If it was that simple—that he didn’t want to give her up—then he could easily ignore that nagging little voice. Sentimentality had no place in his life. He’d lost any trace of it long ago, if, in fact, he’d ever had any. When he’d gotten news of his mother and Aunt Cecile’s death in a hotel fire in Athens he’d simply shrugged. That part of his life was long over, and he’d dismissed it.
Just as he needed to dismiss all thoughts of Chloe and concentrate on finishing this last mission. She was no longer his problem, his responsibility. In fact, she never had been. He’d just chosen to make her so. And now he could forget about her.
He took the turn so quickly the car slid halfway across the snow-narrowed street, and he just barely missed hitting another taxi. He was being an idiot, and he accepted that fact, but he was going back to the old house on the outskirts of Paris. Maybe he just had to say goodbye. Maybe he simply had to make sure she was all right. Maybe he wanted to kiss her one more time. Make love to her the way she deserved.
That wasn’t going to happen. If he had any sense at all he’d ignore this sense of foreboding as the extraneous bullshit it was, put it behind him and finish the job. Take out Christos, and see whether Thomason was really going to have him killed as well.
But right now he didn’t seem to have much sense. And he wasn’t going to be able to move on until he made sure his reluctant charge was safe.
Chloe didn’t bother to say anything stupid, like “what do you mean?” She knew exactly what Maureen meant. Had known since the woman walked into their tiny, safe haven and Bastien had abandoned her, despite her talk of new haircuts and fancy underwear. The woman had no intention of letting her get on any plane. That was what the new clothing was for—so they couldn’t trace her by any mark on her own clothes. Couldn’t trace her body.
She was past the point of panic. “Is that why Bastien brought you here? Because he couldn’t do it himself?”
“Ah, Bastien. This particular identity hasn’t been particularly fortunate. If he were his old self you never would have left the château. As it is, I’m here to clean up the mess he made. Attention to detail is the only way to success.”
She was between Chloe and the open door. She was taller than Chloe, and despite the chic clothing she looked as if she were quite a bit stronger. And Chloe was hardly at her best.
She sat on the edge of the bed in her new, perfectly fitting clothes, and looked into the eyes of her killer. She felt numb, and though she despised herself for it, unable to move. She was going to sit there like a lamb waiting for slaughter, putting up no sort of fight….
The hell she was. She sat up straighter, but Maureen was already ahead of her.
“You’re not going gentle into that good night?” she said with a faint smile. “That’s all right. I owe you a fair amount of pain—you screwed me over and I don’t like being made to look a fool in front of my superiors.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Jean-Marc. Or Bastien, or whatever you call him. You’re just another example of his ambivalence. You’ve distracted him, when he was a man who could never be distracted. Killing you will be my gift to him.”
“Did he bring you here to kill me?”
“You already asked me that, chérie. And you may have noticed, I didn’t answer. You’re just going to have to wonder about that with your dying breath. Now start moving.”
“Where?”
“This room has steel reinforcements, and we’re directly above the bathroom. They’re likely to survive a fire more than the rest of this old bundle of dry wood, and I don’t take chances. One screwup is enough.”
“You’re going to burn the place? Then why did you bother making me change my clothes?”
“God is in the details. Except, of course, I don’t believe in God. But I never count on anything. They may find enough of your body, and I don’t want them ID-ing you. If you were German or English I wouldn’t have to be so careful, but the Americans tend to make a huge fuss when one of their citizens is murdered overseas. Out the door, chérie. We’ve wasted enough time as it is.”
“And what if I refuse to move? Make you kill me here?”
“You won’t. You’ll put off dying as long as you possibly can. It’s human nature. You’ll do everything I tell you to do, in the hope that you’ll find a weak spot, a chance to escape. You won’t, but you can’t believe that. So you’re going to do exactly as I say, walk out that door and down the stairs to the far corner of the second floor. Where I’ll cut your throat and then torch the place. I’ve already set the accelerants.”
