by Anne Stuart
She swallowed. The touch of his hands on her throat was unnerving, and it took all her strength to keep from swaying against him. “And maybe you’re full of shit,” she said. “You may not want me but you don’t want to kill me either.”
His smile was wry. “Now that’s where you’re wrong.” The pressure of his fingers against her throat increased for just a moment, and she felt dizzy, disoriented, until she realized he’d pushed her up against the wall of the damask-paneled living room, his elegant body pressed up against hers, his fingers cradling her face as he looked down into her eyes in the gathering darkness. Wrong about what, she thought distantly. Wrong about killing, or wrong about wanting?
He was about to tell her. “If this were a different time, a different place, I would take you to bed with me and make love to you for days,” he said, his voice slow and deep and intent. “I would use my mouth on you, until no part of your skin went untouched, and I would make you come, over and over again until you could stand no more, and then I’d let you sleep in my arms until you were rested and then I would start all over again. I would kiss your wounds, I would drink your tears, I could make love to you in ways that haven’t even been invented yet. I would make love to you in fields of flowers and under starry skies, where there is no death or pain or sorrow. I would show you things you haven’t even dreamed of, and there would be no one in the world but you and me, between your legs, in your mouth, everywhere.”
She stared at him, eyes wide. “Breathe,” he said softly, with a self-deprecating smile, and she realized she’d been holding her breath.
“You would?” she gasped.
“I would. But I won’t. It wouldn’t be a very good idea.”
“Why not?”
“It wouldn’t be very good for you.”
“Why don’t you let me be the judge of what’s good for me?”
He laughed then, and she realized she’d never heard him laugh before. For a moment he looked beautiful, gilded by moonlight, a perfect man in a perfect place.
And then the shadows closed down around them once more. “You have Stockholm Syndrome, remember?” he said with gentle mockery. “It won’t be much longer. By midnight you’ll be safely away from this, and by next week it will all be a distant nightmare. In a year you’ll forget you ever met me.”
“I don’t think so.”
But the subject was closed. He took his hands away from her throat, and she realized he’d been caressing her. “You’ll do what I told you, yes? When I give you the signal you pick a fight with me, then storm out of the place and go hide in the toilet. I will come and get you as soon as I can.”
“And if you don’t come?”
“Though hell should bar the way,” he said lightly. “You’ll be seeing your old friends from the château. Such good times.”
“Yeah, right,” she said. “I promise to keep my mouth shut.”
“You don’t need to. This will all be over tonight. It doesn’t really matter what you say, as long as you don’t tell them about the device I’m wearing. Just keep away from Christos.”
“Who’s Christos?”
“You haven’t met him yet. He’s arriving tonight, and he makes Hakim seem like Mother Teresa. Steer clear of him if you can. Your artless prattle might get on his nerves, and he’s not a man to cross.”
“Artless prattle…?”
He ignored her outraged protest. “If you just keep your head about you and do as I say you’ll make it through the night in one piece.”
“As will you?” It was a question, not a statement.
She didn’t like the faint irony in his smile. “As will I,” he said. “One more thing. You haven’t finished dressing.”
“There was no bra,” she said nervously.
“I know. That’s why I chose it.” He might as well have been discussing orange prices. He reached in the pocket of his tuxedo and pulled out a glittering string of diamonds. “You need proper ornamentation. Turn around.”
He was holding a heavy, old-looking necklace that had to be diamonds. She didn’t, couldn’t move, so he simply put his arms around her neck, fastening the clasp behind her. The light splintered and danced through the jewels, and the white-gold setting was oddly warm against her skin. He looked down at her, tilting his head to one side to judge the effect. “They look good on you.”
“Whose are they? Stolen swag? Or the best fakes money can buy?”
“Does it matter?”
“Not really.” He’d opened the door, and she knew she wasn’t coming back to this place. She was never going to spend time alone with him again, and when he took her arm she held back, just slightly.
“Would you do me a favor?”
“What is it?”
“Would you at least tell me your name?”
He shook his head. “I’ve told you, you don’t need to know. The less you know, the safer you are.”
She’d expected no more. “Then would you at least kiss me? Just once, like you really mean it.” If he didn’t kiss her she might not make it through the next few hours. If he didn’t kiss her she might not want to.
But he shook his head. “No,” he said. “Once you’re back home there’ll be dozens of handsome young men wanting to kiss you. Wait until then.”
“I don’t think so.” She put her arms around his neck and yanked his head down to hers and kissed him, hard. She half expected him to fight, to push her away, but he simply let her kiss him, not reacting, not participating. She might have been kissing her own reflection in the mirror.
She wanted to cry, but the tears could wait as well as the handsome young men. She drew back, a jaunty smile on her face. “For luck,” she said brightly. And without another word she walked out into the hallway, leaving him to follow, closing the door behind them. Closing safety away, as he took her arm once more and slowly walked her toward destiny or disaster. She would find out which soon enough.
