Black Ice

by Anne Stuart

  She screamed, biting back the sound as a heavy hand clamped on her arm, spinning her around.

  It was M. Hakim. Her relief was palpable—she actually started babbling. Not that Hakim was warm and fuzzy, but anyone was preferable to the unsettling Bastien Toussaint.

  “Thank heavens!” she said. “I’ve gotten all turned around and I was afraid I’d never find my room.”

  “This section of the château is off-limits to visitors, Miss Underwood. As you can see, it has yet to be renovated, and it would be very dangerous to wander around in there. If you were to get in trouble no one would hear you scream.”

  Chloe was suddenly entirely sober. She swallowed, looking into Hakim’s dark, calm face. And then she forced herself to laugh, breaking the tension.

  “I think I need a map to find my way around this place,” she said. “If you can give me directions to my room I’ll head there. I’m exhausted.”

  He hadn’t let go of her arm. He had thick, ugly hands, with dark hair across the backs of his sausagelike fingers. He said nothing, and for one brief, crazy moment she thought he was going to shove her back into the deserted wing where no one would hear her scream.

  And then sanity returned, and he dropped her arm, and while his smile was far from pleasant at least it was a smile.

  “You should be more careful, Miss Underwood,” he admonished her. “Other people might be more dangerous than I am.”

  “Dangerous?” She just barely managed to keep the stammer out of her voice.

  “Like Monsieur Toussaint, for instance. He can be very charming, but you would be wise to keep your distance. I saw the two of you in the hall this evening, and I was most concerned. For you, Miss Underwood.”

  It was shadowy enough that he wouldn’t be able to see the flush that mounted to her cheeks. “He was just showing me the way to the library.”

  “With his mouth? I’d keep out of his reach if I were you. The man is notorious. His appetite for women is insatiable, and his tastes are, shall we say, peculiar. I would feel somewhat responsible if you were to run into any trouble while you’re here. After all, I’m in effect your employer, and I wouldn’t want anything unfortunate to happen to you.”

  “Neither would I,” Chloe said.

  “Turn left, down two corridors then two right turns.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “That’s the way back to your room. Unless you prefer I escort you?”

  Chloe managed to suppress her shudder of revulsion. “I’ll be fine,” she said. “If I get lost again I’ll scream.”

  “You do that,” Hakim said in a cool voice that somehow failed to reassure her.

  But she made it back to her corridor without further mishap, and there was no one lingering, watching for her. The satyrlike M. Toussaint must have found his partner for the night, she thought, faintly disgruntled, as she pushed open her door.

  Someone had been in there. There was no key, no way to keep anyone out, and the sense of violation was unavoidable. She shook her head, trying to clear the paranoia away. Why should anyone be interested in a hired translator?

  The bed was turned down, one of Sylvia’s diaphanous nightgowns was laid out across it, and a tray with a crystal decanter and a plate of chocolates rested on the gilt table beside the bed.

  “Relax, idiote,” she said out loud, to break the hush that enveloped the room. “It was just a maid.”

  She got ready for bed quickly, pulling the confection of lace and silk over her head. If she had any sense at all she’d go straight to bed, but her encounter with Hakim had driven sleep right out of her mind. A snifter of brandy wouldn’t hurt.

  She might not have made it as a chef, but her sense of taste was excellent, and the cognac was slightly unusual. Some faint undernote that she couldn’t quite recognize. Almost metallic, she would have said, but a place like Château Mirabel would never serve an inferior cognac. It must have been her imagination. It was quite deliciously warming, and she could already feel her eyes drooping. She’d sleep soundly tonight, and she wouldn’t dream of anyone, certainly not Bastien Toussaint.

  It was then that she recognized the barest trace of scent in the air. A subtle, distinctive cologne that brought an instinctive, warm response. Until she remembered where it had come from. The silken folds of Bastien’s Armani suit. Why…

  She tried to set the snifter of brandy back on the tray, but it was much farther away than she had thought, way of out her reach, and it fell on the floor with the faint tinkle of shattering glass, and she followed it, sprawling out on the carpet.

  She hadn’t had that much to drink, she thought, trying to sit up. Surely that one sip of cognac wasn’t enough to send her over the edge.

  But apparently it was, and the bed was much too high to climb into. The Aubusson rug underneath her was very beautiful, and if she was careful she could avoid the broken glass, curl up into a nice little ball, and fall into a deep, blissful sleep.

  Bastien stepped into her room, closing the door quietly behind him. He didn’t have to be particularly discreet—he knew where the cameras were located, and he could manage his way around them without giving anything away. Besides, he was known as a dedicated womanizer, and it wouldn’t be surprising if he’d managed to do every beautiful female in the area.

  Except that the girl wasn’t particularly beautiful. He stood over her, staring down at her curled-up body for a moment. She was pretty. Not a word he tended to use. She had good bone structure, even features, a sweet, full mouth.

  Sweet? Pretty? Maybe she was better than he thought. She certainly managed to exude an essentially harmless persona.

