seem.Suddenly, she’s running for her life from a group of international and highly illegal arms dealers – and now Chloe knows too much to be allowed to live…‘‘A master at creating chilling atmosphere with a modern touch’’ – Library Journal Anne Stuart has written over sixty novels in her twenty-five-plus years as a novelist. Anne’s books have made various bestseller lists and she has been quoted in People, USA Today and Vogue. She has also appeared on Entertainment Tonight and,according to her,done her best to cause trouble! When she’s not writing or travelling around the country speaking to various writers’ groups, she can be found at home in northern Vermont,with her husband, two children, a dog and three cats. Black Ice Anne Stuart www.mirabooks.co.uk (http://www.mirabooks.co.uk/) This was a gift book for me, one the universe delivered when I was riding in a taxi in Paris, and it comes with a sound track. listen to Japanese Rock and Roll, French rock (Marc lavoine, Florent Pagny) and maybe some Pretenders. Enjoy! Chapter 1 People might go on and on about springtime in Paris, Chloe Underwood thought as she walked down the street huddled in her coat, but there was really nothing to compare to winter in the City of Lights. By early December the leaves were gone, the air was crisp and cool and enough of the tourists had left to make life bearable. In August she always wondered why on earth she’d chosen to pull up stakes and move three thousand miles away from her family. But then winter came, and she remembered all too well. It might have helped if she could have abandoned the city to the tourists every August, as all the French did, but she’d yet to find a job that included such luxuries as vacations, health care or a living wage. She was lucky she’d managed to find work at all. As it was, her presence in France was quasi-legal, and most days she decided just being there was blessing enough, even if she shared a tiny walk-up flat with a fellow expatriate who seemed to have very little sense of responsibility. Sylvia barely remembered to pay her half of the rent, she’d never swept a floor in her life and she considered any piece of furniture or flat surface a place to leave her astonishingly large wardrobe. On the other hand, she wore the same size eight that Chloe did, and she was not averse to sharing. She was also single-mindedly determined to marry a wealthy Frenchman, and in pursuit of that goal she spent most nights away from their cramped quarters, leaving Chloe with a little more breathing room. In fact, it was Sylvia who’d found Chloe her current job translating children’s books. Sylvia had worked at Les Fr?res Laurent for two years, and she’d slept with all three of the middle-aged fr?res, ensuring job tenure and a decent salary for translating spy novels and thrillers for the small publisher. Children’s books were less of a moneymaker, and Chloe was paid accordingly, but at least she didn’t have to ask her family for money or touch the trust fund her grandparents had left her. Not that her parents would encourage her. That money was earmarked for her education, and working a menial job in Paris hardly constituted advanced learning. If she weren’t hamstrung by job requirements she could have found something a bit more challenging. While her French was excellent, she was also fluent in Italian, Spanish and German, with a healthy smattering of Swedish and Russian, and even a few bits of Arabic and Japanese. She loved words, almost as much as she loved cooking, but she seemed to have a greater talent out of the kitchen. At least, that’s what she’d been told when she was dismissed from the famous Cordon Bleu halfway into the program. Too much imagination for a beginner, they’d said. Not enough respect for tradition. Chloe had never been particularly respectful of tradition, including her family tradition of medicine. She’d left all five of the Underwoods back in the mountains of North Carolina. Her parents were internists, her two older brothers were surgeons, and her older sister was an anesthesiologist. And they still couldn’t believe Chloe wasn’t dying to enter medical school, ignoring the fact that there was no one in this world more squeamish at the sight of blood than the youngest member of the Underwood family. No, Chloe wasn’t going to get to touch that nice little chunk of money until she gave in and went to medical school. And it was going to be a cold day in hell before she did. In the meantime, she could do amazing things with pasta and fresh vegetables, and all the walking she did kept the carbohydrates from gathering in force, though they seemed to have developed a fondness for her rear. At twenty-three she couldn’t still be built like a coltish teenager, and she was never going to look like a Frenchwoman. She just lacked the style even her roommate Sylvia, an Englishwoman, had in abundance. She could wear Sylvia’s clothes, but she never could master that faintly arrogant, slightly amused mien that she longed for. She might as well have a big butt, too. Les Fr?res Laurent was on the third floor of an older building near Montmartre. Chloe was the first one in, as always, and she put on a pot of the strong coffee that she loved, cradling a cup in her chilled hands as she looked out into the busy street below. The brothers kept the heat off at night, and as a junior employee she wasn’t allowed to touch the thermostat, so she’d learned to keep an extra sweater in the tiny cubicle she’d been allotted. She wasn’t in the mood for working—it was a gorgeous day, with the sky a bright azure above the old buildings that surrounded them, and for some reason the adventures of Flora the plucky little ferret didn’t call to her. Not enough sex and violence, she thought wistfully. Just moral lessons in a heavy-handed lecture, given by a skinny rodent in a pink tutu and the smug values of an American Republican. Just once she wished Flora would yank off her tutu and jump the rascally weasel who’d been giving her the eye. But Flora would never stoop so low. Chloe took a sip of her coffee. Strong as faith, sweet as love, black as sin. She wouldn’t be a real Parisian until she started smoking, but even to annoy her parents she couldn’t go that far. Besides, the farther away her parents were, the less annoying they became. It was another hour before anyone else would arrive at the office, and she told herself that no one would know or care if she wasted a few precious minutes before turning to the boring Flora. It was no wonder she was so irritated with the fictional character. What she needed was a little more sex and violence in her own life. Be careful what you wish for, a little voice murmured in her head, but Chloe shook it off, draining her coffee. Sex had been notable by its total absence for the past ten months, and her last affair was so lackluster that she hadn’t been energized enough to look for a replacement. It wasn’t that Claude had been a bad lover. He prided himself on his skills, and expected the gauche Am?ricain to be suitably dazzled. She wasn’t. And she could probably do without violence, which was usually accompanied by blood, which tended to make her puke. Not that she’d encountered much real violence in her life. Her family had kept her sheltered, and she had a healthy respect for her own safety. She didn’t go wandering into dangerous parts of the city at night, she locked her doors and windows and looked both ways and prayed diligently before she crossed the homicidal Parisian traffic. No, she could look forward to another peaceful winter in the underheated apartment, eating pasta, translating Flora the Plucky Ferret and Bruce the Tangerine, though how a tangerine could have a life of its own had so far escaped her. Maybe that was why she was stalling on Flora, knowing her next task was citrus. She’d find another lover, sooner or later. Maybe Sylvia would finally hit the mother lode, move out, and Chloe would find some nice, gentle Frenchman with wire-rimmed glasses and a skinny body and a taste for experimental cooking. In the meantime, the doughty little ferret awaited her, as did the daunting task of coming up with the French equivalent of “doughty.” She heard Sylvia before she arrived—there was no mistaking the noisy clatter of her expensive shoes on the two flights of stairs, the muttered cursing from her perfectly rouged mouth. The only question was, why was Sylvia showing up at work three hours before she usually dragged herself in? The door slammed open with a bang and Sylvia stood there, panting, not a hair out of place, not a speck of her makeup smudged. “There you are!” she cried. “Here I am,” Chloe said. “Want some coffee?” “We don’t have time for coffee, dammit! Chloe, sweetie, you have to help me. It’s a matter of life and death.” Chloe blinked. Fortunately she was used to Sylvia’s dramatics. “What now?” Sylvia stopped cold, momentarily affronted. “I’m serious, Chloe! If you don’t help me out I…I don’t know what I’ll do.” She’d dragged a huge suitcase all the way up the flights of stairs—no wonder she’d been making such a racket. “Where do you want to go and what do you need me to do to cover for you?” she asked, resigned. The huge suitcase that would suit most people on a two-week trip would keep Sylvia decently clothed for three or four days. Three or four days with the flat to herself and no one to pick up after. She could open the windows and let the air blow in and no one would complain about the cold. She was prepared to be helpful. “I’m not going anywhere. You are.” Chloe blinked again. “The suitcase?” “I packed for you. Your clothes are awful and you know it—I put in everything I thought looked good on you. Except my fur coat, but you can’t expect me to part with that,” she added, momentarily practical. “I don’t expect you to part with anything. And I can’t go anywhere. What would the Laurents say?” “Leave them to me. I’ll cover for you,” Sylvia said, looking her over. “At least you’re decently dressed for a change, though I’d lose the scarf if I were you. You’ll manage to fit in just fine.” A deep foreboding filled Chloe. “Fit in where? Just take a deep breath and tell me what you need and I’ll see whether I can help you.” “You have to,” Sylvia said flatly. “I told you, it’s a…” “Matter of life and death,” Chloe filled in. “What do you want me to do?” Some of Sylvia’s anxiety vanished. “Nothing so onerous. Spend a few days at a beautiful estate in the country, translating for a group of importers, making scads of money and being waited on by an army of servants. Wonderful food, wonderful surroundings and the only drawback is having to deal with boring businessmen. You get to dress for dinner and make tons of money and flirt with anyone who takes your fancy.You should be thanking me for giving you such a golden opportunity.” Typical of Sylvia to turn things around in her own mind. “And exactly why are you giving me a golden opportunity?” “Because I promised Henry I’d spend the weekend with him at the Raphael.” “Henry?” “Henry Blythe Merriman. One of the heirs to Merrimans Extract. He’s rich, he’s handsome, he’s charming, he’s good in bed and he adores me.” “How old is he?” “Sixty-seven,” Sylvia said, not the slightest bit sheepish. “And is he married?” “Of course not! I have some standards.” “As long as they’re rich, single and breathing,” Chloe said. “And just when would I be going?” “A car’s on its way to pick you up. Actually, they think they’ll be picking me up, but I’ve called and explained the situation and said you’d be taking my place. All they need is French to English and back again, which is a piece of cake for you.” “But, Sylvia—” “Please, Chloe! I beg of you! If I leave them in the lurch I’ll never get another translating job, and I can’t quite count on Henry yet. I need to do these little weekend jobs to supplement my income. You know how badly the Fr?res pay.” “About twice as much as they pay me.” “Then you need the money even more,” Sylvia said, unabashed. “Come on, Chloe, go for it! Be wild and dangerous for a change! A few days spent in the country is just what you need.” “Wild and dangerous with a bunch of businessmen? Somehow I can’t quite see it happening.” “Think of the food.” “Bitch,” Chloe said cheerfully. “And they probably have an exercise room as well. Most of these big old houses turned conference centers do. You don’t need to worry about your butt.” “Double bitch,” Chloe said, regretting she’d ever expressed concern over her curves. “Come on, Chloe,” Sylvia said, wheedling. “You know you want to. You’ll have a marvelous time. It won’t be as boring as you think, and maybe we’ll be able to celebrate my engagement when you get back.” Chloe doubted it. “When am I supposed to leave?” Sylvia let out a little crow of triumph. Not that she’d ever seriously expected not to get her way. “That’s the best part. The limo’s probably downstairs by now. You’ll be reporting to Mr. Hakim and he’ll tell you what to do.” “Hakim? My Arabic is lousy.” “I told you, it’s all French to English and back. Groups of importers are bound to be multinational, but all of them speak either English or French. Piece of cake, Chloe. In more ways than one.” “Triple bitch,” Chloe said. “Do I have time…?” “No. It’s eight-thirty-three and the limo was supposed to arrive at eight-thirty. These people tend to be very precise. Just put on a little makeup and we’ll go down.” “I’m already wearing makeup.” Sylvia let out an exasperated sigh. “Not enough. Come with me and I’ll fix you up.” She grabbed her hand and started tugging her toward the bathroom. “I don’t need fixing up,” Chloe protested, yanking her hand free. “They’re paying seven hundred euros a day, and all you have to do is talk.” Chloe put her hand back in Sylvia’s. “Fix me up,” she said, resigned, and followed Sylvia into the cramped little bathroom at the far end of the room. Bastien Toussaint, also known as Sebastian Toussaint, Jean-Marc Marceau, Jeffrey Pillbeam, Carlos