by Anne Stuart
Including the safety and freedom that could only come from his complete absence in her life.
Monique was the last danger. He still didn’t know how she’d managed to survive, but she was the most unstable of anyone he’d dealt with while he was working for the Committee. The most unstable of those still alive, that was. People like her didn’t last long in the business—you don’t let personal feelings get in the way of the mission, you didn’t kill for anything other than a job, you didn’t hate, you didn’t love.
But Monique was so eaten up with hatred that she’d managed to survive when no one else had. And instead of rebuilding her power base, she was hunting for Chloe Underwood, simply because she knew it would hurt him. Lure him out of hiding, so that she could kill him as well.
Once Bastien had stopped Monique there would be no more problem, at least for Chloe. Even if he had to go and cut Harry Thomason’s throat to make sure of it.
He knew when her heartbeat shifted, the faint shiver across her skin, and he knew her eyes fluttered open, even though her face was turned away from him. He was strangely attuned to her—they’d slept together only a few times and yet he knew her body, her pulses, the rhythm of her heartbeat and her breathing so well that his own matched hers. He let his hand dance along her arm, just the faintest of caresses, and he could feel her instant response. She wanted more. And, God help him, so did he.
“They’re coming soon,” he said gently. “We need to get dressed.”
She turned her head to look at him, and he could see the dried trace of tears on her face, the mussed hair, the total lack of makeup. She looked younger than ever, innocent in a way that had nothing to do with the inventive hours they’d just shared. Innocent deep in her heart, where he was nothing but an empty core.
“Do we have to?” Her voice was low, husky, sexy. He couldn’t believe he could be wanting her again, so quickly. It was a good thing he was going to be either dead or gone in the next few hours. Now that he’d let down his guard it was more and more difficult to build it up again. And their lives depended on his well-honed talents, that had nothing to do with vulnerability at all.
“We have to,” he said, pushing her hair away from her face. She reached up and caught his hand, bringing it to her mouth, her lips. He had bite marks on his wrist, where he’d had her use her teeth rather than make the noises he was drawing from her, and she’d drawn blood. It gave him a deep, strange satisfaction. “If we’re to have any chance of survival we need to be ready.”
“Any chance? How likely is it?”
He shrugged. “Stranger things have been known to happen.”
“You could always lie to me.”
“Why?”
She pushed away from him, sitting up in the bed. She looked beautiful in the moonlight, no longer self-conscious. He’d marked her as well—love bites at the side of her breast, the roughness of his beard scratching her thighs. It would heal. They would both heal.
“If we’re going to die there’s no harm in telling me pretty lies,” she said. “In the end it won’t matter, and I’ll die happy.”
“I have no intention of letting either of us die. And then where would the lies get us?”
“If you manage to keep us alive then I promise I’ll forget. Just tell me you care about me. If we’re going to die then how important is the truth?”
“It’s because we might die that the truth is particularly important,” he said, making no effort to touch her. “And telling you that I care about you is a waste of time. I wouldn’t have crossed the ocean, come out of hiding and tracked you down if you didn’t matter to me.”
Her smile was tentative, so sweet that if he had a heart it would have broken in it. “Then come up with a better lie. Tell me you love me.”
“You don’t need lies, Chloe,” he said. “I do love you.”
It took a moment for his words to sink in. And then, of course, she didn’t believe him—he could see it in the doubtful expression in her beautiful brown eyes.
“I shouldn’t have asked you,” she said unhappily, starting to move away. “Just forget it…”
He pulled her back, off balance so that she fell against him, and he took her face in his two hands and held it very still while his eyes looked down into hers. Somber, truthful, painfully honest. “I love you, Chloe,” he said. “Which is the most dangerous thing I could do.”
“I’m not the one who wants to kill you,” she whispered.
“Maybe not today,” he replied with a faint smile. “At least that’s a change from our usual relationship.” He kissed her, lightly, and then pushed her away.
He didn’t give her a chance to say anything more, to ask more questions. He couldn’t be sorry he told her—if he died he’d regret that he’d held that back from her. She didn’t believe him. He didn’t know if he was relieved or annoyed. She probably believed it was his soft heart that made him lie to her and tell her that he loved her. Even after the days they’d spent together, the things she’d seen him do, she still thought he was capable of kind lies. When kindness had no part of his being, and lies were only to get what he wanted.
They dressed quickly, in the dark. He couldn’t tell if the sky was beginning to turn light—sunrise was sometime after six, but before long it would soon be spreading over the hilly countryside. He wondered if the snow had stopped. Monique would want to be in and out before the full light of dawn, and he could tell they were nearby. Not by any kind of proof, just his instincts at full force.
He’d left the light on in the hall—the usual light an absent house owner would leave to scare off burglars. It went out, and a moment later he heard the muffled explosion with a kind of cold satisfaction.
“They’re here,” he said. “And they should be down one.”
“What do you mean?” He couldn’t see her in the newly minted darkness, but he recognized the faint thread of fear in her voice, one she was trying to hide from him.