They were all there. Otomi and his assistant, whose tattoos showed beneath the elegant cuffs of his dinner jacket. Bastien wondered idly whether Otomi was covered with the traditional colorful tattoos sported by most Yakuza, or whether he’d always been management level. He still had all of his fingers, so he might never have been in the trenches. His silent, impassive assistant was missing only part of one digit. Obviously he didn’t screw up very often.
The baron glowered at him from across the room, and Monique froze when she caught sight of them. Chloe was clinging to Bastien’s arm, nervous now that it was show time, and he patted her hand reassuringly, because he could. For an hour or so, a very dangerous hour or so, he could touch her all he wanted. It was part of a show, it meant nothing, and he could indulge himself and she’d never know how damned hard it was for him.
He figured he had a fifty-fifty chance of making it through the night, but he was getting Chloe out of there if he had to gun down everyone in the room. Some of the people in the room were ostensibly on the same side as he was, assuming he even had a side. It didn’t matter—he would sacrifice anyone to keep Chloe alive. Even risk her parents.
They should have arrived in Paris about now. His phone call had caught them at the airport—they were already on their way to France to find their missing daughter. Sylvia’s body had been found, as well as Chloe’s passport, and the gendarmes had tracked down her parents. With luck they’d be on their way to the hotel, in time to stop Chloe from getting caught in the bloodbath he knew was going to go down.
She had no idea that when he sent her out of the room he’d be sending her to her parents. And they would make sure she wouldn’t come back, no matter what sounds they heard. He could only hope they’d be long gone from the hotel before the shooting started.
“Well, isn’t this a surprise?” Monique cooed, gliding up to them. “We wondered where you’d gone to. We figured you’d killed Hakim, but we weren’t sure whether the little American had gone with you or whether she’d left on her own. I’m glad to see you’ve kept track of her.”
“So tell me, why did you kill Hakim? We’re all quite interested. It was unexpected, to say the least.”
“And does anyone really care?”
Monique smiled. “No. He was disposable. We’re simply curious.” She put out her thin, bejeweled hand and touched Chloe’s exposed skin. “I can see traces of his handiwork.” There were the faintest of marks left from Hakim’s worst wounds, and he could see the gooseflesh rise on Chloe’s arm at Monique’s touch.
He grabbed her strong wrist and pulled her hand away. “No touching, Monique,” he said. “She’s mine.”
“It’s always nice to share,” Monique replied with an exaggerated pout. “She’s very pretty when she’s dressed up. And where did she get those very spectacular diamonds? I haven’t seen anything quite so stunning in a long time. Where did you get them, petite?” She turned her attention to Chloe, who jumped nervously.
“Bastien gave them to me,” she said after a moment.
Monique frowned. “I had no idea he could be so generous. If I’d known you had something quite so nice in your possession I wouldn’t have broken off our relationship.”
Her eyes dared him to correct her, but he was already getting bored. Monique enjoyed playing cat and mouse, but she wasn’t his target tonight. Compared to the man he’d come to deal with, Monique was child’s play.
“Where’s Christos?” he said. “Another no-show?” It would be a mixed blessing if the Greek didn’t bother to join them one more time. Once Christos appeared most of the attention would be directed toward him. If he didn’t, Chloe could still be a target, both of the cartel and the Committee. And while the presence of her American parents might cause the cartel to reconsider, the Committee would barely hesitate.
No, it would be better all around if Christos showed up and things went down as planned. There was always the chance that the dummy taped to his side was the only wound he’d get, but he wasn’t counting on it. As long as Chloe was safe he really didn’t give a shit what happened.
“Your guess is as good as mine,” Monique said. “If he doesn’t show up I’m sure we’ll find some way to occupy our time.” She reached out to touch Chloe again, but this time Chloe jerked out of her way.
“Hands off, you skanky bitch,” she said in her sweetest voice. In Monique’s native German.
Monique blinked, and her smile widened. “Oh, she is a little treasure, Bastien. I’m going to have fun with her. And yes, I know. Over your dead body.” And she blew them both a little kiss before sauntering back to her glowering husband.
“Perhaps not a wise idea, Chloe,” he murmured. “Not that I blame you.” She looked up at him, and in the bright light he could see her more clearly than he wanted to. The troubled brown eyes that would fill with tears when she heard he’d died. The full, soft mouth that would find someone else to kiss, someone who would kiss her back.
“Is that the worst?” she asked.
There was a commotion at the door, and he tore his gaze away from her to look at the group of men who walked in. “I’m afraid not,” he said softly. “Christos has arrived.”
20
Christos didn’t look like the monster Bastien had painted him, Chloe thought. Compared to Gilles Hakim he seemed like nothing more than a well-dressed businessman, albeit surrounded by a small army that could only be bodyguards. Part of her had been expecting Zorba, but this was no jovial fisherman. He stood in the doorway, flanked by his men, and let his eyes scan the room, cataloguing the inhabitants. He had strong eyes—clear, almost colorless, and when they rested on Chloe’s skin she felt a cold rush.