But Chloe’s mind wasn’t interested in accelerants. “You’ll cut my throat?”
“It works quite well. It’s quiet—no noisy gun, and you won’t be able to make anything more than a gurgling noise for as long as you live. The drawback in your case is that you don’t die right away, but for me that’s one of the perks. I have a personal grudge this time. Not just for Jean-Marc’s sake. I don’t usually make mistakes, but because of you I made a major one. And I intend to make it right with a vengeance.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Are you totally dim-witted? Your friend. I had the apartment number, a general description, and there she was. How was I to know you had a roommate? It was very embarrassing to be told I’d killed the wrong woman.”
“Embarrassing?” Chloe echoed. The empty wine bottle was still on the table. It wouldn’t be much protection against a knife or a gun, but it would be something. If she just had the nerve to dive for it.
“Though in the end there’s no real harm done. I would have had to kill her anyway—it just would have been done in a different order. And this time I’ll complete my mission with no more mistakes.”
“You killed Sylvia?”
Maureen made an exasperated noise. “Haven’t you been listening? Of course I killed her. And she put up far more of a fight than I’m expecting from you. In the dark she must have thought I was a thief, because she fought like the very devil. I still have bruises. But I know you’re not going to give me any trouble—”
Chloe slammed her across the face with the empty wine bottle. The heavy glass shattered, but Chloe was already sprinting past her, running for her life, as Maureen screamed in rage behind her.
She couldn’t remember much about the layout of the old house, but even in her panic she managed to find the stairs. She could hear Maureen following her, but she had a good head start, and she ran down the stairs as fast as she could.
She slid on the last flight, going down hard and losing precious moments. By the time she’d managed to scramble to her feet again Maureen was in sight on the next landing.
The stairs ended, and Chloe kept moving, running blindly, listening to the sounds of Maureen’s heavy breathing as she closed in on her.
At the last minute luck was with her—she stumbled through a door that led into the murky, snow-lit outdoors. She was at the top of an outside flight of stairs leading down into the yard. She could even see the snow-covered mound of the taxi that had brought them here, but all trace of footprints had been covered up by the heavy snow, and it lay on each step at least a foot deep.
Chloe started down the stairs, fighting her way through the heavy wet snow, but it was too late. She was halfway down when Maureen caught up with her, grabbing her short hair and yanking her back.
“Bitch,” she spat, and her face was covered in blood. No longer chic and pretty, she was murderously angry. She took her and slammed her against the snowy stairs, holding her down. The knife in her hand was small but capable, and Chloe knew a bleak, surrealistic moment of despair. Why did it always have to be a knife? Why couldn’t someone just try to shoot her, cleanly and quickly, instead of carving into her flesh like a surgeon on amphetamines.
She closed her eyes, no longer brave, ready to face death, and she heard Maureen’s throaty laugh. “That’s the girl,” she said. “No more arguments.”
“Maureen! Stop!”
r /> It couldn’t be Bastien’s hoarse voice—he’d set this up. Had he changed his mind, come back? Changed his mind as he had at the château, and decided to save her?
“Go away, Jean-Marc!” Maureen said in an eerily calm voice, not bothering to look away from Chloe as she lay on the snow-covered stairs. “You know this is for the best. We have no choice.”
“Leave her alone!” The voice was closer, calmer now, but Maureen wasn’t listening.
“Make your choice, Jean-Marc,” she said. “Her or…” Her voice broke at the sound of the muffled gun, and she looked down in surprise. “Shit,” she muttered. And fell backward, sliding down the snowy slant of the stairs until she landed at the bottom, at Bastien’s feet.
There was a wide trail of bright crimson blood on the snow where Maureen’s body had slid, harsh red against the brilliant white. Chloe tried to move, but Bastien’s voice stopped her.