“I sabotaged the security system. I knew they were going to try to cut the power, but whoever actually did it isn’t going to survive to do anything more. Which leaves Monique and four others at most.”
She didn’t ask him how he knew that—she accepted it. If she continued being that unnaturally docile then they might have a fighting chance.
She was dressed in that shapeless outfit again, and yet he could see the clean, strong lines of her body beneath the soft fleece as if he could see through cloth. No woman should look that sexy in sweat clothes. No woman should look that sexy when people were trying very hard to kill him.
There was another muffled explosion, and the bright glow sent a rosy shadow into the room. He could see her face again, the doubt and worry that he wanted to kiss away. “What was that?”
“The guest house. Their information is top of the line—they’d know you were supposed to be there, and they would have gone there first. I’m hoping it took at least one more of them, but I can’t count on that.”
“The guest house is burning?” she said, moving toward the window. “Everything I care about is in there….”
He caught her around the waist, pulling her back into the shadows. Monique and her cohorts would be stationed around the house, watching the windows for any sign of occupation. It wouldn’t take much to tip them off. “Things can be replaced,” he said. “I need to go.”
She stared at him, uncomprehending. “You need to go? You’re leaving me?”
“You’ll just hold me back. You’re going to need to hide while I go hunting. I can work better if I don’t have to worry about you at the same time. If I succeed I’ll come back for you.”
“And if you don’t?”
“Then, my sweet, au revoir. I’ll be going straight to hell, and I don’t expect to see you there,” he said, his voice light.
“Then you’re not leaving me.”
He should have known that was coming. She was fully dressed except for her shoes, and she had a stubborn expression on her face, and he knew that
he had one chance and one chance only of keeping her alive.
In the shadowy darkness of the bedroom it was easy enough for him to pick up the supplies he’d stashed there earlier. He knew her better than she knew herself, knew she’d object, and he was ruthless enough to do what needed to be done. He came up to her in the darkness, and for the first time she didn’t flinch, didn’t back away. She would kiss him if he asked her to, she would take her clothes back off and lie down on the bed once more, and he only wished life could be that simple. But it never was.
“I’m sorry, love,” he said, cupping her face with one hand. Slapping the duct tape over her mouth before she had any idea what was happening, capturing her hands as they flew up to fight him, wrapping the rope around them. She was struggling now, but he was much bigger and stronger than she was, and he had her down on the floor, tying her quickly, efficiently despite her struggles. He didn’t need to see her eyes to know they were blazing with fury. Maybe it would help her get over him. Especially when she was faced with the worst part of this.
He hauled her upright, and she tried to hit him with her bound hands, but it threw her off balance, and he caught her before she fell. He should have just hit her, knocked her out, but he couldn’t bring himself to do that to her again. Even if, in fact, it would have been a kindness.
“Don’t fight me, Chloe,” he whispered in her ear. “I have no choice. When I’m finished with them I’ll set you free. Either that, or someone will find you before long. As long as it’s not Monique.”
She wasn’t in the mood to listen, and he didn’t expect it. He picked her up, tossing her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, and left the room, nothing more than a shadow on the edge of dawn.
She’d stopped fighting, a small grace, until she began to realize where he was taking her. Down two flights of stairs, into the pitch-dark confines of the basement. He could feel the tremors begin to run through her body as the claustrophobia took hold once more, but he ignored it. There was always a price to be paid, and when he opened the crawl space he’d broken into earlier that day her struggles became so fierce that he could no longer hold her, and she fell onto the concrete floor with a muffled cry.
He couldn’t afford to waste time with gentleness. He pushed her into the tiny crawl space—there was just enough room for her, none for him, but he could touch her, put his hand on her cold, damp forehead, run his thumb against her temple in a useless, soothing gesture. “It’s the best I could come up with, Chloe,” he whispered. “Close your eyes and don’t think about the darkness. Think about how you’re going to kick my ass when you get out of here.”
She was trembling, and he doubted she even heard his words. He could see just enough to know her eyes were wide with panic, and there was nothing he could do about it.
Instead he leaned down and put his lips against the silver tape that covered her mouth, a strange, muffled kiss that he couldn’t resist. And for a moment her shaking stilled, and she leaned toward him, into the kiss.
“I’m sorry,” he said. And moving back, he put the solid door back in place, closing her in there, in the coffinlike space with no light, closing her into her worst fear.
He half expected to hear her kicking at the panel, struggling. The silence was deep and cold as death. He kissed the wood, a soundless goodbye, and went out into the predawn air, ready to kill once more.
She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. She didn’t dare move, terrified that she would do something that might endanger Bastien. She sat huddled, trussed and gagged in the dark, tiny space and tried to keep from screaming. Knowing that no scream would be heard.
She moved, and through her panic she heard something hit the floor, something metallic against the cold, hard concrete. If her hands had been bound behind her she wouldn’t have been able to find anything, but with them in front she could hunt around, trying to concentrate on that rather than the inky darkness. It had sounded hollow and metallic, like a bullet, but she knew that was ridiculous. It had to be something else.