Santeria, Vladimir the Butcher, Wilhelm Minor and a good half dozen other names and identities, lit a cigarette, inhaling with mild pleasure. The last three jobs he’d been a nonsmoker, and he’d adapted with his usual cool acceptance. He didn’t tend to let weakness get to him—he was relatively impervious to addictions, pain, torture or tenderness. He could, occasionally, be merciful if the situation called for it. If it didn’t, he dispensed justice without blinking. He did what he had to do. But whether he needed the cigarette or not, he enjoyed it, just as he’d enjoy the fine wines with dinner and the single malt whiskies that were supposed to lower his guard and make him indiscreet. And he would be, spilling just enough information to satisfy the others and advance his agenda. He could do the same with vodka, but he preferred Scotch, and he’d enjoy it along with the cigarettes and do without when this job was over. It had lasted longer than most of his assignments. They’d been working on his cover for more than two years, and when he’d stepped into the role eleven months ago he’d been more than ready. He was a patient man, and he knew how long it took for things to be set in motion. But the payoff was close at hand, and that knowledge gave him a cool satisfaction, although he was going to miss Bastien Toussaint. He’d gotten used to him by now—the faint, Gallic charm, the sharpwitted ruthlessness, the eye for women. He’d had more sex as Bastien than he’d had for a while. Sex was another indulgence he could take or leave, another pleasure to be savored if it came his way. He was supposed to have a wife back in Marseilles, but that made little difference. Most of the men he’d be meeting with had wives and children, nice little nuclear families back in the mother country. Children and wives who happily live off the profits of their mutual occupation. Importing. Importing fruit from the Middle East. Importing beef from Australia. Importing arms to whoever could pay the highest price. At least it wasn’t drugs this time. He had never been totally comfortable with smuggling heroin. Foolish sentimentality on his part—people chose to use drugs, they didn’t choose to be shot by the guns he trafficked. It must be a throwback to his old life, so long gone that he barely remembered it. It was a cold, crisp winter day. There was a distant scent of apples on the air, and the calming sound of the garden staff raking leaves in front of the sprawling house. Most of the staff would be carrying guns under their loose clothing. Semiautomatics, maybe Uzis. Possibly ones he’d provided. It would be damned funny if one of them killed him. He dropped his cigarette on the ground and ground it out with his foot. Someone would come and remove the butt, someone who would just as calmly remove him if ordered to do so. And the odd thing was, he didn’t really care. The door opened behind him, and Gilles Hakim stepped out into the sunlight. “Bastien. We’re having coffee in the library. Why don’t you come and join us? Meet the others? We’re just waiting for the translator to show up.” Bastien turned his back on the beautiful December day and followed Hakim into the house. Chapter 2 Chloe had far too much time to consider how rash she’d been. The uniformed chauffeur kept the glass screen up between them, it was too early for a drink to calm her nerves and Sylvia had been in such a hurry to get her going that she’d forgotten to bring a book with her. All she had were her thoughts to keep her company for this seemingly endless ride. She automatically reached up to shove her long brown hair behind her ear when she remembered the miracle Sylvia had wrought in three minutes with nothing more than a handful of makeup and a brush. She might not have a book but she had Sylvia’s compact in Sylvia’s Herm?s handbag, and she wanted one more surreptitious look. To see the stranger looking back at her out of the same calm brown eyes she’d always had, though now they were lined and smudged and gorgeous in her pale face. The long, straight brown hair no longer hung down around her face—Sylvia had moussed and teased and fiddled with it so that in less than a minute it turned from a lank veil to a tousled mane. Her pale mouth was now plump and red and shiny, and the borrowed scarf adorning her shoulder was draped just so. The question was, how long would she be able to carry on with the illusion? Sylvia could look like this in three minutes—it had taken her less than five to transform Chloe from a plain brown wren into a peacock. Chloe had tried to achieve the same results on numerous occasions and had always fallen short. “Less is more,” Sylvia had lectured her, but more was never enough. And she was fussing for nothing. They wanted an interpreter, not a fashion model, and if Chloe knew one thing, it was languages. She could do her job and spend the rest of the time pretending she belonged in a ch?teau instead of her tiny apartment that always smelled of cabbage. And she would eat anything she wanted. Three or four nights in a ch?teau and then she’d be back, and Sylvia would owe her big time. And it might not be the sex and violence she was playfully longing for, but at least it would be a change. And who knows, maybe one of the boring businessmen would have a handsome young assistant with an interest in American girls. Anything was possible. Ch?teau Mirabel had more security than Fort Knox, she thought a half hour later, as they began their journey through a series of gates, checkpoints, armed guards and leashed dogs. The deeper inside the grounds they went, the more uneasy Chloe became. Getting inside was hard enough. Getting out looked to be just about impossible, unless they were willing to let her go. And why wouldn’t they? She was being ridiculous, and when the limousine finally pulled up outside the wide front steps she’d managed to control both her curiosity and her imagination and climb out of the back of the car with a fair approximation of Sylvia’s languid grace. The man waiting for her was tall, older and dressed better than the average Frenchman, which meant he was well-dressed indeed. He was clearly of Middle Eastern origin, and Chloe gave him her most dazzling smile. “Monsieur Hakim?” He nodded, shaking her hand. “And you are Miss Underwood, Miss Whickham’s replacement. I only just found out you were coming. If I’d known, I could have saved you a trip.” “Saved me a trip? You don’t need me?” Two or more hours back to the city was not at the top of her list of things she most wanted to do, and she was even more loath to part with the promise of the money Sylvia had mentioned. “We are a smaller group than expected, and I think we could manage to understand each other without outside help,” he said in gentle, well-modulated tones. They were speaking English, and Chloe promptly switched over to French. “If you wish, monsieur, but I’m sure I could be quite useful. I have nothing else planned for the next few days, and I would be more than happy to stay.” “If you have nothing planned then you will be able to go back to Paris and enjoy a nice vacation,” he suggested in the same language. “I’m afraid my apartment is not the best place for a vacation, Monsieur Hakim.” She wasn’t sure why she was trying to talk him into letting her stay. She hadn’t wanted to come here in the first place—it was only Sylvia’s wheedling that had talked her into it. That and the thought of the seven hundred euros a day. But now that she was here she didn’t want to go back. Even if it was the smarter thing to do. Mr. Hakim hesitated, seemingly unused to argumentative women. And then he nodded. “I suppose you could be of value to us,” he said. “It would be a shame for you to make such a long trip for nothing.” “It was a long trip,” Chloe said. “I think the driver might have gotten lost—we passed several places more than once. Next time he should have a map.” Hakim’s smile was slight. “I will see to it, Mademoiselle Underwood. In the meantime, we’ll have the servants take care of your bag while you come meet the guests you’ll be translating for. It shouldn’t be too onerous a task, and when we’re not meeting you’ll have a beautiful setting in which to enjoy yourself. And, of course, the presence of such a lovely young woman can only make our work go more smoothly.” For some reason the usual French good manners sat slightly askew on Hakim, and she found herself wanting to go wash her hands. She gave him the maternal smile she reserved for the most lecherous of the Laurent brothers and murmured, “You’re too kind” as she followed him up the marble steps. A great many of the old ch?teaus had been turned into luxury hotels and conference centers, with the shabbier ones becoming bed-and-breakfasts. This was more elegant than any she had seen or even heard of, and by the time Hakim ushered her into a large room she was finding herself more and more uneasy. At least she wasn’t the only woman. There were eight people gathered in the room drinking coffee, and her eyes passed over them quickly. The two women had nothing in common but their good looks—Madame Lambert was tall, of a certain age, dressed in what Chloe recognized as Lagerfeld, thanks to Sylvia. The other woman was a bit younger, in her early thirties, a little too beautiful, a little too vivacious. The introductions went smoothly—there was Mr. Otomi, an elderly, dignified Japanese who fortunately spoke excellent English, and his steely-eyed assistant Tanaka-san; Signor Ricetti, a vain, middle-aged man whose handsome young assistant was undoubtedly his lover as well; and the Baron von Rutter, all to be expected, no one of particular interest except… Except for him. She quickly lowered her eyes, astonished at her unexpected reaction. She didn’t like men in suits, even in Armani. She didn’t like businessmen—most of them were entirely without humor and intent only on the acquisition of money. There were a great many things Chloe loved about France, but the obsession with finance was not one of them. Too bad he was one of them, she thought briefly. Unfair that she be instantly attracted to someone who was out of the question. Madame Lambert, Signor Ricetti, the Baron and Baroness von Rutter, Otomi and Toussaint. Bastien Toussaint. At least he seemed supremely uninterested in her as he acknowledged the introduction, nodding and then clearly dismissing her from his thoughts. There was no particular reason for her reaction—he wasn’t the best-looking man she’d ever seen. He was a little taller than most, lean, with a hard, narrow face and a strong nose. His eyes were dark, almost opaque, and she doubted she even registered in them. He had long, thick black hair, an anomaly, maybe even an unexpected vanity. She didn’t want a vain man, did she? Yes, she did, if it was Bastien Toussaint. She pulled her gaze away as her ears attuned themselves to a torrent of Italian from Signor Ricetti. “What’s she doing here?” he demanded furiously. “It was supposed to be that stupid British female. How do we know we can trust this one? She may not be as unobservant as the other. Get rid of her, Hakim.” “Signor Ricetti, it’s impolite to speak Italian in front of someone who doesn’t understand the language,” Hakim said in disapproving English tones. He glanced at Chloe. “You don’t speak Italian, do you, Mademoiselle Underwood?” She didn’t know why she lied. Hakim was making her nervous, and the clear animosity on Ricetti’s part didn’t help. “Only French and English,” she said brightly. Ricetti was not pacified. “I still think it’s too dangerous, and I’m sure the others would agree. Madame Lambert, Monsieur Toussaint, don’t you think we should send this young woman away?” He was still speaking Italian, and Chloe kept her expression blank. “Don’t be an idiot, Ricetti.” Madame Lambert spoke Italian with a British accent, a surprise. Like Sylvia, she had somehow managed to absorb the ineffable chic of French womanhood, something that had so far eluded Chloe. “Oh, I think she should stay,” Bastien Toussaint said in a lazy voice. “She’s too pretty to send away. What harm could she do? She probably doesn’t have a brain in her head—she’d be incapable of reading between the lines.” His Italian was perfect, only slightly tinged with a French accent and something she couldn’t quite define, and his voice was deep, slow and sexy. Things were not improving. “I still say she’s trouble,” Ricetti said, setting down his coffee cup. Chloe noticed that his hands were trembling slightly. Too much coffee, perhaps? Or something else. “Well, you don’t need to say it again,” the baron spoke up. He was plump, white-haired, grandfatherly looking, and some of Chloe’s strange forebodings lessened. “Welcome to Ch?teau Mirabel, Mademoiselle Underwood,” he said in French. “We’re very grateful you were able to fill in at the last moment.” It took her just a millisecond to remember that she was supposed to understand the last speech. “Merci, monsieur,” she replied, trying to focus all her attention on the sweet old gentleman, trying to ignore the man who stood just past her right shoulder. “I promise to do my best.” “You’ll do fine,” Hakim said, a faint edge to his voice. Ricetti flushed, lapsing into silence. “We’ve finished work for this afternoon, and I imagine you’d like to get settled. Drinks are at seven, dinner at nine, and I hope you will join us. We try not to discuss business after hours, but we all tend to have our lapses, and it would aid us if you’d make yourself available.” “How available will she be?” Bastien spoke in German this time. “I may be in need of a little recreation.” “Get your mind out of your pants, Bastien!” Madame Lambert chided him. “We don’t need your womanizing complicating matters. Men have a habit of confiding all sorts of unfortunate things when they’re between a woman’s legs.” Chloe blinked, trying not to react as Bastien moved into her line of view. His smile was slow, secretive and impossibly sexy. “My