by Anne Stuart
She stared at him in shock. “Why didn’t you come sooner?”
“I was…incapacitated.”
“Why didn’t you just call me and ask me to send it to you?”
“It’s not something I would trust to the mails, or even to a courier. I’m sorry if my presence distresses you, but I had no choice but to come myself.”
She felt nothing, Chloe told herself. It was like prodding a wound, only to discover it had healed. She looked into his dark, unreadable eyes and was certain she felt nothing at all.
“All right,” she said. “I’ll go get it, and then you can leave. I really have nothing to say to you.”
“I didn’t expect you would,” he said, leaning back against the counter. “Just get me the necklace and I’ll be on my way.”
She stared at him for a moment longer. He didn’t belong in her mother’s kitchen. He didn’t belong a few feet away from her, while she was wearing nothing but a loosely tied terry robe. She didn’t feel a thing for him, not hatred or passion—she was totally numb, the blessed numbness that had protected her during those last few days in Paris. And she had to get him out of there, fast, before that numbness faded.
“Stay right there,” she ordered, moving past him, holding herself out of reach as she headed toward the kitchen stairs. He made no effort to touch her, and she felt stupid, but she couldn’t help herself. The closer she got to him the shakier she felt.
Most of her clothes were in the guest house, but there was some clean laundry in the dryer upstairs. While the selection didn’t provide her with much choice, she managed to find a pair of old gray sweatpants, a baggy gray T-shirt and a thick pair of wool socks. Her hair had begun to grow again, and she’d pulled it back in a low ponytail, refusing to look at her reflection in the mirror. She knew what she looked like and she didn’t care.
She’d actually forgotten about the necklace. She’d taken it off, halfway across the Atlantic, and her father had locked it up in the safe once they got home. If only she’d remembered she could have figured out some way to send it back to him.
Or could she? She didn’t know his name, who he worked for, where he lived. She knew absolutely nothing at all about him. Except that he killed.
The evening light was an eerie blue-gray, and she glanced at the window, wondering where his car was. Wondering how he’d managed to get past the alarm system. Silly question—he could probably materialize through stone walls if he wanted. A commercial security system would be child’s play for him.
She watched with stunned disbelief as a few flakes of snow began to fall. It shouldn’t snow in April, not with the daffodils and the rest of the beautiful landscape about to bloom. He must have brought the storm with him, like the coat of black ice surrounding his heart.
He’d cleaned up the broken pie dish by the time she arrived back in the kitchen, and he’d made coffee. It annoyed her, but not enough that she refused the mug he handed her, rich with cream and no sugar, just the way she liked it. She wondered how he knew. In their time together she couldn’t remember having time for a leisurely cup of coffee.
“Here,” she said, dumping the diamonds into his outstretched hand, careful not to touch him.
He put the necklace in his pocket. Black, he was always wearing black, and today was no different. Whose blood was he hoping to hide?
She was being ridiculous. She took a sip of the coffee and couldn’t quite stifle her soft sigh. She hadn’t had as good a cup of coffee since she’d left Paris.
He was sitting at the breakfast bar, looking oddly at ease among the clutter. He didn’t belong there, she reminded herself, and she took another sip.
“How did you get past the security system?” she asked.
“Do you really need to ask?”
She shook her head. “I suppose that means it won’t be any protection at all if someone wants to come after me?”
“And why would they?”
“I don’t know. But then, I never understood why they wanted to kill me in the first place.”
“They’re all dead, Chloe. No one wants to hurt you anymore. And the security system is very good. Just not good enough.” His eyes ran down her body, and there was just the faintest trace of a smile at the corner of his mouth. “You look well.”
“Do we have to do this? You got what you wanted. Why don’t you get on a plane and go back to France and we can forget we ever knew each other.”
“I’d like to,” he said with his customary lack of flattery, “but there seems to be a small problem.”
“What’s that?” she said. She should sit. The hours in the hot tub, followed by the spring chill of an open window and the shock of seeing Bastien once more made her disoriented. If she blinked maybe he’d disappear.
“I don’t want to blink,” she said out loud, her voice sounding peculiar. Bastien looked odd as well—prettier than she remembered, which was certainly unfair of fate, and she would have said as much but she seemed to have lost the ability to speak.
“Then don’t blink, chérie,” he murmured. “Just close your eyes.” And the blackness closed in around her.
He caught her as she fell. He’d lied to her—nothing new. She didn’t look well at all. She’d lost weight, and she had circles under her eyes as if she hadn’t been sleeping well. It shouldn’t have been a surprise, but he’d hoped…he’d hoped to find a healthy, buoyant American female ready to hand him his head on a platter. She’d had time to recover, to move past things.
But she hadn’t.
He picked her up, carrying her into the living room. The big old sofa was covered with books and newspapers, and he swept them on the floor before laying her down. He’d probably given her too much—he’d calculated the sedative in her coffee based on her Paris weight and she was down at least ten pounds from that.
Still, it would just keep her quiet longer. Maybe long enough to deal with the problem and then leave, with her none the wiser about her close call. She didn’t need to know that there was an unexpected survivor of the Hotel Denis debacle. And that particular survivor would risk anything to get to Chloe.
