by Anne Stuart
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.
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 Hermès 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 château instead of her tiny apartment that always smelled of cabbage. And she would eat anything she wanted.
Three or four nights in a château 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.
Château 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 châteaus 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 someon
e 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 Château 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.