wife tells me I fuck in total silence,” he said. “Let’s not put it to the test,” Hakim said. “Once we’re finished here you can follow her back to Paris and screw her brains out. In the meantime we have a job to do.” He switched back to English. “I’m sorry for all this conversation, mademoiselle. As you can guess, only half of us understand the same language, and it gets very confusing. From now on we will have no languages other than French and English. Is that understood?” Bastien was looking at her from beneath his hooded eyes. “Crystal clear,” he said in English. “I can always wait.” “Wait, monsieur?” Chloe asked innocently. A mistake. He turned the full force of his gaze on her, and the effect was startling. His eyes were very dark, and she wondered if anything even reflected off their opaque surface. She hoped she wouldn’t be in the position to find out. She hoped she wasn’t entirely without common sense. The man was undoubtedly gorgeous. He was also, undoubtedly, way out of her league. “Wait for a late supper, mademoiselle,” he said smoothly. Before she realized what he intended he’d taken her hand and brought it to his mouth. She’d had her hand kissed before—it wasn’t an uncommon occurrence even in modern-day Europe. But it had always been by polite old men, flirting without meaning anything by it. Bastien Toussaint’s mouth on the back of her hand was neither polite nor meaningless, but he dropped it before she could pull it away. “I’m certain you’re hungry, mademoiselle,” Hakim said. “Marie will take you to your room and see that a tray is brought. If you’re interested in exploring the grounds you have only to ask and one of the gardeners will take you on a tour. It’s a bit cold for swimming right now, though the pool is heated, and Americans are such a hardy race.” “I don’t remember if I brought a swimsuit,” she said, wondering what the hell Sylvia had packed for her. “You can always go without, Mademoiselle Chloe,” Bastien said in silken tones. It should have been her first inkling that he was interested in her, though she couldn’t quite figure out why he was, when he’d barely seemed to acknowledge their introduction. Maybe he’d decided she was just the best of slim pickings. But she wasn’t going to let him unnerve her. “It’s definitely too cold for that,” she said cheerfully. “I imagine if I want any exercise I’ll just go for walks.” “You must be careful, Mademoiselle Chloe,” Ricetti spoke up in heavily accented French. “It’s hunting season, and there’s no telling where a stray bullet might come from. Not to mention that the guard dogs roam free at night and they’re quite merciless. If you want to go for a walk make sure you have someone to keep you company. You wouldn’t want to accidentally wander into someplace…unsafe.” Was it a warning, or a threat, or a little bit of both? And what the hell was going on here? What had Sylvia gotten her into? Sex and violence, she reminded herself. Just looking at Bastien filled the quota for sex, and violence wasn’t actually her cup of tea. Still, for a weekend it would, at the least, be entertaining, and she would be foolish to think that she was in any kind of danger. This was modern-day France, after all, and she was surrounded by staid, ordinary businesspeople. She’d been reading too many of Sylvia’s translated thrillers. “I will be very careful not to wander where I don’t belong,” she said. “Of course you will,” Hakim said in his distant voice. He had a peculiar air to him, slightly sinister, which must have been her tiresome imagination running amok. He was both bullying and faintly subservient, and she couldn’t quite figure his position among the business partners. It was no wonder she thought something strange was going on, what with people muttering cryptic things in languages she wasn’t supposed to understand, but in the end they were nothing more than a group of people locked away without any form of entertainment. “We will see you at seven.” A staid woman in a starched black uniform had appeared, more of a Mrs. Danvers than a Mary Poppins. “If you will follow me, mademoiselle,” she said in French that was clearly a foreign language to her, though Chloe couldn’t begin to guess what her native tongue was. She knew Bastien was watching her, and it took all her willpower not to glance back at him. She wasn’t supposed to know he was a womanizer, out to bed the first new woman who’d come on the property. Besides, he was married, and that was one standard she shared with her feckless roommate. Sylvia might only sleep with bachelors in her quest for a wealthy husband, but Chloe was looking for something else. What, she wasn’t quite sure. She only knew that Bastien Toussaint wouldn’t provide it. “At seven,” she agreed, privately wondering what kind of condition they’d be in if they drank for two hours before dinner. But it wasn’t her concern. None of it was, not even Bastien’s halfhearted suggestive comments. He didn’t really want her—she wasn’t his type. He’d have long, leggy models, women with style and a to-hell-with-you attitude. Chloe had been nursing her go-to-hell attitude for years now, and though living in Paris had helped, it was far from a finished product. She was going to get lost in the damned maze of rooms, she thought, moving through the hall behind Marie’s stiff figure. Her own room was at the far end of one of those hallways, and the moment she stepped inside her misgivings melted. It was a room from a museum—a beautiful green-silk-draped bed, marble floors, a luxurious sofa and the largest bathroom she’d seen since she’d left the U.S. She couldn’t see a television, which shouldn’t have come as a surprise, but she’d surely be able to find something to read in a place like this. There’d been several well-known, pastel newspapers laid out on the hall table—she could always filch them and work on the crossword puzzles. Crossword puzzles were a well-loved linguistic problem, and a couple of them could probably keep her busy for days. She just had to remember not to pick the Italian or German newspapers. At that moment she wanted nothing more than to get into something more comfortable and indulge in a nice, long nap. “Where is my suitcase?” she asked. “It’s been unpacked and sent to the storage area,” Marie said smoothly. “I imagine Monsieur Hakim told you, but they dress for dinner. I think the silver lace would be appropriate.” If Sylvia had parted with the silver lace then this job must be important indeed to her. She never let that particular dress out of her sight except for emergencies. It was also just the teensiest bit too snug across her butt and her breasts, but Chloe wasn’t going to tempt fate by trying to guess what else might be suitable for such an occasion. Marie would know, and if she was kind enough to volunteer the information Chloe would take advantage of it. “Thank you, Marie.” For a moment she felt a sudden panic, wondering whether she was supposed to tip her. Before she could hesitate Marie was on her way out of the room, clearly not expecting anything from a gauche American. She turned back at the last moment. “When do you want to be called? Five? Five-thirty? You want to allow enough time to get ready.” Marie must have thought such a task to be arduous indeed. “Six-thirty will give me plenty of time,” she said cheerfully. Marie had a long nose, and she looked down it with the perfect mixture of disdain and concern. “If you need any help you have only to ask,” she said after a moment. “I’ve had some experience with hair like yours.” She made it sound as if it were manure-encrusted straw. “Thank you very much, Marie. I’m sure I’ll be fine.” Marie merely raised her eyebrows, setting Chloe’s misgivings into full play once more. Chapter 3 Someone had made a very grave error in sending that young woman into the lion’s den, Bastien thought. She was far from the accomplished operative needed to work in such an intense situation. He’d known within seconds that she understood every language spoken in the room, and probably more besides, and she hadn’t been that good at hiding it. If it had taken him mere moments, it wouldn’t take some of the others much longer. The question was, who had sent her, and why? The most dangerous possibility was that she’d come to ferret out his identity. As far as he knew no one suspected him, but one never took anything for granted. The part he was playing was a dedicated womanizer—sending a nubile young female into the mix was the perfect bait, like staking a young deer in the jungle to lure a hungry panther. If he went for her he’d be playing true to form. She was dangerously inept. That veneer of sophistication was wafer thin—one look in her brown eyes and he’d been able to read everything. Nervousness, shyness even, and an unwanted spark of sexual attraction. She was in way over her head. Then again, she might be much better than she appeared to be. The hesitant, slightly shy demeanor might be all part of the act, to put him off the scent. Had she come for him, or someone else? Was the Committee checking up on his performance? It was always possible—he hadn’t bothered to hide the fact that he was weary beyond belief, no longer giving a damn. Life or death seemed minor distinctions to him, but once you went to work for the Committee they never let you go. He’d be killed, and probably sooner rather than later. Mademoiselle Underwood, with her shy eyes and soft mouth, might be just the one to do it. And there was only one question. Would he let her? Probably not. He was jaded, burned-out, empty inside, but he wasn’t about to go quietly. Not yet. On the surface his mission was simple. Auguste Remarque had been blown up by a car bomb last month, the work of the covert, antiterrorist organization known, by a very few, as the Committee. But, in fact, the Committee had had nothing to do with it. Auguste Remarque was a businessman, motivated by nothing more than profit, and the powers that be in the Committee could understand and adjust for that. All they’d had to do was keep an eye on Remarque and the arms dealers, keep abreast of who was shipping what to where and make their own pragmatic choices as to when to interfere. A shipment of high-powered machine guns to certain underdeveloped countries in Africa might lead to civilian deaths, but the greater good had to be considered, and those poor countries had little of interest to the superpowers. Or so his boss, the venerable Harry Thomason, had told him. Of course, Bastien knew why. Those countries had no oil, and they were of little importance to the Committee and its powerful, private backers. It had been Bastien’s job to keep tabs on the arms dealers, posing as one of them. But Remarque’s assassination had changed all that. Hakim, Remarque’s right-hand man, had set up this meeting, and they were looking at redividing the territories and choosing a new head. Not that these were people who played well with others, but the leader of the arms cartel also took care of the tiresome business details, leaving the others to concentrate on the acquisition and shipment of the most dangerous weapons yet devised. Hakim had been in charge of the petty details, but he’d gotten a little too ambitious. He wanted to take Re-marque’s place, including taking his lucrative territories. And there lay the problems. Through decades of dealing, assassination and bribery, the late Auguste Re-marque had controlled most weapons shipments for the Middle East, an inexhaustible market. Areas like Chile, Kosovo, Northern Ireland and the cults of Japan might ebb and flow in their desire for weapons, but the Middle East never got enough. And since America had waded into the fray, time and time again, with bludgeoning attempts at control, things had only gotten worse. The members of the arms cartel wanted a fair share of those lucrative profits. And Hakim was disposable. Bastien was in no hurry to see things played out—he could spend a day or two watching and waiting. The members of the cartel had learned, one by one, that Hakim had been responsible for Remarque’s assassination, and it didn’t sit well. Someone would dispose of him in the next few days, and if they failed it would be up to Bastien. It had been easy enough to subtly spread the word about Hakim’s treachery. The various reactions of the main players had been interesting indeed because, in fact, Hakim hadn’t been behind Remarque’s death, even though he was entirely willing to benefit from it. One of the other members of the clandestine arms cartel had been behind the hit. Someone who was here now, or had yet to arrive. That person was probably delighted that someone else had been fingered, but so far the Committee had been unable to discern who had actually done it. Conventional wisdom suggested Baron von Rutter. Beneath his jovial exterior he was a brusque, impatient man and he’d made his way more by bullying tactics than finesse. Not to mention his equal partner, his young wife Monique. One of Bastien’s fellow operatives had put her money on Mr. Otomi, the reserved, elderly Yakuza boss, and Ricetti was a good possibility as well with his Mafia connections. And one could never discount Madame Lambert. Any of them were capable and willing, and if any of them had ordered the hit then the Committee would not be alarmed. But Bastien was banking on the last of their little group to arrive. Christos Christopolous was, on the surface, merely a minor player. The Greek connection had always been low-key, but Bastien was paid to be untrusting. And in the eleven months he’d lived as Bastien Toussaint he’d learned that Christos was the most dangerous of them all. He was the one who was most likely to have arranged for Remarque to be killed by the car bomb, along with his wife, daughter and three young grandchildren. Thomason had taken his word and set the assignment. Hakim was to die—no matter who was responsible, the hit on Remarque couldn’t have been accomplished without his assistance. And