There was no mistaking the expression of shock and horror on her face when she saw him, and he couldn’t blame her. She would have counted on him being out of her life forever, and to have him show up was undoubtedly a nightmare come true. Fortunately he’d had the excuse of the old necklace, and she’d believed him. He just had to hope his luck would hold, as it had so many times before.
He’d hoped to leave it with her—the necklace. He’d had it for years, the first step on his self-determined road to hell. He’d been twelve years old, old enough and tall enough to be an embarrassment to his mother and Aunt Cecile, who liked to think of themselves as at least a decade younger. It was Monte Carlo, they’d been gambling unwisely, and his mother had had to sell her diamond necklace. She’d raged and cried and stormed, and young Bastien had never seen her so upset, and like a child he’d resolved to do something about it. He couldn’t get her necklace back, but he could replace it with another necklace.
It had been easy enough—people don’t suspect a child, even a tall, gangly one. And he was agile as a monkey and totally fearless. The woman who owned the necklace was so old and so fat that the wrinkles in her neck covered it. His beautiful mother deserved it far more.
She was lying in her bed at the hotel when he came in. He waited until her partner for the night left, a middle-aged wine importer whom he sincerely hoped wouldn’t become her next husband, and then he tiptoed in.
The curtains were pulled against the cruel daylight, and the room stank of cigarettes and perfume and whiskey. And sex. She was passed out, her artfully streaked blond hair flowing down her narrow back, and he whispered, “Maman?”
She didn’t move. He tried it again, but she simply let out an inelegant snore. He reached over and touched her shoulder, tugging at her, and she turned over, blinking up at him before her eyes focused.
“What the hell are you doing in her
e, you little brat? I’ve told you to keep a low profile when I’m having friends over.”
“I brought you something.” She’d lost the ability to frighten him when he was about nine, but the anger in her ragged voice almost made him turn around and leave.
“What?” She sat up, not bothering to cover herself with the sheet. He was used to his mother’s body. She had no modesty, and he surveyed her dispassionately. She was getting older. “What did you have to wake me up for?”
He held out his grubby little hand, the diamond necklace glittering even in the shadowy light. “It’s a present. I got it for you.”
She sat up farther still, reached for her cigarettes and lit one. “Give it to me.”
He put the necklace in her hand, and she examined it for a moment, then let out a little laugh. “Where did you get this?”
“I found it….”
“Where did you get this?”
He swallowed. “I stole it.”
He wasn’t sure what he expected. Rage. Tears. Instead she laughed. “Already embarking on a life of crime, Bastien? Maybe your father was that pickpocket after all, and not the American businessman.” She put the necklace back in his hand, stubbed out her cigarette and lay down once more.
“Don’t you want it? You were so sad when you lost your diamonds.” It was perhaps the last vulnerable thing he ever said to her.
She turned and looked at him out of slitted eyes, her makeup caked around them. “Those belong to Gertruda Schondheim, and she has some very nasty connections. I would never dare wear them. They’re far too recognizable. Besides, Georges has already redeemed my own, and I expect he’ll be good enough for a few other trinkets as well. Now go away and let me sleep.”
His hand closed around the diamond necklace. He turned and walked toward the door, when her voice stopped him. “You might as well leave it,” she said. “I don’t know if I can find a fence around here, but sooner or later I can find someone to cut it down and sell it stone by stone.”
He looked down at the necklace. It was a beautiful thing, very old, very elegant, and he’d chosen that one on purpose for his mother’s beautiful neck.
He turned back, ready to pour all his rage and love and hurt out, but she’d fallen into a drugged sleep once again, her son forgotten.
So he’d pocketed the diamond necklace and walked out of the room, and she’d never mentioned it again.
He never knew for certain whether she even remembered the useless gift. It didn’t matter. He had no intention of giving it to her, or even his marginally more affectionate Aunt Cecile.
Nor was he going to return it. It had become a symbol, an icon of power and independence. As long as he held the necklace he had something of value, and he was no longer dependent on his mother’s whims.
Oddly enough, he’d kept it for all those years. There’d been times when he could have sold it, should have sold it, but instead he’d kept it with him.
It should have been easy prey for a thief, as it had been in the first place. But the shadowy world of criminals was far too close to the Committee, and no one would attempt something so dangerous, no matter what the prize. In the twenty years since he’d stolen the damned thing he’d never seen it on anyone’s neck until he fastened it around Chloe’s.
He went through the house swiftly, efficiently, checking the doors and windows, the vulnerable entryways. The security system was state-of-the-art, which meant it would hold off a determined operative for approximately five minutes. He’d had enough time to boost the outside defenses, and he worked quickly, doing what he could on the inside of the house. Locking them in.
He glanced at his watch. There was no guarantee that Jensen’s detailed information was accurate, though his infallible instincts told him he could trust him. But plans could change, transportation could be delayed, as he knew far too well from the debacle of the Hotel Denis. If the Underwoods had landed on time Chloe would have been out of harm’s way long before the shooting began.
