by Anne Stuart
She put her hand on his shoulder and yanked him away from Monique. He looked down at her, his face icy. “Go away,” he said, loud and clear for the room to hear. “I’m tired of you.” And then he turned back to Monique.
The bitch was clearly enjoying herself tremendously, Chloe thought, taking a deep breath to steady herself. The expressionless men surrounding the room weren’t paying any attention to the groping session on the banquette—their attention was glued to the man who controlled them. Christos was watching with what almost might be called amusement, but he wasn’t going to be distracted for long, and when he gave the signal they would all be dead. Chloe knew it as well as she knew her own name.
As far as she knew Stockholm Syndrome might be a fatal disease. She turned, and Monique had one hand in Bastien’s long, silky hair, the other on his crotch.
That was the last straw. If she was going to die, she was going down in flames. She stood up, grabbed Monique’s skinny arm and hauled her away from Bastien before either of them realized what she was doing. “Get your goddamn hands off my boyfriend.”
It was the most ridiculous thing she could have said. The entire room was frozen in silence, watching them, and then Monique smiled. “I don’t mind a threesome, chérie, if you’re that jealous. You may not be enough for him but I imagine I can fill in the gaps.”
Chloe lunged at her, and Bastien caught her midair, hauling her against him. And then she went down, hard, on the floor, his body covering her, as all hell broke out.
She was crushed beneath him, unable to see, but the noise was hideous. The gunshots—some of them silenced, some of them deafening, the screams and curses and sounds of a panicked stampede.
And then the smell—cordite and the heavy, coppery scent of blood. He was holding her down, but he was alive, she could tell that much. He was breathing heavily, and she could feel his heart beating against her back. She didn’t move, didn’t want to move. Maybe they could just lie there forever, and no one would notice they weren’t dead.
And then he rolled off her, onto his side, taking her with him. The room was shrouded in darkness, only the spit of gunfire providing any illumination. Not that Chloe wanted to see the tangle of bodies, the writhing ones, the motionless ones, the blood everywhere.
He half-dragged, half-carried her behind the banquette, hauling her toward one of the curtained windows. He shoved her behind the fabric and slammed her up against the wall, one hand over her mouth so she couldn’t speak, couldn’t scream, couldn’t breathe. In his other hand he had a gun—she could feel it against her skin.
“Are you hurt?” he whispered.
She managed to shake her head, just barely, he was holding her so tightly.
The windows led out on a small, snow-covered balcony. She couldn’t see how many flights up they were, and she didn’t care. They were trapped in the tiny alcove, and there were only two ways out. Through the gunfire. Or out the window.
“Stay put,” he said, pulling away from her, turning to the enveloping curtain.
“No!” she cried out, clinging to him, but he simply knocked her away from him, so that she fell back against the wall. He opened the curtain, and she squeezed her eyes shut, put her hands over her ears to drown out the awful noise.
And then he was back. “Let’s get the hell out of here,” he said, his voice strained. “We might as well go.” He opened the floor-to-ceiling window, and the cold air whipped inside, making the enveloping curtains billow out. He cursed, shoving the gun into his belt, and she could see the stain of fake blood on his shirt. “Come on.”
She didn’t have time to ask where. He simply picked her up and tossed her over the side of the balcony, dropping down after her.
It was two flights up, and she landed hard, but the snow was deep enough to keep her from hurting herself. He must have hit harder, because he stumbled as he rose, grabbing her hand and pulling her into the shadows just as people appeared on the balcony overhead, a babble of languages she didn’t want to understand.
“My car’s over there,” he said, breathless, as he pushed her ahead of him. “I’m always prepared for contingencies. You can drive a stick, can’t you?”
“I don’t drive in Paris!” she said sharply.
“You do now.” He yanked open the driver’s side, grabbed her arm and shoved her in, and she had no choice. At least the traffic would be lighter at this hour.
He collapsed into the passenger seat beside her. “Drive,” he said. “Head north.”
She gave him one, assessing glance and then decided not to argue. The BMW started like a charm, when she half expected it to explode. She spun the tires backing out, slid as she started forward and stalled out.
Bastien was leaning back against the seat, his eyes closed. “If you don’t get moving we’re going to be dead,” he said, very calm.
“I’m doing the best I can.” She started the car again, shoved it into gear and headed into the street, just missing three cars and a motorcyclist. “Shit,” she said under her breath. “Shit, shit, shit.”
“What’s your problem?” he asked wearily. “Why don’t you drive in Paris?”
“The drivers are too dangerous. I’m afraid to.”
He was silent for so long she thought he might have fallen asleep. “Chloe,” he said, infinitely patient, “you have just been the target of some of the most ruthless people in the world today. You’ve survived a bloodbath, you’ve seen people die. One or two impetuous drivers is nothing to worry about.”
She turned the corner, driving too fast, and went up over the curb. If it were midday they’d be dead, in the middle of a twenty-car pile-up. At this hour they might have a slight chance of reaching where they were going. Wherever the hell that was.
She wasn’t going to ask him. “A bloodbath?” she said after a long moment.