if Christos was chosen to lead the cartel, he, too, must die. The others were manageable—the Greek wasn’t. Maybe Christos wouldn’t get chosen, and Bastien could once more vanish into the obscurity of another name, another nationality, another mission on some other continent. Not that it mattered—they all seemed to be the same, the good guys and the bad guys interchangeable. One thing was certain, he wasn’t going to be able to do a damned thing if the innocent little newcomer stuck a knife between his ribs. He had no illusions that he was on his own here. Signor Ricetti’s young male lover was Jensen, a young British operative who’d told his wife he traveled a lot as a pharmaceutical sales representative. Bastien had learned not to trust anyone, including his co-workers. It was always possible that Thomason had decided that Bastien himself was disposable. Jensen could take him out if that was what he was ordered to do, but he’d have a better chance of success than the girl. Anyone would. If they really wanted to get rid of him they needed someone a little more knowledgeable to do it. Someone a little more adept than sweet Mademoiselle Underwood. She was either there for him or for one of the others. Maybe just to gather information, maybe to dispose of an unwanted player. He had only to say something to Hakim and she would be the one they disposed of. Even if Hakim himself had hired her, she would be wiped out neatly and efficiently. He wasn’t quite ready to do that, even if it was the safest route. He hadn’t been drawn into this business by the lure of safety, and Mademoiselle Underwood might offer more value alive than dead. He would find out who sent her and why, and the sooner he found out the better. Careful planning was important, but hesitation was disastrous. He would find out what he needed to find out, then drop a word in Hakim’s ear. It would be a shame to have such a promising young life snuffed out, but she would have known the dangers when she signed up for this job. And he’d lost any trace of sentimentality long ago. He just wished to Christ that he knew why she was there. Chloe was feeling slightly giddy. She slept deeply for a couple hours, curled up under a thin silk coverlet; she’d bathed in a deep warm bath perfumed with Chanel; she’d dressed in Sylvia’s clothes and put Sylvia’s makeup on her face. It was a few minutes before seven, and she’d have to slip her feet into the ridiculously high heels and glide downstairs like the soign? creature she was pretending to be. The undergarments had begun the sensory overload. Chloe wore plain white cotton. Her taste ran to lace and satin and deep, bold colors, but her pocketbook did not, and she’d spent her clothing euros on things that would be seen. Sylvia spent a great deal of time in her underwear, seldom alone, and her wardrobe of corselets, panties, demi-bras and garter belts came in a rainbow of colors, all made to be enjoyed by both the wearer and her audience. Chloe wasn’t currently planning on an audience, not here, not now. Bastien Toussaint might be distracting, but Chloe had no interest in married men, womanizers, or really anyone at all until she got back to Paris. This job was supposed to be a piece of cake, a leisurely few days in the country translating boring business details. So why was she so damned edgy? Probably just M. Toussaint, with his bedroom eyes and his slow, sexy voice. Or maybe it was the combined suspicion of the guests—they must be dealing with something very powerful to be so paranoid. Though in Chloe’s experience most people thought their concerns to be life-altering proportions. Perhaps they held the formula for a new type of fabric. The shoe designs for next season. The recipe for calorie-free butter. It didn’t matter. She would remain in some unobtrusive corner, translating when called upon to do so, hoping no one else was going to say anything embarrassing in a language she wasn’t supposed to understand. Though it would help matters if she had her own wardrobe—Sylvia’s clothes were not made to be unobtrusive. Maybe she could just plead a headache, crawl back into bed and deal with things tomorrow. As far as she knew she wasn’t on call twenty-four/seven, and tonight was supposed to be more of a social occasion. They wouldn’t need her, and she didn’t need to be around people who were drinking enough to be even more indiscreet than they had this afternoon. Then again, it probably wouldn’t be a bad idea to find out why they were so paranoid. If she didn’t like the answer she could simply announce that she had to return home. Monsieur Hakim had insisted that she wasn’t really needed, and she expected they would muddle through even without a common language. In the end, her peace of mind was more important than the generous daily stipend. But seven hundred euros could ease a little mental discomfort, and she was seldom a coward. She would go downstairs, smile charmingly, drink just a little wine—not enough to make her indiscreet—and keep her distance from Bastien Toussaint. He unnerved her, both with his dark, unreadable eyes and his supposed interest in her. For some reason she didn’t quite believe it. She was not an unattractive woman, but she was scarcely in his league—he was the type for supermodels and millionaires’ daughters. It didn’t help that when she opened the door he was waiting for her. He glanced at his thin watch. “A beautiful woman who shows up on time,” he said in French. “How delightful.” She hesitated, uncertain what to say. On the one hand, the faint trace of irony in his voice was unmistakable, and Chloe knew that while she was attractive enough, beautiful was a bit too generous, even with the benefit of Sylvia’s wardrobe. But arguing with him would seem coy, and besides, she didn’t want to spend any unnecessary time in the cavernous, shadowy hall with him. He was leaning against the window opposite her doorway, and the formal gardens stretched out beyond, surprisingly well lit for that hour of the night. He’d been smoking a cigarette, waiting for her, but he pushed away from the window and came toward her. She thought she’d gotten used to how graceful some French men could be. For a moment she was distracted by his body, then mentally slapped herself. “Were you waiting for me?” she said brightly, closing the door behind her when she actually wanted nothing more than to dive back into her room and lock it. “Of course. I’m just down the hall from you, on the left. We’re the only ones in this wing of the house, and I know how turned around one can get. I wanted to make sure you didn’t stumble into any place you shouldn’t be.” Again, that faint hint of something wrong. Maybe she was the one who was paranoid, not Hakim’s guests. “I have a fairly good sense of direction.” A flat-out lie—even with a detailed map she inevitably took wrong turns, but he wouldn’t know that. “You’ve lived in France long enough to know that French men like to think of themselves as charming and gallant. It’s hardwired into me—you’ll find me shadowing you when you least expect it, offering to bring you coffee or a cigarette.” “I don’t smoke.” The conversation was making her more and more uneasy. Complicated by the fact that looking at him, the dark, opaque eyes, the lean, graceful body, was leaving her far from unmoved. Why did she have to be attracted to someone so…wrong? “And how do you know I’ve lived in France a long time?” “Your accent. No one speaks that well if they haven’t lived here for at least a year.” “Two, actually.” It was just the faintest of smiles. “You see? I have an instinct for such things.” “I don’t need anyone to be charming and gallant,” she said, still uneasy. Not only did he look good, but the damned man smelled good, too. Something subtle, luscious, beneath the lingering scent of tobacco. “I’m here to do a job.” “So you are,” he murmured. “That doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy yourself while you do it.” He was making her very nervous. By now they were walking down the hallway, in and out of the shadows. She was used to the continental art of flirtation which was usually nothing more than an extravagant show. And she knew this man to be a womanizer—he’d said so himself in a language she wasn’t supposed to understand. It was expected that he behave just this way. Unfortunately she didn’t want to play the game, not with him. He wasn’t someone to flirt with and then dance away, despite the practiced charm. She couldn’t rid herself of the notion that he was something else entirely. “Monsieur Toussaint…” “Bastien,” he said. “And I will call you Chloe. I’ve never known a woman named Chloe before. I find it quite charming.” His voice slid over her like a silken caress. “Bastien,” she capitulated. “I really don’t think this is a good idea.” “You are already involved with someone? That doesn’t need to make any difference. What happens here stays here, and there’s no reason why we can’t enjoy ourselves,” he said smoothly. She wasn’t sure how she’d react if he were someone else. She knew how to extricate herself from unwanted situations, though they didn’t crop up as much as she might have hoped. The unfortunate fact was, she was both attracted and afraid of him. He was lying to her, and she had no idea why. She halted. They had managed to reach the more populated part of the renovated ch?teau, and she could hear the voices, an amalgam of French and English, from beyond the double doors. She opened her mouth, not sure what she was going to say, what kind of argument she could come up with, when he spoke. “I’m very attracted to you, you know,” he said. “I don’t remember when I’ve been quite so charmed.” And before she realized what he intended he’d put his hands on her, moving her back against the wall, and proceeded to kiss her. He was very good, she thought dazedly, trying not to react. His hands were touching her, his mouth the merest whisper against her lips, and without thinking she closed her eyes, feeling his kiss brush against her cheekbones, her eyelids, then down to her mouth again, clinging slightly, then moving on, down the side of her neck. She didn’t know what to do with her hands. She ought to reach up and push him away, but she didn’t really want to. The soft, feathering kisses simply made her want more, and since this was definitely going to be the only time she let him kiss her then she ought to experience it entirely. So when he moved his hands from her waist to cup her face, and when he pressed his mouth against hers, harder this time, she opened for him, telling herself that one little taste of forbidden fruit was all right. After all, it was France. Vive l’amour. But just as she was about to let herself sink into the pleasure of it, nasty little warning bells stopped her. He was, oh, so adept. He knew how to kiss, how to use his lips, his tongue, his hands, and if she were just a little bit more stupid she’d be awash with desire. But something wasn’t right. It was a performance that even she could see through. He was making all the right moves, saying all the right things, but some part of him was standing back, coolly watching her response. Her hands, which were just about to clutch his shoulders, pushed him away instead. She used more strength than she needed to—he made no effort to force her, he simply fell back, that faint amusement on his face. “No?” he said. “Perhaps I misread the situation. I’m very attracted to you, and I thought the feeling was mutual.” “Monsieur Toussaint, you are a very attractive man. But you’re playing some kind of game with me, and I don’t like it.” “Game?” “I don’t know what’s going on, but I don’t believe you’ve developed a sudden, uncontrollable passion for me.” Sylvia was always chiding her for being so outspoken, but she didn’t care. Anything to upset the smooth, beguiling lies of the man who was still standing too close to her. “Then I’ll have to work harder to convince you,” he said, reaching for her again. And fool that she was, she might have let him, but the door to the drawing room opened and Monsieur Hakim appeared, glowering. Bastien stepped back, in no particular hurry, and Hakim’s expression darkened further. “We wondered where you were, Mademoiselle Underwood. It’s half-past seven already.” “I had trouble finding my way here. Monsieur Toussaint was kind enough to guide me.” “I’m certain he was,” Hakim grumbled. “The baron is waiting for you, Bastien. And behave yourself—we have work to do.” “Bien s?r,” he said, flashing an ironic smile in her direction as he moved past Hakim. Chloe started to follow, but Hakim put a strong hand on her arm, halting her. “You need to be warned about Bastien,” he said. “I don’t need to be warned. I know his type very well.” Not true, she thought. He was trying to convince her he was a certain kind of man—sophisticated, charming, flirtatious and totally without morals. And he was that kind of man—she had no doubt of that. There was just something more, something darker inside, and she couldn’t figure out quite what it was. Hakim nodded, though he was clearly unconvinced. “You are very young, Mademoiselle Underwood. I feel I am in a fatherly position, and I would not like to see anything unfortunate befall you.” It was his overformal English that made it sound threatening, of course. Not any real danger. But that uneasy little shiver slid down her backbone, and she wondered if she’d made a very real mistake in taking Sylvia’s place. Adventure, luxury and money were all very nice things, but not at too high a price. And remembering the feel of Bastien Toussaint’s practiced mouth against her, she was afraid she’d already gotten herself into too much trouble. Because she wanted to see what it would be like if he really kissed her. Not a performance, meant to dazzle her. But something he wanted as much as she did. And she was out of her mind, she thought, moving past Hakim into the library, in time to see Bastien in close conversation with one