“Stay where you are,” he said, sounding oddly hollow. He bent down, effortlessly lifting Maureen’s limp body in his arms. For the moment he seemed to forget Chloe, as he carried Maureen toward the abandoned taxi, kicking the deep snow away, opening the door against the heavy drifts.
Chloe rose on unsteady legs, making her way down the stairs, following the trail of blood, her movements muffled by the thick snow. She should run, into the streets, and maybe he’d give up trying to find her.
She wasn’t going anywhere.
He had laid Maureen on the back seat. Her eyes were open, and he reached out a hand and gently closed them. “I’m sorry, love,” he whispered, before backing away and closing the door.
He seemed shocked to see her standing there, so close. She was fine, Chloe thought dazedly. She had gone past the ability to react, all she could do was stand there in the silence of the winter day, staring up at him, as the snow began to fall around them.
18
A few feet separated them, a few feet of blood and snow. She didn’t even think about it, she went to him, into his arms, pressing her face against his shoulder, clinging to him, shaking so hard she thought her bones would shatter, shaking to keep from screaming.
His arms came around her, strong, safe arms, holding her tight against him. He was powerful, warm, and the faint tremor in his body had to be her imagination.
He put a hand against her head, gently stroking her hair. “Breathe,” he whispered in her ear, like a lover. “Just breathe, slowly. Calm, deep breaths.”
She hadn’t even realized she’d been holding her breath. His hand was cupping her chin, his thumb gently stroking her throat, almost massaging her into breathing once more, and she took a deep, shuddering gasp, and then another, and then another.
“We need to get out of here,” he whispered, and she wanted to laugh, somewhere near hysteria. There was no one there to hear her—Maureen was dead, the world was a whirling mass of blood and snow, and if she screamed no one would hear….
But she wouldn’t scream. She could absorb his heat, his strength, his breath into her bones. She stayed that way, clinging to him, and he made no effort to make her move, giving her the time she needed.
She raised her head finally. He looked the same, but then, he always did. She’d seen him kill twice, and he betrayed no reaction at all. He was a monster, not even human.
But he was her monster, keeping her safe, and she was past the point of caring. “I’m ready,” she said.
He nodded, releasing her, keeping hold of her hand. She was icy cold, wet from the snow, and she clutched his hand so tightly it hurt her fingers, but she wouldn’t let go. He led her away from the old house, pausing long enough to kick some snow over the trail of blood that spilled down the last few stairs. The sky was growing darker now, though she wasn’t sure whether it was the storm or the hour. Or maybe her own willfulness, closing down a life that was becoming unbearable. She might be calling the darkness in around her, so that it would eventually close over her like a dark blanket, shutting out everything, the light, the horror, the pain….
He was being very gentle with her, she thought absently, as he opened the door of a shiny car she didn’t recognize, settling her into the front seat, fastening the seat belt. She’d left his coat behind, and suddenly it seemed terribly important, as if she’d left her only security back in the house.
“Your coat…” she said, taking in a shuddering gasp of breath.
“Fuck the coat. I don’t need it.”
“I do.”
He didn’t move, standing there in the open door, looking down at her, blotting out the sky. Wondering if she’d lost her mind, Chloe thought. The answer was yes.
After a moment he nodded. “Don’t move,” he said, closing the door of the small car.
She wanted to laugh. She couldn’t move. He’d fastened the seat belt, and her fingers wouldn’t work to unfasten it, her legs wouldn’t work to support her. It was taking all her strength to keep breathing as he’d told her to do, slow, deep breaths, and she concentrated on that.
It seemed as if he’d only been gone a moment. He opened her door and tucked the coat around her shoulders, then looked down into her face. “Are you all right?”
“Of course,” she said.
Wrong answer, she presumed, because a frown crossed his face for a moment. But he simply nodded. “Just hold on.”
What else did he think she would do, she thought, letting her head fall back against the seat and the bunched up coat. Run for it? Her running was over.