“What did you think that was? A parlor game? I couldn’t see much before we left, but the baron was down, as was Mr. Otomi and Monique.”
“Monique?”
“She was shot in the face. Does that make you happy?” He sounded so tired.
“Of course not. What about Christos and his men?”
“Christos is dead. At least that part we got right.”
“How can you be sure? It was so dark….”
“Because I’m the one who killed him. And in case you hadn’t already realized it, I don’t miss.” He closed his eyes again. “Just keep driving. I need to figure out what to do next.”
“Is that what you were supposed to do? Kill Christos?”
“If it came to that.”
“So now I should be safe, shouldn’t I? You accomplished what you were supposed to do.”
“They don’t like witnesses, Chloe. You won’t be safe until you’re back home.”
She wasn’t going to argue with him—the traffic was taking too much of her concentration. The snow had melted, then turned to ice, and the BMW had too much power. She was sure that they’d survived a hail of bullets only to die ignominiously in a fender bender, but for now she didn’t care. She was with him. And she knew it wasn’t going to be for long.
He reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a cell phone, punching in a number. The conversation was terse and uninformative, and when he shut down the connection he simply said, “Take the next left.”
She wasn’t going to argue, not now. He looked pale, exhausted, for the first time almost human. Vulnerable, a thought that terrified her. Not for her own sake, but his. “Are you okay?” she said. “They didn’t shoot you, did they?”
His cool smile was little comfort. “Don’t you remember that device you strapped to me? It scorched me when it went off. I think I’ll manage to survive.”
“But if…”
“Hush,” he said softly. “For a few minutes, just hush.”
She did as he asked, a greater sacrifice than he would ever realize. She turned on the car radio, only to hear police reports of a terrorist incident at the Hotel Denis. At least eleven
dead, five wounded, and others were being sought. She switched the station, finding French gangsta rap, and she turned it off. She wasn’t in the mood for posturing violence. Not after the real thing.
“Take another left up here,” Bastien said suddenly. She had no idea where they were. It was dark, and they were heading out of town in a direction she didn’t recognize. There was a roaring noise overhead, and she suddenly realized they must be near the airport. He’d directed her via a circuitous route, but there was no mistaking where they were.
He wasn’t directing her to any of the public areas, the parking areas, or the departure gates. Instead they drove on, past the main terminals to the row of airport hotels. “Drive around the back,” he said, when they reached the Hilton, and she dutifully did so. At least he was taking her to a hotel before he sent her away. If one more night with him was all she was going to have she’d take it and be grateful.
“Pull up over there,” he said, pointing toward a delivery entrance.
“There’s no place to park.”
“Just do as I say.”
She had neither the energy nor the desire to argue with him. She pulled up to the curb and put the car in Neutral, pulling up the parking brake. “Now what?”
“You can get out now,” he said, reaching over and turning off the car. He had blood on his hand as well. She could only hope it was the same fake blood that stained his shirt, not someone else’s.
She opened the door and slid out. The snow had been scraped from the roadway, but there was still a thin coating of frozen slush beneath her slender evening sandals, and she was freezing. Her dress was ruined—it had been drenched in whiskey and dumped in snow, and the wind whipped through the night air, swirling the loose snow around her.
She saw the two figures materialize out of the darkness, and for a wild moment she wondered whether he’d simply brought her out here to have someone else kill her, when she realized the people approaching her were more than familiar. They were her parents.
She let out a shriek, running across the snow-packed tarmac to fling herself in their arms. For a moment all she could do was cling to them, trying to catch her breath, the feel of them suddenly real and safe in a crazy world of guns and blood.
“What are you doing here?” she babbled, once she caught her breath. “How did you know where to find me?”
“Your friend was able to track us down,” her father said. “We heard about Sylvia, and we were already headed to France when he called us. We were supposed to meet up with you at a hotel, but our plane got delayed.”
She turned to look back. Bastien had approached them, staying just a ways back, watching them without expression. “You told them to come to the hotel when you knew what was going to happen? They could have been killed!”
He shrugged, a little stiffly. “The point was to keep you alive. I didn’t particularly care what it cost.”
“You son of a…”
“Hush, now, Chloe,” her mother said. “He saved your life.”
James Underwood released Chloe and held out his hand to Bastien. “I just want to thank you for looking after our daughter. She can be quite a handful sometimes.”
“She was the least of my worries,” Bastien said in his calm, even voice.
“Do you want me to look at the wound of yours? I don’t know if Chloe told you but we’re both doctors….”
“I’m fine.” He dismissed it. “But you should leave. Take her out of France and don’t let her back for at least ten years. It probably wouldn’t be a bad idea not to let her out of your sight for at least five.”
“Easier said than done,” her father muttered.
She could see Bastien’s faint smile in the lamplight. Without another word he turned away, moving back to the car, and she stood, shivering, frozen from more than the cold, certain he was going to walk away without another word.
He opened the car door, then hesitated. He reached into the back and pulled something out, then approached her, carrying it over his arm.
She was shaking, but for some reason her mother and father had stepped back, away from her.