Her bound hands curled around the slender metallic cylinder, and for a moment she had no idea what it could be. She could feel the bubble of hysteria at the back of her throat. Was he French enough and crazy enough to give her lipstick? And then she knew.
Such a bright light, flooding the cramped space, all from a tiny little flashlight. She felt the clawing panic begin to recede, slowly, and she leaned back against the hard wall, trying to control her breathing. It took her a moment to realize she could also pull the duct tape from across her mouth, and she did so, not even wincing in pain as she yanked it from her skin. He would have known she’d figure it out sooner or later. But by then she’d be calm enough to know that any sound she might make would only endanger them both.
She jerked at her wrists, but that was the limit of his concessions. The rope held firmly, and she could do nothing about her ankles. She was trapped there, but not in the darkness. She could survive anything if she had even a tiny beacon of light. And if enough time passed, and he didn’t come back for her, if her parents returned she could call out, and someone would come and rescue her.
The very notion seemed bizarre, but Bastien had been prepared for all contingencies. Now all she had to do was stay calm and wait. Wait for him to come back to her.
Because he would. Though hell should bar the way, hadn’t they both said? She had to believe that, or even the security of the tiny flashlight wouldn’t be enough to keep her from crying out.
It must be sometime after four. She had no idea how long they’d been in bed together—time had lost all meaning. He’d told her he would kiss every part of her body. He had. He’d made love to her with such exquisite tenderness, such fierce possessiveness, such mind-shaking intensity that even now she felt shaken, shocked. Aroused.
The light was strong and bright, but the battery wouldn’t last forever. She had no idea whether any stray light would filter through the solid covering to the crawl space, but she didn’t want to risk it. Because if they found her, they’d have a weapon to use against Bastien, and she couldn’t let that happen.
She moved the tiny cylinder down in her hand and pushed the button at the tip. The thick, suffocating darkness closed around her like a smothering blanket, and she took a deep, shaky breath. She closed her eyes, refusing to be a victim of the darkness. She huddled there, silent, alone, and waited.
She almost thought she might have slept, though such a thing seemed impossible. She jerked suddenly, as the unmistakable sound of footsteps on the old stairway brought a surge of crazed hope.
She started to call his name, then bit her lips before anything more than a soft intake of breath could be heard. It wasn’t Bastien. Whoever was moving around the basement was very quiet—she could barely hear the softest sound of footsteps.
With Bastien, there would have been no sound at all.
Either her eyes had grown accustomed to it, or the darkness of the tiny cubbyhole had lightened slightly. She could see her hands in front of her, bound by rope and duct tape, but she couldn’t see the flashlight. She moved, just the tiniest amount, careful not to make a sound, when she felt something roll across her stomach, and a moment later it hit the concrete with a clang as loud as a pair of crashing symbols.
She held her breath, praying, panicked. Please, God, don’t let them hear. Let it be Bastien, let it be anyone but the crazy woman who wanted to kill her for reasons so obscure that she wouldn’t have believed it if the smell of blood from the Hotel Denis hadn’t stayed with her all these months later.
She had no warning. The door to the crawl space was pulled open, and someone stood there, silhouetted by the dim light coming from the cellar door. It wasn’t anyone she knew—the person was tall, painfully thin, bald. She didn’t move—maybe Bastien had brought help.
“So there you are, chérie.” Monique’s voice came from the cadaverous figure, sounding eerily cheerful. “I knew I’d find you sooner or later. Come out and play.” She put a thin, painf
ully strong hand on her bound wrists and dragged her out into the basement, letting her collapse at her feet.
Monique knelt down by her, and Chloe could see her more clearly now. She wasn’t bald—her head had been shaved. And Bastien hadn’t been wrong—she had been shot in the face. The left side of her jaw had been blown away, and after four months she had only begun the healing process. Four years wouldn’t help.
“Pretty, aren’t I?” Monique cooed.
“I didn’t do that,” Chloe said in a shaky voice.
“Of course you didn’t. I doubt you could even shoot a gun, you useless little idiot. I have no idea who did—whether it was the Greek’s men, or Bastien’s people, or even my own. It doesn’t matter. I’m just clearing up a few loose ends. And you’re the very final one. There’s no one else.”
A cold, sick dread filled Chloe’s throat. “What do you mean?”
“What do you think I mean? Bastien’s dead.”
25
“No!” Chloe said, hating the sound of fear in her own voice.
“But yes. Did you think he was some kind of super-hero? He bleeds red blood, just like everyone else. I will admit he’s harder to kill than most men, but in the end he’s only mortal. Or was.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Of course you do. I can hear it in your voice. I think you knew all along that it was hopeless. I never expected to find him here in the first place. Why didn’t he try to run with you? He wouldn’t have gotten far, but at least it would have been better than waiting here like a cornered deer. Then again, maybe he decided he’d rather be dead than have a wet little creature like you hanging around his neck for the rest of his life.”
From somewhere deep inside she pulled the last of her resources. “He wouldn’t have come to save me if he didn’t want me.”