She closed her eyes as he drove fast, into the heart of Paris, listening to his calm voice with only a small part of her brain. The rest of her was drifting with the snow, snuggled inside his coat. “The airport is open again, but you’re going to have to wait. I have to get to the hotel—I’ve let things hang for too long, and the only way to keep you safe is to keep you with me.”
That was enough to make her open her eyes. “Why did you come back?” She didn’t recognize her own voice—it was small and strained. What on earth was wrong with her? She felt encased in ice.
He didn’t even look at her, concentrating on driving. That was the one thing she’d never done—drive on the Paris streets. She was brave enough to tackle most things, but driving in Paris was too much even for her. Sylvia had always laughed and called her a wuss. Sylvia…
“Breathe,” he said sharply. And she did.
He drove right up to the front of the Hotel Denis. One of the very best in Paris, small and exclusive and elegant, and he was driving up to the discreet front entrance, jumping out and coming to her door before the doorman could do more than open it. He said something to the man, but she wasn’t listening, and he unfastened her seat belt and helped her out, keeping the coat around her shoulders, his arm around her waist, his head low to hers like an attentive lover.
“Look sleepy,” he whispered in her ear. In German, she realized without surprise. “I’ve told them you’re just in from Australia and you’re jet-lagged. They won’t expect anything from you.” He brushed a kiss against her temple, part of his act, and if she could she would have turned and kissed him on the mouth.
They moved through the small, tasteful lobby of the old hotel. It seemed as if a thousand eyes were upon her, watching their progress as he guided her toward the elevators, his arm around her shoulder, holding the coat around her. She was cold anyway, her chest wet from the snow, and not even the coat could warm her.
He somehow managed to get her up to his room—she was past the point of noticing. He closed the door behind them, switching on the light, and she was barely aware of her surroundings. “I’m cold,” she said, her voice unnaturally loud. She dropped the coat off her shoulders, onto the floor. “I’m cold and I’m wet.” She touched the front of her shirt, pulling the damp fabric away from her body. She couldn’t figure out how she’d gotten snow on her front.
“You need to rest. I’ll have some new clothes sent up for you. I wasn’t expecting to bring you back here. The bedroom’s behind you. Why don’t you get under the covers and t
ry to warm up?”
She pulled at the soft silk jersey, then looked down at her hands in sudden horror. They were streaked with red.
She looked up at him, into his impassive face. He’d wiped his hands, but she could see the brownish red traces of dried blood on them. And his shirt was wet—she could see the shiny dampness in the afternoon light.
“Have you been hurt?” she asked. “Your shirt…” Without thinking she put her hand against his chest. Against his beating heart.
He shook his head. “It’s Maureen’s blood,” he said. “It’s on both of us.”
It was the final straw. “Get it off me!” she cried, yanking at her shirt, sobbing. “Please…I can’t…” The soft knit fabric simply stretched beneath her panicked hands, and she lost whatever calm distance she’d had. She was there, in the present, covered with a dead woman’s blood, as he was, and if she didn’t get it off her she was going to explode.
“Calm down,” he said, reaching for the hem of her shirt and yanking it over her head. Exposing her body, the lacy black bra, the streaks of blood on her pale skin.
He swore. She was past the point of speech, yanking at her clothes as she gasped for breath, and he simply picked her up, carried her through the darkened bedroom, into the bathroom. It was instantly flooded with bright light, illuminating her skin. He put her into the shower, half-dressed, and turned it on full force, getting in with her as the hot water blasted down on them both.
He stripped off the rest of her clothes, quickly, efficiently, taking the soap and washing her as she stood there, frozen, shivering beneath the steamy downpour. His hands were fast, rough, covering her body, shocking her into action, and she pulled at his clothes, at the blood-soaked fabric, sobbing now.
He pulled his shirt over his head, his chest streaked more darkly with blood, then stripped out of the rest of his clothes, keeping a steady arm around her as he did so. She took the soap from him and scrubbed at his chest, covering him with lather, desperate to wash any trace of blood away, desperate for it all to be washed away….