  He slid his arms under her and laid her out on the bed. She’d washed her makeup off—maybe that was why she was looking so innocent. The nightgown she was wearing was very expensive, with tiny little satin ties down the front. He undid them, one by one, until the gown fell open around her.

  A good body as well. A little more butt than many young Frenchwomen, a little more breast as well, but basically young and strong and nicely formed. No sign of the rigorous training she should have gone through. Just enough softness through the arms and belly to tell him she would be warm and welcoming in bed.

  Who was he kidding? She’d cut his throat in bed, if he happened to get distracted. And fucking was marginally distracting.

  There were marks on her body, beneath her breasts. Red lines, and he ran a finger along them, wondering what kind of torture she’d endured in the distant past.

  And then he smiled. Not so distant past—she’d simply been wearing a bra that was too tight.

  No woman he’d ever known would wear a constricting bra unless she had no choice. He glanced down her long legs to her feet. The lines were even more pronounced—she’d been wearing the wrong shoes as well.

  The drug he put in her cognac was good stuff—she’d sleep for six to eight hours and wake without a hangover, even though she deserved one after all the wine she’d drunk at dinner. His little gift to her.

  He searched the room methodically, from top to bottom. She had three more pairs of shoes, all the same size, all slender high heels. She was going to be hobbling in a couple days. If she was still here.

  There were no black ops clothing. Not in the room, at least, and she couldn’t have hidden them anywhere on the grounds without someone finding them. No weapons, no papers of any interest. Her passport was an excellent fake—the picture inside looked like a plainer, younger version of the woman who’d walked in today. She supposedly came from North Carolina. She was almost twenty-four years old, five seven, one hundred and twenty-one pounds, and she’d entered France two years ago on a student visa. She had a work permit, a surprise in itself. He never trusted anyone with too clean an identity.

  Nothing else in terms of papers, either forged or otherwise. Not much money. No prescription drugs, nothing personal.

  There were a bunch of pictures in her wallet—fakes with the young woman posing with various genial family t
ypes. Easy enough to doctor.

  He put the purse back, moving around to the side of the bed. The glass had broken in large pieces, the drugged brandy seeping into the carpet. Not a bad mess for him to clean up—he’d done far worse. This time there was no blood to get rid of, no body to dispose of. Yet.

  He poured the drugged brandy down the bathroom sink, then refilled it from the flask he’d brought with him. He’d brought an extra glass, just in case, and he poured a splash in it before replacing it beside the bed.

  He stared down at her again. She was a real professional after all—if he couldn’t find anything in his search then she’d figured something out that even he hadn’t thought of.

  Unless, of course, she was telling the truth. That she actually was a twenty-four-year-old woman from North Carolina with no knowledge of who and what they were.

  But then, why would she be wearing the wrong shoes, the wrong bra. Why would she lie about her knowledge of languages?

  No, given the circumstances, there was no way she could be an innocent bystander. She was there to do damage, and he needed to find out what, and to whom.

  He began retying the ribbons that held the silken gown together, then stopped, leaving it open below the waist. She would wonder why, but she wouldn’t remember. He could really do anything he liked to her, and she wouldn’t remember.

  There were any number of things he would have enjoyed doing to her, but most of them would be much better if she were awake and participating. She might be inexperienced enough not to take advantage of the blatant pass he’d made at her earlier today, but he wasn’t so sanguine. She’d already betrayed too much already. Get her naked beneath him, move inside her, and he’d know her better than she knew herself.

  But not if she was comatose.

  He sat down on the bed beside her, watching her as she slept. It would simplify matters if he killed her now. He could do it fast, neatly, and simply tell Hakim he didn’t trust her. Hakim would accept that.

  He put his hand on her neck. Her skin was warm, soft beneath his skin, paler against his tanned hand. He could feel the pulse beat steadily, watch the rise and fall of her chest. He tightened his fingers for just a moment, then took them away.

  Afterward he wasn’t sure why he did it. Uncharacteristic of him, but then, he’d been playing by different rules recently. Or ignoring the rules he’d been taught.

  He stretched his body out alongside hers, his head on the pillow next to her. She smelled like soap and Chanel and cognac, an enticing combination.

  “Who are you, bébé?” he whispered. “And why are you here?”

  She wouldn’t be answering for another six hours at least. He laughed, at himself, and sat up. There was time. With no weapons, her clear mission was to gather information, and he could ensure that anything she discovered didn’t make it past the walls of the château.

  There was time.

  5

  Chloe had never been one to wake up slowly. She tended to be alert immediately, and she was nauseatingly cheerful, while her sleep-fuddled siblings and parents threatened her with death or dismemberment if she didn’t stop the damned humming.

  That morning was no different, except when her eyes popped open she had no idea where she was.

  She decided not to panic, since panic tended to be a waste of time. She lay still, unmoving, and let memory sink back in. The château, and her sucker agreement to take Sylvia’s place. Too much wine last night, and Bastien Toussaint’s practiced mouth.

  She hadn’t been kissed in months, so it was no wonder she could still feel the pressure of his lips against hers. Too bad she couldn’t have just let herself go with it. So what if it had been a performance on his part? He probably performed very well indeed.