“Why are you limping?” she asked, trying to keep her tone light as he came up to her.
“I twisted my ankle when we jumped.” He held his black cashmere coat in his arms, and he put it around her shoulders, wrapping her in the warmth and scent of it, pulling it around her. “Do as your parents tell you to do,” he said. “Let them take care of you.”
“I never was particularly obedient.”
He smiled then, a brief, honest, heartbreaking smile. “I know. Do it for me.”
She was too exhausted to fight him. She simply nodded, waiting for him to release his hold on the coat he’d pulled around her.
“I’m going to kiss you, Chloe,” he said in a quiet voice. “Just a simple kiss goodbye. And then you can forget all about me. Stockholm Syndrome is nothing more than a myth. Go home and find someone to love.”
She didn’t bother trying to explain. She simply stood there as he cupped her face in his hands, warm, strong hands that had protected her, killed for her. His lips were whisper-soft against hers, just a touch. He kissed her eyelids, her nose, her brow, her cheeks with the tears streaming down them, he kissed her mouth again, a slow, deep, gentle kiss that held all the promise of what they would never have. It was the kiss of a man in love, and for a moment she simply floated, lost in the perfect beauty of his mouth on hers.
He released her. “Breathe, Chloe,” he whispered. For the final time. And then he was gone, the BMW disappearing into the Paris night before she could do more than catch the coat as it fell from her shoulders.
“Where in the world did you happen to find such an interesting young man?” Her mother had come up to her, putting her arm around her. “You were always so traditional when it came to your boyfriends.”
Boyfriend, Chloe thought dazedly. The last word she’d spoken out loud before the chaos and death had begun. “He found me,” she said. Her voice sounded odd, strained.
“A good thing,” her father said. “It seems as if he managed to get you out of a very dangerous situation. I just wish he’d let me look at that gunshot wound.”
“He wasn’t really shot,” Chloe said. “It was just a fake we…he set up earlier this evening. Fake blood and a tiny explosive device to simulate being shot.”
“Chloe, my child, I hate to correct you but I spent more than ten years as an emergency room physician in Baltimore, and I know a gunshot wound when I see one.”
“It wasn’t—” And then it came to her, with an odd, sickening rush. The wound was on his left side. The fake gunshot had been taped to his right. “Oh, God,” she cried, trying to pull free of her parents. “You’re right! We have to find him….”
“It won’t do any good, sweetheart. He’s long gone. I’m sure he’ll go straight to the hospital….”
“He won’t. He’ll die. He wants to.” The moment she said the words she knew them to be true. He wanted to die, had been almost courting death, until she got in his way. And now that she was safely disposed of, there was nothing to stand in his way. “We have to find him, Daddy!”
“We have to catch our plane, Chloe. We promised.”
There was nothing she could do. He’d driven off, speeding on the icy roads, and there’d be no way to follow him, no way to find him. He would get help or he wouldn’t, but either way it was no longer any of her business. He was gone from her life, forever.
Breathe, he’d always told her. She took a deep, shaky breath, pulling his coat more tightly around her. She said nothing as her parents shepherded her through the back entrance of the hotel, over to the international departure lounge and onto the jet with surprising ease. They were in first class, but she was beyond noticing such luxuries. She leaned back in the seat and closed her eyes, refusing to surrender the coat to the solicitous flight attendant. She was past tears now, past feeling anything at all. She had blood on her hand—his blood, she realized now, n
ot phony blood. And she had no intention of washing it off. It was all she had left of him.
Stockholm Syndrome, she reminded herself. An aberration, or a legend, or maybe just a moment of utter insanity on her part. It didn’t matter, it was over. With a perfect kiss.
He shouldn’t have done that. She would have been better off if he’d just walked away. Then she would have never known how sweet it could be, that there was something besides the blood-quickening need of sex.
They were halfway over the Atlantic when she opened her eyes, to see both her parents watching her, identical, anxious expressions on their faces.
“I’m fine,” she said calmly, a complete lie. But her parents nodded, since their youngest child had spent most of her life being just fine. “Just one thing.”
“Yes, sweetheart?” her mother said, enough anxiety in her voice to prove that she wasn’t fooled.
“I don’t ever want to go to Stockholm.” And she closed her eyes again, shutting out the world.
21
It was April—warm, damp, full of new spring promise. Paris would be jammed with tourists. Next to August, April was the most crowded month of all. But Bastien was nowhere near Paris, and didn’t plan to be for a good long time.
He knew how to disappear, better than almost anyone. He’d had the best training in the world. And once he’d yanked the IV out of his arm and walked out of his hospital room in the private facility they’d stashed him in, he’d managed to vanish, even in his weakened condition, to a place where no one, not even the Committee, could find him.
It was the Committee he was most interested in avoiding. Anyone else would simply want to kill him, and he was still willing to face that with equanimity. The Committee didn’t want to let him go, and they didn’t take no for an answer. If he wouldn’t come back Thomason would once again order him killed, and in retrospect he was damned if he was going to be killed by his own people. He had too much pride to accept such an ignominious fate.