of the women she’d seen earlier. The baron’s wife, who seemed far too friendly with someone who wasn’t her husband, with her beautifully manicured hand on his Armani-clad arm, her perfectly made-up face tilted toward his. Chloe took a glass of sherry from the waiter and moved to a seat by the open doors, looking out over the brightly lit gardens, away from Bastien and his more amenable partner. The jumble of languages was at first indecipherable, and she didn’t want to listen. It was like eavesdropping, and she was already uncomfortable with what she’d overheard earlier. But then she realized they were politely speaking only French and English, and anything she heard was far from secret, and she relaxed back against the wing chair. Her imagination had always been her besetting sin, and she was imagining conspiracy everywhere. What could possibly be dangerous about a group of high-level grocers? She looked up to see Bastien and the woman slip outside, into the shadows, and her attempt at rationalization vanished abruptly. Seeing him go would have been difficult enough, if he hadn’t paused at the last minute to look directly into her eyes, and he gave her a faint, rueful shrug. “Miss Underwood.” The elderly baron sank down beside her, wheezing slightly. “It looks like we’ve been abandoned. Now why did such a pretty young thing like yourself want to spend days locked away with such tiresome old capitalists like ourselves? Surely you must have had better things to do in Paris? Some young man waiting for you?” She smiled at him, willfully forgetting the couple who had just disappeared. “No young man, monsieur. I live a very quiet life.” “I don’t believe it!” he said. “A young girl as pretty as you are? What has happened to young men nowadays, that someone like you should be unattached? If I were forty years younger I’d go after you myself.” She roused herself to play the game. “Surely not forty!” she said lightly. “I’m thirty years older than my wife, and even that is a bit of a strain. Which is why I give her a lot of room to entertain herself.” Chloe blinked. “That’s very generous of you.” “Besides, what can she and Bastien do out on the terrace with so many people wandering around? An indiscreet caress, a kiss or two? In the end it only sharpens the appetite.” “I beg your pardon?” “I saw you watching them. Bastien is fine for someone like my wife, who knows how the game is played and expects nothing but immediate gratification. He’s not for an innocent like you.” He was the second man to warn her away in the last ten minutes. Little did they know that she hadn’t needed the warning—her own defenses had popped up just in time. “I am here to translate, monsieur,” she said brightly. “Not to indulge in dangerous flirtations.” “I hope you don’t count me as one of those dangerous flirtations,” he said. “Or perhaps I do. No one considers me very dangerous anymore.” He sounded mournful. “I’m certain you’re a very dangerous man indeed,” she said in an encouraging voice. His smile was almost beatific. “You know, my child, you may actually be right.” Chapter 4 There was no question, Bastien thought, as he methodically slid his fingers over Monique’s firm breast. The woman hadn’t come here for him. If she had, Mademoiselle Chloe would not have been so quick to push him away. Even a mediocre operative would know that sleeping with the enemy was the best way to find out what you needed to know, and most men were at their most vulnerable when they were fucking. He wasn’t most men. He had ice water in his veins, in his cock, and even in the middle of an orgasm he was a dangerous man. Chloe wouldn’t know that—she was inept enough to betray her knowledge of languages within moments of arriving, and she would have taken the bait he’d dangled in front of her if he were really her target. Which means she was after someone else. Normally that wouldn’t matter to him—he had a job to do and whoever she was there to watch would have to take care of himself. But this whole affair had been in the works for too many months, and he wasn’t going to let an unexpected player destroy everything he’d worked so hard for. He slid his hand inside Monique’s silk gown. She wasn’t wearing a bra, and she was hot for him, as she always was. Her husband was old and compliant, as long as she gave him details about her adventures, and he expected the old man had even watched them once or twice. It had neither excited nor bothered him. He could perform with or without an audience, and in the end his partner was unimportant if they were the means to an end. Monique had no particular value at that point. He’d found out everything he needed from her at their last meeting, but it wouldn’t do to lose interest too quickly. She would be less trouble if he pulled up her skirt and did her against the cool stone wall of the ch?teau, in the shadows. They would be seen, of course. By security cameras, by the armed guards patrolling with such impeccable deference. Hakim would probably have them taped, and provide a copy of it to the old man, as well as any one else with the right price. He put his hands between her legs and she moaned in his mouth. She wasn’t wearing underwear either, in his honor, no doubt. She was groping for his zipper, and he knew she expected him to be hard. He willed it, by thinking of the look on her face when she came, and he reached for his fly with his other hand, ready to accommodate her, when he realized it wasn’t her face he was envisioning. It was the inept Miss Chloe. And suddenly he wasn’t in the mood. Instead of unzipping his trousers he simply took her hand away, and with his other he made her come, instantly, so hard that she screamed as her body went rigid. Not a good idea. He put his hand over her mouth and she bit, hard. Monique liked rough fun and games, and he knew she was trying to draw blood. He put a stop to that, and the whimper that came from the back of her throat was like a female tiger who’d just been mounted. Monique was like a cat—ruthless, amoral, impervious to ordinary pain. A good match for him. But he wasn’t interested. He pulled away, letting her skirt fall down around her perfect legs, and she leaned back against the stone wall, mouth open, panting, her eyes glazed with satisfaction. She had blood on her mouth, the bitch. He should have paid better attention. “That was…interesting,” she said, her voice a husky purr. “But we’ve only just begun.” “We’ve finished,” he said, and the words surprised him. He’d intended to string her along. After all, the last time he’d been with her was over four months ago, and some recreational sex would have only honed his senses. But he didn’t want her, and there was nothing to be gained by having her. There were too many unanswered questions about the nervous woman who’d arrived that afternoon and looked at him as if he were cr?me br?l?e and froze when he touched her. “What do you mean?” Monique demanded. He leaned over and kissed her full, red lips, taking his own blood with it. “We’ve had a good time, you and I, but don’t you think it’s past time to find a new playmate? Your husband must be tired of hearing about me. Choose a woman next time.” As he expected, she wasn’t insulted. She smiled her cat smile. “We could ask Miss Underwood to join us. It could prove very entertaining.” He kept his irritation well hidden. “She’s not my type.” “And neither am I, apparently. Not any longer.” She shrugged. “Too bad, but as you said, my husband was getting bored. He likes it when men hurt me, and you weren’t particularly into that.” “Maybe next time,” he said lightly, feeling a faint desire to wring her neck. It was a pretty neck, decked in diamonds. “Maybe not,” she said, and moved past him, reentering the living room without a backward glance. He lit a cigarette, blowing the smoke skyward, dismissing her and moving back to more important things. Who had hired Chloe Underwood, and who was she checking up on? And what a ridiculous name. She might as well call herself Mary Poppins. The name went well enough with her cover, but she should have gone with something a little less jeune fille. His own organization might have sent her, but he doubted it. Anyone as obvious as she was would have been weeded out long ago. And who was she after? Mr. Otomi, Ricetti or Madame Lambert? Maybe Hakim himself? One thing was certain—she hadn’t come from the most dangerous of the cozy little cartel. Christos Christopolous didn’t hire any but the best, and he had little use for women in any capacity. He wondered where the original translator was. Probably in some alley with her throat slit. Just because Miss Underwood wasn’t an expert at dissemination didn’t mean she couldn’t accomplish wet work with the best of them. Those small, slender hands of hers could kill just as efficiently as Hakim’s fists. And why was he still thinking about her, when she’d already made it clear that this wasn’t about him. Just a word in Hakim’s ear and she would be gone, and he could concentrate on his job. But then, he was tired of the job. Tired of so many lies he’d forgotten what the truth was, so many names and disguises that he’d forgotten who he really was. So many years that he no longer knew who were the good guys and who were the bad guys. And even worse, he didn’t care. For some reason Chloe Underwood piqued his curiosity. Made things a little more interesting. It would be a shame to get rid of her too quickly. This job wasn’t a particular challenge—his cover had been accepted long ago, and Hakim wouldn’t prove to be much of a problem. Until Christos showed up he could afford a minor diversion. And if she became an obstacle he could dispose of her just as easily as Hakim could. With more speed and mercy. Hakim liked to see them suffer. He could watch and wait. He had an instinct for knowing when to act, and right now more could be accomplished by simply biding his time. Until Chloe Underwood decided to make her final, fatal mistake. She’d made a fatal mistake, Chloe thought as she put her glass of wine back on the table. She should never have had so much to drink on a relatively empty stomach, not when she needed to keep her wits about her. It had been a simple enough matter to keep up with things during the long, leisurely dinner. The conversation had been purely social, and she hadn’t been called upon to translate more than a few words. Which was a good thing, since they kept refilling her wineglass whenever she took a sip, until she was borderline tipsy by the time the cheese course arrived. She probably would have been fine, even then, if she hadn’t been operating on a base of two glasses of Scotch drunk in quick succession after Monique Von Rutter waltzed back into the living room, her lipstick smudged, her hair tousled, her eyes slumberous. Bastien Toussaint had kissed her in the hallway, walked into a crowded room, singled out another woman and taken her outside to have sex. There was no question about it—one look at Monique’s flushed face made it crystal clear. She should have at least waited long enough to let the color subside, Chloe had thought critically, tossing back the glass of whiskey someone had handed her. Bastien was showing more restraint, but then, Monique could have managed it with just lifting her skirts, whereas Bastien would have had to unfasten his trousers… She drained the glass and reached for another. What the hell business of hers was it? Clearly the man was going after anyone who’d hold still long enough for him to nail them. At least she’d managed to drive him off quickly enough. She slumped down in her chair, eyeing her brie with dislike. When Bastien had sauntered back in a few minutes later, he looked as cool and composed as he had when she’d first seen him. Really, she was absurd to even think about him. There was nothing less appealing than a man who refused to let his reactions show. If someone could still look that composed after a quickie in the garden then he wasn’t for her. She preferred men who weren’t afraid to show emotion. And she was making wild assumptions all over the place, she reminded herself, none of which were justified. It didn’t matter whether he was her type or not, he was definitely out of her league. He hadn’t glanced at her during the interminable dinner, making it even more clear that his interest had been a moment’s distraction. She sat quietly enough in her chair, translating when she needed to, saying nothing otherwise. Monique von Rutter, on the other hand, was the life of the party—witty, charming, flirting with everyone there, both male and female. Chloe was ready to slide under the table in defeat when Hakim finally rose, signaling an end to the endless meal. “We have a great deal to accomplish tomorrow, mesdames et messieurs. I suggest coffee and liqueurs in the west salon, and then we retire. Those who wish to go directly to bed may, of course, be excused.” He turned his small black eyes in her direction. “You won’t be needed anymore tonight, Mademoiselle Underwood.” The dismissal was clear and welcome—a liqueur would have put her under the table for sure. She rose steadily enough, secure that her slightly impaired state wouldn’t be noticed in the general exodus. He was watching her. She couldn’t imagine why, and she couldn’t actually catch him at it, but she knew that he had been watching her all evening, while he charmed every other female present. Maybe it would make sense in the morning when the wine had worn off and she’d had some sleep, but right then it felt confusing, disturbing, threatening. And oddly, wickedly exciting. She’d forgotten how tortuous the halls of the ch?teau were. Bastien had led her downstairs—she wasn’t about to ask for his help in finding her way back. Trial and error would work well enough. It took her longer than expected. She should have asked for directions, but by the time she was halfway up the formal staircase there was no one in sight. She halted, slipping off Sylvia’s