She clawed at him, trying desperately to bring him back, but he was much stronger than she was, and he held her still, his hands pinning her hips to the gilded top of the dresser. “Who are you?” he demanded again, his voice as cold as his body was hot.
Her eyes were dazed, her mouth a soft wound. “Chloe…” she said in a choked voice.
He thrust into her, hard, then withdrew before she could stop him. She cried out again, but he was without remorse. “Your clothes don’t belong to you,” he whispered, and in the background the noise from the television increased in intensity, matching his own ruthless arousal, “you speak languages you pretend you don’t. You’re here for a reason, and it has nothing to do with translating. Are you here to kill someone?”
“Please!” she cried.
Again he thrust, and he could feel her hovering on the edge, ready to explode, helpless as he knew he could make her, knew that he needed to make her. “What do you want, Chloe?” he whispered, knowing that he’d finally get the truth from her.
Her eyes were swimming with tears, and she was shaking. “You,” she said. And he believed her.
He stopped thinking then. He pulled her off the table, wrapping her legs around his hips, burying himself deep inside her, and the climax hit her so hard she cried out, louder than the voices on the television, a strangled cry of helpless pleasure.
He wasn’t ready—he was tired of playing games. He thrust inside her, slowly, deliberately, leaning up against the mirrored wall for support, holding her hips, fucking her slowly, sweetly, until it took him over as well, and he poured himself into her, losing everything, drowning in her hot, sweet flesh, her soft, sweet mouth.
He waited until he caught his breath, waited for the tremors to finish washing over his body, and then he withdrew, supporting her limp body against the wall until her legs could support her. He held her up for a moment, and he could see his face in the mirrored wall, dark and ruthless. He looked like the bastard he was, and there was nothing he could do about it. He’d accepted the fact long ago.
He stepped back from her, fastening his clothing. She was looking up at him as if he were a ghost, and he wanted to pull her into his arms, to comfort her. She looked so bereft. For all her claims of sophistication she was clearly not used to what he’d just put her through, and she looked disoriented, lost.
But he couldn’t. He closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against hers, pulling the dress back around her body and tying it at the waist. He couldn’t keep her out of sight of the cameras any longer, but he could keep it from being too easy for them.
When the logical answers get ruled out, you have no choice but to believe the impossible. Chloe Underwood was exactly what she claimed she was. An innocent, caught in a maelstrom far too powerful for her to even understand. And oddly enough, it was the so-called good guy who had done the most damage. Up to this point.
He was going to have his work cut out for him, distracting Hakim from his own suspicions. He needed to get back to that computer, erase little Miss Busybody’s virtual fingerprints and convince the others they had nothing to fear from her.
But first he had to finish with her. He kissed her on her mouth, lightly, carelessly. “Eh bien, sweetheart,” he murmured. “That was very nice. Too bad we don’t have time for more.”
She stared up at him, lost for a moment. And then she reached out and slapped him, using all the shattered strength in her body, and it jarred his head.
Regret was useless, remorse an unknown emotion, and his body was still humming with satisfaction. He gave her a crooked smile, picked up his discarded jacket and walked out of the room, closing the door quietly behind him.
Chloe leaned against the wall. Her legs felt weak, barely able to support her, and she slid down, slowly, ending on the beautiful parquet floor. She began to shake—it started slowly, as nothing more than a faint vibration that grew until she was shivering uncontrollably. She wrapped her arms around her body, but she couldn’t get warm. She closed her eyes, but the television was still on, the moans a staccato accompaniment to her confusion, and she opened them again. The torn lace underwear lay on the floor in the little foyer, in front of the antique chest of drawers that had probably never seen such usage in its long, elegant life. Then again, this was France.
She wanted to throw up. There was no question about it—she was horrified and sick inside at what had happened, and she still couldn’t understand why.
She hadn’t said no. There was no way she could avoid that simple truth—she hadn’t told him no. Whether he would have taken that for an answer was beside the point. She’d let him do that to her.