“I’m glad to see you’re all still here,” he said. His English was perfect though heavily accented. A good thing, because Chloe’s Greek was marginal at best. “I’m sorry I couldn’t join you sooner, I had business matters to attend to. But that doesn’t mean I don’t mourn the loss of our dear friend August Remarque and his excellent leadership skills. I gather we’ve lost Hakim as well. Another sorrow.” He turned his gaze on Bastien, who was watching him with total impassivity. “But seeing old friends will help to make up for the loss.”
“Who have you brought with you, Christos?” Mr. Otomi demanded, clearly displeased. The six men surrounding Christos’s small, elegant figure trumped Otomi’s lone assistant cum bodyguard.
“A man can never be too careful. What with all these sudden deaths I thought it would be wise to ensure my safety. Don’t look so concerned, my dear friends and colleagues. My men are very well trained. They won’t do anything I don’t tell them to do.”
None of the others in the room looked particularly gratified by that information, Chloe thought, moving infinitesimally closer to Bastien. He’d been right. The previous meetings had been mere skirmishes compared to this highly charged atmosphere.
“We need to discuss the disposition—” Signore Ricetti began in a strident voice, but Christos cut him off with a wave of his hand. Pale, small hands, Chloe noticed.
“There’ll be time enough for business,” he said. “In the meantime I’d like a drink. Some decent French wine for a change. I’m sick to death of retsina.”
“Of course.” Madame Lambert seemed to have taken on the role of hostess—she signaled for the waiter. “And for your men?”
“They don’t drink when they’re on duty,” Christos purred. Chloe felt the tension in the room rise.
Bastien put his arm around her waist, steering her toward a less-crowded section of the room. It had taken all her initial self-control not to jump when he touched her, then an even stronger effort not to sink back against him. His touch was an illusion. It offered no more safety than a cobra sliding up her back. But it made her feel better.
He settled her onto the smooth pale leather banquette, then sat down beside her, close but not touching. Had he brought a gun? She couldn’t remember. She’d been far more interested in his skin and his body than what kind of weapons he carried. It would serve her right if she died, she thought in disgust. Besotted little idiot.
Someone had given her a glass of champagne. She hadn’t even noticed how it got in her hand, but she sipped at it for something to do, saying nothing as she watched the remaining members of the arms cartel circulate around the room with perfect party manners.
Monique was flirting with Christos—a temporary reprieve, but after a moment she turned, looking directly into Chloe’s eyes. And then she came straight toward them, a wicked smile on her deep-red lips.
Chloe could feel the tension radiating from the man beside her. “Time to pick a fight,” he murmured.
It should have been easy enough. He was equal parts irresistible and maddening, and she could have concentrated on the maddening part. Except that she could read the tension in the room, see Christos’s phalanx of bodyguards, and she wasn’t going anywhere.
“I’m fine,” she said in a dulcet tone.
He swiveled on the banquette to give her his full attention. “Time to leave,” he said in a low voice. “Things are getting dangerous around here.”
She gave him a bright, limpid smile. “I’m not going anywhere without you,” she said in a low, sultry voice that wouldn’t carry beyond the two of them.
His dark, dark eyes could freeze her in her tracks, but she refused to be cowed. “Don’t play this game, Chloe,” he said in a dangerous voice.
“It’s no game. I’m not leaving this room without you. If I do, you’ll die, and I don’t want that to happen.”
“If you stay, you’ll die.”
“Probably. Which means if you’re still determined to keep me alive you have no choice but to come with me.” She didn’t have long to feel pleased with herself for her plan—his expression was calm and faintly bored, but the look in his eyes was sheer fury.
He’d been sipping at a glass of whiskey and ice. He proceeded to dump it in her lap, leaping up in fake consternation. “Forgive me, my dear,” he
said loudly. “I don’t know how I could be so clumsy.”
The icy liquid soaked through the gown, onto her thighs, and it took all her effort to smile up at him, unmoving. Black could cover things other than blood. “It was just a drop, my love,” she murmured, reaching up for his arm. “Don’t worry about it.”
“I really do think you should go clean yourself up,” he said.
“I’m fine.”
“He’s trying to get rid of you, child.” Monique, unfortunately, had joined them. “Go away and give us a few minutes alone. We need to renew our acquaintance.”
“I don’t think so,” she said in a firm, pleasant voice.
“Stay, then.” Monique dropped down on the leather seat, pulling Bastien down between them. “I’ve never minded an audience.” And putting her hand behind Bastien’s head, she pulled his mouth down to hers.
He kissed her back. He put his arm around Monique’s slender waist and pulled her up against him, and gave her a lingering, lazy kiss. The kiss he’d refused Chloe just a short time ago.
It wasn’t just her imagination that the tension in the room ratcheted up several notches. Monique’s husband was watching with avid fascination and not the faintest amount of discomfort, and the others were witnessing their little soap opera with various degrees of interest. Except for Christos’s bodyguards, who’d managed to station themselves around the room instead of surrounding their employer. And why wasn’t Bastien paying attention to this alarming development, Chloe thought, instead of having his tongue halfway down that woman’s throat?
If she was supposed to sit there looking like a fool he’d miscalculated. He probably hoped she’d storm off in tears, and while she was tempted, Christos’s men were at every exit. Whether he liked it or not, she was trapped in there with them.