high heels with a grateful sigh, then continued onward, reasonably certain that she’d find her room sooner or later. She hadn’t realized quite how large the ch?teau was. Even if she’d been entirely clearheaded she would have had a hard time finding her own hallway. At that hour, in the dim light, she could have wandered forever, down one tasteful hall and up another, each one familiar yet strange. It wasn’t until she turned a corner that a familiar-looking door appeared, and she practically sprinted toward it, certain it led to the hallway with her rooms. She was wrong. The smell was powerful—rot and mildew, the decay of an ancient building. The renovations had only come this far, she realized, peering into the darkness. As far as she could tell the electricity hadn’t been added, but the reflected light through the dusty window illuminated a glimpse of what the rest of the ch?teau must have looked like, before someone with far too much money decided to save it. The plastered walls were crumbling, the floor was stained and buckled, and cans of paint stood as mute testimony to further renovation plans. There was another smell beneath the damp and mold, one she couldn’t quite identify, something old and dark and inexplicably…evil. And all that wine had definitely gone to her head—in another moment she’d start imagining she was in some kind of danger. Too much wine, too much imagination. She backed out of the room, slowly, only to come up against a solid, human form. She screamed, biting back the sound as a heavy hand clamped on her arm, spinning her around. It was M. Hakim. Her relief was palpable—she actually started babbling. Not that Hakim was warm and fuzzy, but anyone was preferable to the unsettling Bastien Toussaint. “Thank heavens!” she said. “I’ve gotten all turned around and I was afraid I’d never find my room.” “This section of the ch?teau is off-limits to visitors, Miss Underwood. As you can see, it has yet to be renovated, and it would be very dangerous to wander around in there. If you were to get in trouble no one would hear you scream.” Chloe was suddenly entirely sober. She swallowed, looking into Hakim’s dark, calm face. And then she forced herself to laugh, breaking the tension. “I think I need a map to find my way around this place,” she said. “If you can give me directions to my room I’ll head there. I’m exhausted.” He hadn’t let go of her arm. He had thick, ugly hands, with dark hair across the backs of his sausage-like fingers. He said nothing, and for one brief, crazy moment she thought he was going to shove her back into the deserted wing where no one would hear her scream. And then sanity returned, and he dropped her arm, and while his smile was far from pleasant at least it was a smile. “You should be more careful, Miss Underwood,” he admonished her. “Other people might be more dangerous than I am.” “Dangerous?” She just barely managed to keep the stammer out of her voice. “Like Monsieur Toussaint, for instance. He can be very charming, but you would be wise to keep your distance. I saw the two of you in the hall this evening, and I was most concerned. For you, Miss Underwood.” It was shadowy enough that he wouldn’t be able to see the flush that mounted to her cheeks. “He was just showing me the way to the library.” “With his mouth? I’d keep out of his reach if I were you. The man is notorious. His appetite for women is insatiable, and his tastes are, shall we say, peculiar. I would feel somewhat responsible if you were to run into any trouble while you’re here. After all, I’m in effect your employer, and I wouldn’t want anything unfortunate to happen to you.” “Neither would I,” Chloe said. “Turn left, down two corridors then two right turns.” “I beg your pardon?” “That’s the way back to your room. Unless you prefer I escort you?” Chloe managed to suppress her shudder of revulsion. “I’ll be fine,” she said. “If I get lost again I’ll scream.” “You do that,” Hakim said in a cool voice that somehow failed to reassure her. But she made it back to her corridor without further mishap, and there was no one lingering, watching for her. The satyrlike M. Toussaint must have found his partner for the night, she thought, faintly disgruntled, as she pushed open her door. Someone had been in there. There was no key, no way to keep anyone out, and the sense of violation was unavoidable. She shook her head, trying to clear the paranoia away. Why should anyone be interested in a hired translator? The bed was turned down, one of Sylvia’s diaphanous nightgowns was laid out across it, and a tray with a crystal decanter and a plate of chocolates rested on the gilt table beside the bed. “Relax, idiote,” she said out loud, to break the hush that enveloped the room. “It was just a maid.” She got ready for bed quickly, pulling the confection of lace and silk over her head. If she had any sense at all she’d go straight to bed, but her encounter with Hakim had driven sleep right out of her mind. A snifter of brandy wouldn’t hurt. She might not have made it as a chef, but her sense of taste was excellent, and the cognac was slightly unusual. Some faint undernote that she couldn’t quite recognize. Almost metallic, she would have said, but a place like Ch?teau Mirabel would never serve an inferior cognac. It must have been her imagination. It was quite deliciously warming, and she could already feel her eyes drooping. She’d sleep soundly tonight, and she wouldn’t dream of anyone, certainly not Bastien Toussaint. It was then that she recognized the barest trace of scent in the air. A subtle, distinctive cologne that brought an instinctive, warm response. Until she remembered where it had come from. The silken folds of Bastien’s Armani suit. Why… She tried to set the snifter of brandy back on the tray, but it was much farther away than she had thought, way of out her reach, and it fell on the floor with the faint tinkle of shattering glass, and she followed it, sprawling out on the carpet. She hadn’t had that much to drink, she thought, trying to sit up. Surely that one sip of cognac wasn’t enough to send her over the edge. But apparently it was, and the bed was much too high to climb into. The Aubusson rug underneath her was very beautiful, and if she was careful she could avoid the broken glass, curl up into a nice little ball, and fall into a deep, blissful sleep. Bastien stepped into her room, closing the door quietly behind him. He didn’t have to be particularly discreet—he knew where the cameras were located, and he could manage his way around them without giving anything away. Besides, he was known as a dedicated womanizer, and it wouldn’t be surprising if he’d managed to do every beautiful female in the area. Except that the girl wasn’t particularly beautiful. He stood over her, staring down at her curled-up body for a moment. She was pretty. Not a word he tended to use. She had good bone structure, even features, a sweet, full mouth. Sweet? Pretty? Maybe she was better than he thought. She certainly managed to exude an essentially harmless persona. He slid his arms under her and laid her out on the bed. She’d washed her makeup off—maybe that was why she was looking so innocent. The nightgown she was wearing was very expensive, with tiny little satin ties down the front. He undid them, one by one, until the gown fell open around her. A good body as well. A little more butt than many young Frenchwomen, a little more breast as well, but basically young and strong and nicely formed. No sign of the rigorous training she should have gone through. Just enough softness through the arms and belly to tell him she would be warm and welcoming in bed. Who was he kidding? She’d cut his throat in bed, if he happened to get distracted. And fucking was marginally distracting. There were marks on her body, beneath her breasts. Red lines, and he ran a finger along them, wondering what kind of torture she’d endured in the distant past. And then he smiled. Not so distant past—she’d simply been wearing a bra that was too tight. No woman he’d ever known would wear a constricting bra unless she had no choice. He glanced down her long legs to her feet. The lines were even more pronounced—she’d been wearing the wrong shoes as well. The drug he put in her cognac was good stuff—she’d sleep for six to eight hours and wake without a hangover, even though she deserved one after all the wine she’d drunk at dinner. His little gift to her. He searched the room methodically, from top to bottom. She had three more pairs of shoes, all the same size, all slender high heels. She was going to be hobbling in a couple days. If she was still here. There were no black ops clothing. Not in the room, at least, and she couldn’t have hidden them anywhere on the grounds without someone finding them. No weapons, no papers of any interest. Her passport was an excellent fake—the picture inside looked like a plainer, younger version of the woman who’d walked in today. She supposedly came from North Carolina. She was almost twenty-four years old, five seven, one hundred and twenty-one pounds, and she’d entered France two years ago on a student visa. She had a work permit, a surprise in itself. He never trusted anyone with too clean an identity. Nothing else in terms of papers, either forged or otherwise. Not much money. No prescription drugs, nothing personal. There were a bunch of pictures in her wallet—fakes with the young woman posing with various genial family types. Easy enough to doctor. He put the purse back, moving around to the side of the bed. The glass had broken in large pieces, the drugged brandy seeping into the carpet. Not a bad mess for him to clean up—he’d done far worse. This time there was no blood to get rid of, no body to dispose of. Yet. He poured the drugged brandy down the bathroom sink, then refilled it from the flask he’d brought with him. He’d brought an extra glass, just in case, and he poured a splash in it before replacing it beside the bed. He stared down at her again. She was a real professional after all—if he couldn’t find anything in his search then she’d figured something out that even he hadn’t thought of. Unless, of course, she was telling the truth. That she actually was a twenty-four-year-old woman from North Carolina with no knowledge of who and what they were. But then, why would she be wearing the wrong shoes, the wrong bra. Why would she lie about her knowledge of languages? No, given the circumstances, there was no way she could be an innocent bystander. She was there to do damage, and he needed to find out what, and to whom. He began retying the ribbons that held the silken gown together, then stopped, leaving it open below the waist. She would wonder why, but she wouldn’t remember. He could really do anything he liked to her, and she wouldn’t remember. There were any number of things he would have enjoyed doing to her, but most of them would be much better if she were awake and participating. She might be inexperienced enough not to take advantage of the blatant pass he’d made at her earlier today, but he wasn’t so sanguine. She’d already betrayed too much already. Get her naked beneath him, move inside her, and he’d know her better than she knew herself. But not if she was comatose. He sat down on the bed beside her, watching her as she slept. It would simplify matters if he killed her now. He could do it fast, neatly, and simply tell Hakim he didn’t trust her. Hakim would accept that. He put his hand on her neck. Her skin was warm, soft beneath his skin, paler against his tanned hand. He could feel the pulse beat steadily, watch the rise and fall of her chest. He tightened his fingers for just a moment, then took them away. Afterward he wasn’t sure why he did it. Uncharacteristic of him, but then, he’d been playing by different rules recently. Or ignoring the rules he’d been taught. He stretched his body out alongside hers, his head on the pillow next to her. She smelled like soap and Chanel and cognac, an enticing combination. “Who are you, b?b??” he whispered. “And why are you here?” She wouldn’t be answering for another six hours at least. He laughed, at himself, and sat up. There was time. With no weapons, her clear mission was to gather information, and he could ensure that anything she discovered didn’t make it past the walls of the ch?teau. There was time. Chapter 5 Chloe had never been one to wake up slowly. She tended to be alert immediately, and she was nauseatingly cheerful, while her sleep-fuddled siblings and parents threatened her with death or dismemberment if she didn’t stop the damned humming. That morning was no different, except when her eyes popped open she had no idea where she was. She decided not to panic, since panic tended to be a waste of time. She lay still, unmoving, and let memory sink back in. The ch?teau, and her sucker agreement to take Sylvia’s place. Too much wine last night, and Bastien Toussaint’s practiced mouth. She hadn’t been kissed in months, so it was no wonder she could still feel the pressure of his lips against hers. Too bad she couldn’t have just let herself go with it. So what if it had been a performance on his part? He probably performed very well indeed. But she’d always been too picky and too stubborn, and as her friends would tell her too American to really enjoy the pleasures of casual sex. And while a roll in the hay with someone like Bastien would be memorable, she didn’t really like having nothing but memories to hold on to. She sat up slowly, putting her hand to her head in anticipation of the searing pain she absolutely deserved for drinking all that red wine, but it didn’t come. She gave her head a tentative shake, preparing for the delayed blast of pain, but felt nothing. She glanced at the bedside table. She’d had a final cognac before she’d fallen asleep—she thought she could remember that much. She hadn’t been more than tipsy; it was odd that she couldn’t remember more. She’d had some cognac, and she