And the awful, sickening thing was, she’d liked it.
No, that was the wrong word. Like had nothing to do with it. She hadn’t liked being manipulated, intimidated, tormented and used.
But he’d managed to make her climax anyway, despite it all. Or, most horrifying of all, because of it?
No. She had no hidden, dark need to be punished, humiliated, used and discarded. There were no dark shadows hidden in her past, no twisted self-loathing that begged to be treated with carelessness.
So why had she let him? Why had her mind screamed no as she’d kissed him back? Why had she clung to him, knowing who and what he really was? Why had she come?
She could tell herself it was simple biology. Her family, if she had ever been insane enough to discuss it with them, would tell her it was a normal, physiological reaction. Nothing to be ashamed of, nothing to horrify and sicken her.
The problem was, she knew, deep inside, what was shameful, what was horrifying, what was sickening. Not that she’d managed to have the most powerful orgasm of her life under such unloving circumstances.
But that she wanted to do it again.
9
Bastien was back at the computer, moving through the history file with rapid keystrokes. He had always had the remarkable ability to compartmentalize his thoughts, his life, his emotions. It started when he was a child, following in his globe-trotting mother’s wake, barely able to keep up with her.
If you sent your mind to a separate place you didn’t feel pain. You didn’t hear the rage, or the screams of the dying, or smell the blood, or count the dead. You turned your mind in a single direction, and everything else fell back into its own neat space, unable to touch you.
He was good at computers, fast and decisive, and he knew he didn’t have much time. The big question was whether someone was doing real-time electronic surveillance as well as monitoring them on security cameras. It could work either way—someone might be in one of the hidden rooms, watching everything he was doing on the computer, having already taken note of Chloe’s ham-handed searches.
Or they could simply search through the computer’s history on a regular basis, in which case he’d be safe wiping out Chloe’s tracks.
Either way, he’d do it—if Hakim and the others found any record they still wouldn’t know who’d cleared it. He could do that little for her, and not much more without compromising his position. Besides, there were always civilian casualties in every war. She was just at the wrong place at the wrong time.
He was just about to hit the Delete button when he heard a noise behind him. He didn’t have to turn—he had an almost preternatural sense of who was approaching, and his cool, dispassionate self took over. It was Hakim, and his arrival couldn’t be accidental.
Bastien let his hand rest on the mouse. One click, and it was gone. One click, and she would have a fighting chance at survival.
“So what have you discovered about little Miss Underwood, Bastien?” Hakim inquired, lighting one of his thick, Cuban cigars.
His fingers hesitated. “She’s an innocent,” he said. “No one sent her, she has no agenda. She is who she says she it.”
“How unfortunate. For her, that is. Would you like to tell me how much she suspects?”
Bastien stared down at his hand. He moved it away from the mouse, and turned the monitor slightly
so Hakim could see it. “Everything,” he said in a deadly calm voice.
Hakim leaned forward, peering at the screen. He nodded. “Too bad,” he said. “For her, that is. But I suppose it’s to be expected. I’ll take care of her—I’m quite good at it. I should tell you that the baron was most displeased that you and the girl were out of range of the cameras. I know you well enough to know that wasn’t an accident. Really unfair of you, Toussaint. The baron likes his little pleasures, and they do no one harm.”
“I wasn’t in the mood to perform for the old man.”
“You’ve done it in the past, with his wife. Don’t try to deny it, or say that you didn’t know there were cameras. You always know when there are cameras. So what made tonight different?”
The question was random, almost lazy, but Bastien wasn’t fooled. “Fucking his wife was one thing—if he wants to watch and she wants to be watched then who am I to argue?”
“And why didn’t you want him to see you do Miss Chloe? Were you protecting her? Do you have a soft spot for her in that ice cube of a heart?” Hakim purred.