  But she’d always been too picky and too stubborn, and as her friends would tell her too American to really enjoy the pleasures of casual sex. And while a roll in the hay with someone like Bastien would be memorable, she didn’t really like having nothing but memories to hold on to.

  She sat up slowly, putting her hand to her head in anticipation of the searing pain she absolutely deserved for drinking all that red wine, but it didn’t come. She gave her head a tentative shake, preparing for the delayed blast of pain, but felt nothing.

  She glanced at the bedside table. She’d had a final cognac before she’d fallen asleep—she thought she could remember that much. She hadn’t been more than tipsy; it was odd that she couldn’t remember more. She’d had some cognac, and she thought she remembered dropping it. Falling.

  But she was lying in the big, comfortable bed, the brandy snifter was sitting on the tray with just a trace left in the bottom, and she must have drunk even more than she realized.

  She pushed back the cover and swung her legs over the side of the bed. And then stopped. Her…or that is…Sylvia’s nightgown was made up of silk and a row of tiny ribbons, but half those ribbons were unfastened, from the hemline to the waist. What had she been doing?

  Nothing much fun, she decided after she’d showered and dressed and arranged herself in a decent repetition of Sylvia’s borrowed chic. She eyed the fawn leather shoes with their pointed toes and high, thin heels, and moaned. Maybe she could tell them she had Japanese blood and needed to go without shoes.

  No, that probably wouldn’t fly. Much as she would have liked to have an interesting bloodline, she was depressingly, blandly WASP, and no one was going to be fooled into thinking otherwise.

  She made it downstairs without getting lost, just in time for a light breakfast of coffee and fruit before the work began. The participants were seated on either side of a long conference table, and a number of them were accompanied by assistants. Except for von Rutter, who was accompanied by his sleek and beautiful wife Monique.

  Hakim was at the head of the table, and he gestured to one of the empty places to his right. Toussaint wasn’t in the room, she realized as she sat, setting her cup of coffee down on the burled walnut carefully. Maybe fate was going to be kind after all.

  She should have known better. He appeared a moment later, with his own coffee, and took the remaining seat. Beside her.

  She listened to the proceedings with only half an ear. A moment of silence for their late colleague, Auguste Remarque. She’d heard that name before, but she couldn’t remember where. It would drive her crazy until she found out—maybe she could simply ask someone. Or maybe she should just keep quiet and try to blend into the background.

  There wasn’t much to keep her mind occupied over the next few hours. The organization of food importers were arguing about redistributing territory, and while Chloe had a great fondness for lamb and oranges and a well-cooked chicken, there was a limit to her fascination. The discussions she was asked to translate were dull to the point of madness, she’d always found numbers tedious, and units of chickens and piglets and barrels of corn couldn’t even excite the failed chef inside her. The others at the table seemed to find the discussion endlessly fascinating, and given some of the numbers she was translating she could imagine why. In euros, dollars or pounds they were talking a very great deal of money. She hadn’t realized grocery importers amassed that kind of wealth.

  Because she was seated at the top corner of the table she had to turn to look at the speakers, and the man next to her was always just in her line of vision. Despite her hyperawareness, he seemed to have lost all interest in her, barely registering her existence. Since he spoke both French and English she wasn’t required to translate for him, and she could lean back in her chair and pretend to ignore him as well while she doodled on one of the pads of paper they’d set in front of them.

  There was only one moment of trouble during the long, tedious morning. There was a word she didn’t know—no great surprise, though she was very fluent.

  “What is ‘legolas’?” she asked, “apart from a character in The Lord of the Rings?”

  Dead silence in the room, only the sound of a cup rattling in a saucer. They were all staring at her as if s
he’d asked them about their sex life or, even worse, their yearly income, and then, for the first time that day, Bastien addressed her.

  “‘Legolas’ is a breed of sheep,” he said. “Of no particular concern to you.”

  Someone in the room snickered, whether at his cool dismissal or something else.

  “Don’t ask questions, Miss Underwood, simply translate,” Hakim said. “If you’re incapable we can find someone else. We don’t want our progress impeded by incompetence.”

  Chloe had never responded well to public reprimands, and she’d already decided she didn’t like Hakim very much. At that point she would have liked nothing better than to be driven back to Paris in that luxurious limousine and never see any of these people again.

  Wouldn’t she? She kept her glance away from the man beside her, but she knew perfectly well she wasn’t going to leave before she had to.

  “I beg your pardon, monsieur,” she said in French. “If I don’t need to know the meaning of a word I certainly won’t ask. I just thought it might help if I had a better understanding of the subject.”

  “Better watch it, Gilles,” Monique said with a throaty laugh. “Bastien wouldn’t like it if you bullied his little pet.”

  Bastien lifted his eyes from the table. “Jealous, my sweet?”

  “Stop it!” Hakim snapped. “We don’t have time for these petty little squabbles.”

  Bastien turned to Hakim, and in doing so, had no choice but to look at Chloe. His smile was beatific, and he lifted his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Forgive me, Gilles. You know I’ve always been easily distracted when a beautiful woman is around.”