thought she remembered dropping it. Falling. But she was lying in the big, comfortable bed, the brandy snifter was sitting on the tray with just a trace left in the bottom, and she must have drunk even more than she realized. She pushed back the cover and swung her legs over the side of the bed. And then stopped. Her…or that is…Sylvia’s nightgown was made up of silk and a row of tiny ribbons, but half those ribbons were unfastened, from the hemline to the waist. What had she been doing? Nothing much fun, she decided after she’d showered and dressed and arranged herself in a decent repetition of Sylvia’s borrowed chic. She eyed the fawn leather shoes with their pointed toes and high, thin heels, and moaned. Maybe she could tell them she had Japanese blood and needed to go without shoes. No, that probably wouldn’t fly. Much as she would have liked to have an interesting bloodline, she was depressingly, blandly WASP, and no one was going to be fooled into thinking otherwise. She made it downstairs without getting lost, just in time for a light breakfast of coffee and fruit before the work began. The participants were seated on either side of a long conference table, and a number of them were accompanied by assistants. Except for von Rutter, who was accompanied by his sleek and beautiful wife Monique. Hakim was at the head of the table, and he gestured to one of the empty places to his right. Toussaint wasn’t in the room, she realized as she sat, setting her cup of coffee down on the burled walnut carefully. Maybe fate was going to be kind after all. She should have known better. He appeared a moment later, with his own coffee, and took the remaining seat. Beside her. She listened to the proceedings with only half an ear. A moment of silence for their late colleague, Auguste Remarque. She’d heard that name before, but she couldn’t remember where. It would drive her crazy until she found out—maybe she could simply ask someone. Or maybe she should just keep quiet and try to blend into the background. There wasn’t much to keep her mind occupied over the next few hours. The organization of food importers were arguing about redistributing territory, and while Chloe had a great fondness for lamb and oranges and a well-cooked chicken, there was a limit to her fascination. The discussions she was asked to translate were dull to the point of madness, she’d always found numbers tedious, and units of chickens and piglets and barrels of corn couldn’t even excite the failed chef inside her. The others at the table seemed to find the discussion endlessly fascinating, and given some of the numbers she was translating she could imagine why. In euros, dollars or pounds they were talking a very great deal of money. She hadn’t realized grocery importers amassed that kind of wealth. Because she was seated at the top corner of the table she had to turn to look at the speakers, and the man next to her was always just in her line of vision. Despite her hyperawareness, he seemed to have lost all interest in her, barely registering her existence. Since he spoke both French and English she wasn’t required to translate for him, and she could lean back in her chair and pretend to ignore him as well while she doodled on one of the pads of paper they’d set in front of them. There was only one moment of trouble during the long, tedious morning. There was a word she didn’t know—no great surprise, though she was very fluent. “What is ‘legolas’?” she asked, “apart from a character in The Lord of the Rings?” Dead silence in the room, only the sound of a cup rattling in a saucer. They were all staring at her as if she’d asked them about their sex life or, even worse, their yearly income, and then, for the first time that day, Bastien addressed her. “‘Legolas’ is a breed of sheep,” he said. “Of no particular concern to you.” Someone in the room snickered, whether at his cool dismissal or something else. “Don’t ask questions, Miss Underwood, simply translate,” Hakim said. “If you’re incapable we can find someone else. We don’t want our progress impeded by incompetence.” Chloe had never responded well to public reprimands, and she’d already decided she didn’t like Hakim very much. At that point she would have liked nothing better than to be driven back to Paris in that luxurious limousine and never see any of these people again. Wouldn’t she? She kept her glance away from the man beside her, but she knew perfectly well she wasn’t going to leave before she had to. “I beg your pardon, monsieur,” she said in French. “If I don’t need to know the meaning of a word I certainly won’t ask. I just thought it might help if I had a better understanding of the subject.” “Better watch it, Gilles,” Monique said with a throaty laugh. “Bastien wouldn’t like it if you bullied his little pet.” Bastien lifted his eyes from the table. “Jealous, my sweet?” “Stop it!” Hakim snapped. “We don’t have time for these petty little squabbles.” Bastien turned to Hakim, and in doing so, had no choice but to look at Chloe. His smile was beatific, and he lifted his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Forgive me, Gilles. You know I’ve always been easily distracted when a beautiful woman is around.” “I know you’re only distracted when you want to be, and so do the others. There’s too much at stake to waste time with this kind of thing. This is too important.” Ducks and pigs and chickens were too important? Fortunately Chloe simply blinked. It was only natural that an importer would think that whatever he imported would affect the fate of the world. The people at the table seemed totally devoid of any sense of humor, but then, financial matters had a tendency to make people deadly serious. She would have to control her own random frivolity. Hakim rose. “We’ll break for lunch. There’s nothing more we can do at this point.” “Good,” Bastien said. “I overslept, and I’m hungry.” “You’re not going to be eating.” The other people were filing out of the room, and Chloe was doing her best to go with them, but she was essentially trapped between the two men. “I need you to do me a favor,” Hakim said. Too close. “Excuse me,” Chloe interrupted, trying to sidle past him. “You’re part of the favor, Miss Underwood,” Hakim said, putting a hand on her arm to stop her. Men in France liked to touch women. For that matter, men in North Carolina did as well, and friendly touches were a matter of course. But she didn’t like the feel of Hakim’s hand on her arm. Not one bit. “Of course,” Bastien said immediately, glancing at her stubborn face with palpable amusement. “What would you like us to do?” “I have an errand for Miss Underwood, and I’d appreciate it if you’d drive her. I need some books.” “Books?” Chloe echoed. “For my guests. They won’t be working all the time, and they must have something to occupy them in their off-time. You would know what’s needed, I’m sure, given your experience in the publishing business. Just get a handful in the most common languages. French, English, Italian and German. Something light and escapist—use your judgment.” “But what about the limousine?” she stammered. “It seems a shame that Monsieur Toussaint has to waste his time on an errand like this instead of continuing with the work.” “Monsieur Toussaint is more than happy to have a chance to escape for a bit, aren’t you, Bastien? Particularly in the company of such a lovely young lady. And the limousine is being serviced—it’s unavailable.” Now why on earth would he lie to her? He wouldn’t—there was no reason for him to trump up an excuse to get rid of her. He could simply fire her ass and have done with it. “And the work this afternoon?” Bastien sounded completely unconcerned. “We wouldn’t want to miss anything.” “Don’t worry, Bastien. I’ll be looking out for your best interests, you know that. We all rise and fall together. And we’re far from coming to any kind of conclusion as to who will take over as head, not with Mr. Christopolous still absent. This afternoon will be simply jockeying for position. You can safely take the afternoon off and enjoy yourself. Take Mademoiselle Underwood for a nice long lunch in St. Andr?. There’s no hurry.” Chloe racked her brain for a good excuse, even a lousy one, to get out of it, but for the moment she could think of nothing. “If you’re certain, Monsieur Hakim.” Gilles Hakim’s smile was benevolent, and it was only her imagination that the shadows in the brightly lit room made it look faintly sinister. “I am certain, mademoiselle. Tomorrow morning will be time to get back to work. In the meantime, enjoy yourself.” “I’ll see that she does,” Bastien said. Taking the arm that Hakim had clamped down on, his pressure was only slight, but she moved with him anyway. Not that the touch of his hand on her skin was less unsettling, she thought, letting him steer her out of the room. The feel of his skin next to hers was a different kind of threat, one that was dangerously enticing. It was easy enough to pull free once they left the room. “If you’d lend me your car I’m sure I can find the bookstore myself,” she said evenly. “But then I wouldn’t have the chance to spend some time with you,” he said. “And no one drives my car but me. I’m particular that way. Why don’t you go up and change into some more comfortable shoes? I’m certain you have some.” She would have given ten years off her life to have more comfortable shoes, but Sylvia hadn’t thought it was necessary, any more than she’d considered the difference in their sizes to be important. It was all Chloe could do not to hobble, but she summoned her best smile. “These are perfectly comfortable,” she said. “I’m ready if you are. The sooner we go, the sooner we can get back.” “True enough,” he murmured. “Though I find I don’t believe you’ve been quite as honest about the shoes.” There was a faint emphasis, as if he thought she hadn’t been honest about other things. Or maybe her crazy imagination was going at it again. He drove a Porsche. Of course he did, Chloe thought, sliding into the front seat. He’d waited long enough for her to get her purse, and she’d tried on every pair of shoes Sylvia had sent, but the other ones were even worse. In the end she grabbed a coat and went out, finding her way downstairs without mishap this time, only to find him waiting by his tiny little car. It was a cloudy day, so at least the top was up. Despite the lack of brilliant sunlight he was wearing dark glasses, and he was leaning against the side of the car, arms folded across his chest, calmly waiting for her. Another custom silk suit, probably Armani, with a pale silk shirt and no tie. His black hair curled behind his neck, and his face was unreadable. He opened the door for her, and the interior looked very small and cozy. Too cozy. And she could think of absolutely no excuse not to go with him. She pulled Sylvia’s Herm?s bag to her shoulder, stiffened her back, and climbed into the low-slung car, avoiding his helping hand. She heard him laugh before he closed the door behind her. The interior of a Porsche was as tiny as she’d feared. And he seemed bigger. In the ch?teau he’d seemed average size—elegant, clean lines, not too tall, not too bulky. In the car his presence was overwhelming, and his legs were a lot longer than she’d realized. He had the seat all the way back, and he peered up at the sky before putting the car into gear. “Are you sure you don’t want to bring an umbrella?” he asked. “The weather looks uncertain.” Sylvia hadn’t packed an umbrella. “We’ll just have to hope the rain holds off until we get back. We shouldn’t have to be gone too long. I just need to choose a few novels for Monsieur Hakim’s guests and then we can come back.” “What about lunch?” He started down the long, curving drive away from the ch?teau. “I’m not hungry,” she lied. “I can get something when we get back if I change my mind.” “Whatever pleases you, Chloe,” he said, his voice as silken as his charcoal-gray suit, as silken as the tanned skin at his narrow wrists. His hands on the steering wheel were lean, beautiful, and he wore a wedding ring. Of course he did. Those hands looked very strong as well. “Better use your seat belt. I drive fast.” She opened her mouth to protest, then shut it again. By now she should have gotten used to the crazed speeds used in Europe, and the faster he drove, the faster this would be over with. She pulled the seat belt across her and fastened it, leaning back in the leather seat. “I presume you don’t wish to talk to me?” he asked. They were speaking in English, she realized, and had been for the last few minutes. She hadn’t even noticed. She certainly wasn’t in the mood for light conversation in either French or English, since his light conversation included flirtation, and his wedding ring was plainly visible. “I’m very tired,” she said, closing her eyes. “Then I’ll put on some music.” The sound of Charles Aznavour filled the car, and Chloe stifled a little moan. Aznavour had always been her great weakness, and listening to the sadness of Venice made her bones melt. She could always lose herself in the sound of his voice, forget who she was with. Except that Bastien wasn’t easily ignored. Without speaking he still filled her senses—the subtlety of his very expensive cologne teased at her, the gentle sounds of his breathing serenaded her. The cologne was insidiously appealing. She ought to ask him what the name was, so she could buy some for her brothers. On second thought that might not be so good an idea. She would never smell that particular scent without thinking of Bastien Toussaint, and the sooner his presence—his very married, womanizing, undeniably seductive presence—was out of her life, the better. It was her own damned fault, Chloe thought, as Aznavour’s voice surrounded her like a swathe of rough silk. She’d been longing for adventure, a little vicarious sex and violence to shake things up. She’d had the vicarious sex, and that was already more than she’d bargained