He might be dead, but that was a small price to pay. Life and death had stopped mattering a long time ago.
He came back to the cluttered den, where Chloe lay in a deep sleep on the sofa. There was a brightly colored quilt tossed on a chair, and he picked it up and covered her with it. Her hair was longer now, but no one had given it any kind of professional styling. His trained eye knew it was still the same ragged cut she’d performed on herself while he’d watched from a distance. And damned if he didn’t still like it.
Then again, he’d accepted the fact that he liked far too much about her. Which was why coming back into her life was the last thing he’d wanted to do. But he’d had no choice.
He moved to the window, looking out through the gloomy afternoon. In his preliminary scouting he’d found she’d been staying at one of the guest houses off to the side. He’d turned on the lights, the television, closed the blinds and arranged a little surprise for them. It wouldn’t slow them down for long, but every extra minute of warning could make the difference between life and death.
They’d landed in Canada—five of them, including their leader. Jensen had managed to get that much information to him before he’d gone in, but now he was officially cut off. He was going to have to wing it from here on in.
There were countless computers all over the place, but he was wise enough not to touch them. Without the proper defenses in place anyone in the world could find him. His mobile phone was safer, though not completely, but after a few moments it looked reasonably certain that they weren’t going to arrive for another eight hours at the least. The kind of people he was fighting wouldn’t be deterred for long by the unexpected forces of nature.
Time enough to get her out of there? That was always the question—they were probably safer in this mini-fortress, particularly with his modifications to the security system. Out on the road was a different matter, and they could only run for so long. Her family would return sooner or later, and while he didn’t give a crap about them, she did. So for her sake he had to keep them alive as well. And that meant dealing with the problem here and now.
The den was too vulnerable, and she was going to be out for hours on end. Maybe, with extreme luck, she’d stay unconscious until all this ended, and she’d never have to know a thing about it. By the time she came to he’d be long gone, the danger passed.
The only drawback was that he’d have to take the necklace, and for some reason it was important to him that she have it. But if she kept it, she’d always be wondering when he was going to show up again. Too much to risk on a sentimental gesture.
Their best spot was a second-floor bedroom near the back of the house. The windows on the sloping site were close enough to the ground if they had to jump, but it gave him a decent vantage point of the overgrown grounds surrounding the house. It was a slim advantage, but the only one they had. He picked her up off the sofa, marveling again at how damned light she was, and carried her upstairs. The light from the hallway illuminated his way, and set her down on the king-size bed before he went to open the window a crack. She looked pale, cold, even in the shapeless, bulky clothes no Frenchwoman would ever wear, and he pulled back the covers and slid her under them, tucking her in.
He stood there, staring down at her for a long moment. And then, on impulse, he pushed her tangled hair away from her forehead. She looked the same—stubborn, pretty when there was no room in his life for pretty, and on impulse he leaned down and kissed her, softly, while she slept.
And then there was nothing he could do but keep watch. And wait.
Until Monique came to kill her.
23
When she opened her eyes she was disoriented, confused. The room was dark, only bright moonlight coming through the uncurtained windows, and for a moment she didn’t know where she was. Slowly it came back to her…she was in the back guest room, the one her older brother and his wife usually used. She was tucked up in bed, in the darkness, and she’d dreamed she saw Bastien once more.
Someone was sitting in a chair by the window. She could only see his outline, but she knew it hadn’t been a dream.
She didn’t sit up, didn’t move. Her voice was very quiet when she spoke. “Why are you really here? It wasn’t the necklace, was it?”
He must have known she was awake. He always seemed to have an instinctive awareness of everything about her. Oh, God, she hoped not everything. She hoped he didn’t know the mixed, crazy tangle of emotions he brought out in her. For a moment he didn’t answer, and it was long enough for him to fantasize all sorts of things, that he couldn’t live without her, that he had to see her one more time, that he loved…
“Someone wants to kill you.” His voice was calm, dispassionate.
It was no more than she’d expected, and that one crazed moment of hope hadn’t lasted long enough to make it hurt. Much. “Of course they do,” she said. “Why should anything have changed? And you’re here to save my life? I thought you’d already done your duty. You got me safely out of France—the rest should be up to me. And presumably the American cops or CIA or whatever.”
He didn’t say anything, so she sat up, frustrated. “And why in hell would anyone want to kill me? You’re a much more likely target. I didn’t do anything to anybody—I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. I’m no threat to any of your insane plans for world domination.”
“You’ve been watching too much television,” he said. He had less of an accent now, along with his different look. She wondered if he had a different name as well.
“Who wants to kill me and why? And why should you care?” Please, she thought. Just say something, anything that I can keep with me. Something to let me know I’m more than a hindrance.
But she knew what he was going to say. He’d said it far too many times. He didn’t care—he simply felt responsible, and she didn’t want to hear it.
He rose, silhouetted against the moonlit window, and for a moment she was afraid someone would shoot him. But the light was much too murky—the snow must have picked up while she was unconscious, and even if she could see out, as long as the lights were out no one would see in. He moved toward her, out of range of the windows, and to her astonishment he sat down on the floor next to her bed.