Bastien turned to look at him, cool and unflappable, and Hakim shrugged. “Stupid question, Toussaint. Forgive me. I of all people should know that you don’t come equipped with any tender emotions. Do you want to watch me kill her?”
Bastien hit the Delete button then, and all trace of Chloe’s tampering vanished. “Not particularly. Are you sure that’s the best way to deal with her? When an American disappears without a trace there can be a great many awkward questions.”
“There’s no way to avoid it. Too bad for Miss Underwood, but she shouldn’t have been so nosy. Curiosity killed the cat, as they say in her country. And she won’t disappear without a trace. I’ll have my people set something up—a car crash, a tragic accident of some sort.”
“Won’t that cramp your style? I know your fondness for fire and metal, and they leave marks. Not the sort of thing that turns up in a simple car accident.”
“Kind of you to worry about me, monsieur, but I have everything under control. If I accidentally mark her too badly than we can always set the car on fire, have her body burned just to the point of recognition and no further.”
“Very practical,” Bastien said.
“And you’re certain you don’t want to join me in this? I’m more than happy to share.”
“I already enjoyed what I wanted from Miss Underwood,” he said without emotion. “The rest is up to you.”
He joined the others for coffee and liqueurs in the drawing room, flirting lightly with Monique. The baron gave him a disgruntled glare or two, but beyond that his earlier absence wasn’t even noted. No one seemed to notice that Hakim was gone as well, Bastien thought as he lit Monique’s cigarette for her. But then, as Hakim had said, curiosity killed the cat. And the members of their elite little trade organization were experts at self-preservation, and knowing only what they had to know. They knew they could count on Hakim to keep things discreet, as he always had. That was all that mattered.
He glanced at his watch. He’d left Hakim about an hour ago—would Chloe be dead yet? He supposed he ought to hope so. Hakim was an inventive sadist, and he could make it last for hours, even days if he so chose. He didn’t have that kind of luxury, but he suspected that mercy and brevity were unknown to him.
Monique would come to his room tonight—she made it more than clear, ignoring his previous dismissal. The baron would insist on it, having been deprived of his vicarious entertainment. And Bastien would service her, letting technique fill in where interest waned. If he were Hakim the thought of Chloe’s suffering would excite him. But he wasn’t Hakim, and all he could hope was that she died quickly.
He lingered in the drawing room as long as he could, not wanting to head back upstairs. He just wanted it over with—there had been nothing he could do to protect her, not without compromising his own position. And in the end, what was one innocent life compared to the thousands, hundreds of thousands that might be saved if this arms ring was shut down? Assuming that would ever happen—Thomason and his ilk seemed more interested in simply keeping tabs on it. But then, life was full of ugly equations, he’d accepted that long ago, and he wasn’t going to waste his time bemoaning it.
It didn’t help that his room was next to hers, the only two inhabitants in that wing. The maids were cleaning it out when he went back to his room, and he strolled over to the open door with the properly casual air. No signs of violence—he must have done her elsewhere.
The maids were stripping the bed. “Where’s Miss Underwood?” he asked, curious to see what kind of excuse Hakim had come up with.
“She had to leave early, Monsieur Toussaint,” one maid replied. “A death in the family, Monsieur Hakim said. She left so quickly she didn’t take her luggage. We’ll have to send it after her.”
A death in the family, all right. Her own. The suitcase was still by the door, and he considered warning the maid that she’d be better off not noticing discrepancies like that one. Not if she wanted to live.
But he wasn’t in the business of saving innocents, so he said nothing, simply nodded, and went back to his room.
He was in the shower when he thought he heard her scream. He shut off the water immediately, but there was nothing. No noise, no cries. If by some cruel twist of fate she was still alive she would hardly be within hearing distance. Hakim would have taken her into the old part of the building, the wing that looked as if it had yet to be remodeled, yet was fitted up with state-of-the-art electronics and soundproofing. He wouldn’t hear her if she screamed. Besides, knowing Hakim, it would be long past the time when she could make any kind of noise at all, even a whimper. He simply had to put it out of his mind—it wasn’t in his nature to have regrets, or second thoughts, or even compassion.