for. And it had been nothing more than a kiss. She could only hope that fate hadn’t decided to toss a little violence her way as well. I was only kidding, God. She cast her thoughts skyward, still trying to feign a nice, deep sleep. A nice, comfortable, boring life in Paris is all the adventure I want. Be careful what you wish for. She opened her eyes just a crack, to take a surreptitious look at Bastien. His attention was focused on the narrow road ahead of them, his hands draped loosely, confidently on the small steering wheel as he sped through the countryside. For some silly reason she thought spying on him when he didn’t realize she was looking might tell her something about him. He looked the same, the high, strong nose, beautiful mouth, the calm, slightly amused demeanor. As if he found the world to be nothing more than a joke of the blackest humor. “Change your mind about lunch?” he asked, not turning. So much for spying—he’d known she was watching him and as usual he’d given nothing away. She closed her own eyes again, closing him out. “No,” she said. And beneath the sound of Charles Aznavour her stomach growled. He knew the minute she actually fell asleep. Her hands had been in her lap, clutching the leather handle of her bag, and they’d relaxed. Her breathing had slowed, too, and her pretty mouth was no longer a narrow, nervous line. He should have told her to take off her shoes, at least until they got there. But then, she would refuse to admit they hurt her. What other lies would she tell? It would be interesting to see, and if all went well he’d have time enough to find out. First he had to get to a pay phone and call Harry Thomason, see if the Committee knew anything about exactly who Chloe was. As well as see what they were going to do about the shipment of Legolas sheep to Turkey. Because they weren’t sheep, they were very powerful weapons with infrared sites and smart bullets capable of doing a very great deal of damage by even the most inept of marksmen. He had little doubt what the Committee wanted him to do. Let them deliver the weapons, let innocent people die while the Committee went in search of bigger fish to fry. Collateral damage was their mantra, and Bastien had long ago stopped caring. He glanced at his sleeping companion. She wasn’t going to last long, not with her ineptitude. But in her case it wouldn’t be collateral damage, it would be the fortunes of war. He just hoped, for some odd reason, that he wouldn’t have to be the one who killed her. Chapter 6 Chloe woke with a start, just as the car pulled up outside a small sidewalk caf?. She had no idea how long she’d slept, and she still couldn’t believe she’d been able to do so when trapped inside such a tiny space with Bastien Toussaint. Maybe it had been self-preservation. “Here you go,” he said, making no effort to turn off the car. “This is the remarkably boring little town of St. Andr?. There’s a small bookstore around the corner, and if you change your mind you can get yourself some lunch at the caf?. I’ll be back in a couple hours.” “You’ll be back? Where are you going?” “I have some business to attend to. If you were counting on my company I’m sorry to disappoint you, but there are certain things that demand my attention…” “I’m not disappointed,” she said, feeling oddly grumpy. She glanced through the windscreen. The sky was dark, overcast, and the town looked small and depressed. “Are you sure the bookstore will have what I need? The town is very small.” “It doesn’t matter. Hakim doesn’t care about the books—he just wanted to get rid of you for a few hours. Me as well. I doubt he’ll even look at what you bring back.” She stared at him. “I don’t understand.” “What’s to understand? This way he kills two birds with one stone.” His hands were draped loosely over the steering wheel. Beautiful hands. Even with the plain gold band. She opened the door and slid out of the low-slung car. The temperature had dropped, and the wind was picking up, sending leaves scudding across the narrow roadway. “Two hours?” she asked, looking at her watch. “Probably.” And he pulled away the moment she’d closed the door, disappearing down the narrow road as fast as he could. It was after one—given the speed he was driving they could be halfway to Marseilles by now. She should have brought an umbrella—the weather was looking more threatening by the moment. It was just as well that he’d left. He made her unaccountably nervous, and she wasn’t used to that. Men were basically predictable creatures—what you saw was what you got. But Bastien was a different matter altogether. She wasn’t sure of one thing about him—his nationality, his business, even his on-again, off-again interest in her. The only thing she was sure of was that he drove too fast. And smelled too good. She headed for the bookstore first. Among other things, she certainly couldn’t count on Hakim’s errand being spurious, and she was a conscientious employee, no matter what the circumstances. The place was hard to find—she had to ask directions from a sour-faced old woman who probably wouldn’t have answered her in English even if she understood it. Fortunately Chloe knew her accent was very good, the result of starting French in kindergarten at the private girls’ school her parents had sent her to. She sounded more like a Belgian than a Frenchwoman, but that was much more acceptable than a lowly American. The bookstore was just the disaster she’d expected. It was filled with the discards from some professor’s old library, and some of the titles were so esoteric even she couldn’t translate them. All in French, of course, and not a dust jacket in sight. They’d probably all been published before the war. She found a couple of novels and bought them anyway. If they wouldn’t do for Hakim’s French-speaking guests then she’d read them herself. And then she headed back toward the caf?. Maybe there’d be a newsstand around—glossy magazines would probably serve just as well for bored grocers in their off-hours. But there was no newsstand, not even a newspaper to be had at the dingy little caf?. But at least there was food, and by that point Chloe was ravenous. She had a baguette and brie for lunch, washed down with strong coffee instead of the wine she usually would have ordered. At that point she didn’t plan to go anywhere near alcohol for the duration of this peculiar little job Sylvia had conned her into. And the sooner she was done, and back in her tiny apartment with a fistful of euros, the happier she’d be. She lingered as long as she could over her meal, checking her watch every now and then. It was almost two hours—surely Bastien would appear at any moment. Hopefully before the rain. She paid her bill and went outside, peering down the street for some sign of the Porsche. The streets were empty, the wind was whipping her skirts against her legs, and when she turned back to the caf? the door was firmly closed, with Ferm? displayed on a sign in the window. At that moment the first fat raindrop hit her, followed by another. She considered going back to the caf?, banging on the door, but they’d probably ignore her. They hadn’t seemed too happy to have a customer in the first place, and they were probably long out of hearing range by now. Or they’d pretend to be. She headed back toward the bookstore as quickly as she could, but that, too, was closed and locked. She ducked under the portico, shivering slightly, pulling her coat around her as the drops of rain began to turn into a light mist. The town was so small there were no other public buildings that she could see. The post office would close midday as well, and if there were other shops they were nowhere in sight. What was in sight was the old church. Chloe stifled a pang of guilt—getting in out of the icy rain was a poor reason for finally setting foot in a church, but she had little choice. The church was on the corner of the main square—she could keep an eye out for Bastien more easily, and it would be warmer than standing outside. She was halfway to the church when the rain let loose its full fury, soaking her to the skin. The too-tight high heels were making it slow going, and she paused long enough to pull them off before sprinting the rest of the way to the carved wooden doors of the old church. They were locked as well. What the hell kind of town was this, where they locked the church? What if she were some poor sinner in need of absolution or a moment of meditation? Well, she was a poor sinner by the church’s standards, though she hadn’t had the chance to sin nearly enough over the past few months. But clearly this small town didn’t have much call for daytime sanctity. She plastered herself against the door, trying to keep as much of her body out of the rain as she could, and watched the water beat down on the street, running in rivulets through the cobblestones that should have been charming but had nearly broken her ankle. The temperature was dropping, and she wrapped her arms around her body, shivering. And then she realized that somewhere along the way she’d lost the books she’d purchased. “Son of a bitch,” she muttered, then stopped herself when she remembered where she was. It only needed this to make the day complete. Bastien had been gone for hours, and with her luck he wouldn’t return. She’d be stuck in this unfriendly, nameless town, die of pneumonia, and Sylvia would have to find a new roommate. Headlights speared through the rain, illuminating her as she huddled in the doorway. The Porsche pulled up in front of her, and she stood unmoving as he rolled down the window. “Sorry I’m late,” he said, sounding not the least bit sorry. “I told you you should have brought an umbrella.” “Fuck you,” she muttered, finally reaching her limit as she snatched up her discarded shoes and stepped out into the driving rain once more. She climbed into the passenger seat, and proceeded to shake her soaking hair in her best impression of a wet dog. He didn’t complain, which would have been half the fun. “Sorry,” he said again. “Where are the books?” “Lost them.” “You’re a mess,” he said, eyeing her critically. “That outfit is ruined.” The thin silk shirt was plastered to her chest, to the bra that was slightly too small for her, and she plucked it away from her skin. Sylvia had always loved that shirt—it would serve her right for getting Chloe into this mess in the first place. “You’re cold,” he said. Chloe thought of several responses, most of them along the lines of “duh,” but she resisted the temptation. “Yes, I’m cold,” she said, shivering as she reached for the seat belt. Her hands were shaking too much to fasten it, and eventually she gave up, sitting back in the leather seat and hoping she’d ruin that as well. Bastien hadn’t put the car into gear—he was looking at her. Or at least she assumed he was. The interior of the car was very dark in the driving rain, and he hadn’t switched on a light. “Do you want to go to a hotel and get out of those wet clothes?” He might have been asking if she wanted an ice-cream cone, so casual was his voice. “I think not,” she said in a caustic voice. “Just turn on the heat and I’ll be fine.” He put the car in gear and started along the road at the same suicidal speed he’d driven before, but this time in the dark and the pouring rain, and she wasn’t wearing her seat belt. The Porsche might be a glorious car but its heating system left something to be desired, and a half hour later she was still cold, fumbling with the lap belt because if Bastien was going to overturn them in his Le Mans haste then she wanted a fighting chance at surviving. It was pitch-black by now, not just from the rain but from the hour, and Chloe tried to huddle into her seat, hoping he’d forgotten about her presence, faintly annoyed that he had, when he suddenly pulled the car over, the tires skidding on the wet pavement until it came to a stop by a row of hedges. It was too narrow a road to park on, but they hadn’t passed another car the entire time. Which actually added to her sense of insecurity, when she thought about it. She was alone on a dark road with a man she didn’t know, and she didn’t trust him. This time he flicked on the dashboard light, and the shadows it cast in the tiny space were harsh and unforgiving. Bastien no longer looked so smooth and charming. He looked dangerous. “What the hell are you doing?” he demanded. “Trying to fasten my seat belt.” Unfortunately her voice shook slightly with the cold. “You drive too fast.” “Idiote,” he muttered under his breath, and reached for something behind the seat. His body brushed against hers as he did so, and she held her breath until he sat back again. He had a white shirt in his hand, and before she could figure out what he had in mind he’d caught her chin in one strong hand and began drying her face with the soft cloth. “You look like a raccoon,” he said in a dispassionate voice. “Your makeup is all over your face.” “Great,” she muttered. She reached for the shirt. “I can manage.” He pulled it out of her reach. “Sit still,” he said, dabbing around her eyes with surprising care. The shirt smelled like him. Like the elusive scent he wore, like the cigarettes he shouldn’t be smoking, like the indefinable smell of his skin. And how would she already know what his skin smelled like? He dropped the shirt in her lap but didn’t release her face. “There,” he said. “Much better. Now you simply look mysterious and smudged. They will think we spent the afternoon in bed. Which is probably what we should have been doing, if you weren’t so American.” She tried to jerk her face away, but he was holding her with more force than she’d realized. “We didn’t.” “Such a shame. Are you disappointed? We could take a little detour on our way back—Hakim won’t be expecting us until he sees us.” Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/anne-stuart/black-ice-39774229/?lfrom=688855901) на ЛитРес. Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.