He dressed quickly, in black. Comfortable pants and a shirt pulled over his head. He tied his long hair at the back of his neck, shoved his feet into a pair of boat shoes and went to the door.
A little after midnight. Monique would come in search of him before long. He’d considered disabling the surveillance cameras in his room, just to spite the baron, and then thought better of it. He could only push things so far, and the man he was pretending to be, the man he had become, would appreciate an audience.
He opened his door into the empty hallway. The servants were gone from the room next door, and the door was open. All traces of Chloe Underwood had vanished from the Château Mirabel, gone as if she had never existed. Gone from his mind as well, another casualty easily forgotten. And for the first time in years he made an irrational, even emotional decision. Except that he had no emotions.
He was going to find Chloe.
He closed the door behind him and started toward the closed-off wing of the building. If she wasn’t dead yet at least he could hurry Hakim along. Sentimental or not, he didn’t want her to suffer. Saving her was out of the question, but he could spare her suffering. Perhaps he had that much humanity left.
He found her huddled in a corner of the room Hakim preferred for interrogation, and she was weeping. Still alive, though she wouldn’t be for long, Bastien thought dispassionately as he closed the door behind him. Hakim turned to look at him, a startled expression on his face.
“What are you doing here, Toussaint? You told me you weren’t interested in playing with Miss Underwood. I’m not sure I want you to change your mind.”
He’d shed his jacket and tie, rolled up his sleeves and unbuttoned his shirt. His thick, hairy chest was damp with sweat, and he was clearly in a state of sexual excitement as he held the thin stiletto blade over the blowtorch.
He could smell the scorched flesh. He looked back at Chloe. She was no longer wearing her fuck-me underwear—somehow she’d managed to change before Hakim had come for her. She was wearing dark pants and a shirt. Or had been. The pants’ legs were slit open, exposing her long legs, and the shirt was pulled down on her arms, exposing her chest and the plain white bra she wore.
br /> He could see the marks. Hakim had used the knife to both cut and burn, and he’d been busy making a pattern on Chloe’s arms. She hadn’t gone into shock yet, but it wouldn’t be long. She knew he was there, but she didn’t look at him, just sat huddled in the corner, her eyes closed, head back against the wall as she silently wept.
“I’m not going to interfere with your fun, Gilles,” he said. “I just thought I’d watch a master at his work.”
She opened her eyes for that, staring straight at him through the shadowy room. He looked back into her brown eyes, and saw himself clearly for the first time. Who he was, and what he had become.
“Feel free,” Hakim said. “Unlike you, I always enjoy an audience. She’s really very pretty, isn’t she?” He moved over to her, lifting a strand of thick hair with the hot knife. It sizzled against the blade, and a hank of it fell onto the floor.
“Very pretty,” Bastien said, watching her. He hadn’t touched her face yet—that would come later. He’d never had to stand and watch Hakim’s work, but he’d heard enough stories to know exactly how it would proceed.
He could do nothing, nothing to stop him. He should never have come here, seen her there, but he’d always done what needed to be done. “The baron was asking for you,” he said suddenly. “There’s a problem with the Iranians.”
“There’s always a problem with the Iranians,” Hakim grumbled. “How serious is it?”
“Serious enough. I don’t know if it can wait until morning.”
“Anything can wait until morning,” Hakim said, drawing the knife down Chloe’s arm, searing the flesh. She didn’t scream. “You see how obedient she is? Very easily trained. I told her if she made too much noise I’d use the knife between her legs. She’s already had you there tonight, and I’m thinking that was enough.”
Bastien said nothing. She’d closed her eyes again, and he noticed how pale her face was beneath the silent, streaming tears.
“You think I might make her stop crying?” Hakim murmured dreamily. “I could cut out her eyes.”