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She should have known he’d be acquainted with the poem—he was always surprising her. “So what am I wearing? Basic black? I finally realized why you always wear black.”
“Because I’m stylish?” he suggested lightly. “Or because I’m evil?”
“Neither,” she said. “Because it doesn’t show blood.”
There was silence in the room, so quiet that she could almost hear the snow falling outside the tall windows. “Get dressed,” he finally said.
The clothes were in the tiny hallway of the suite, the name of the designer on the garment bag and boxes. If Sylvia had these she would have thought she’d died and gone to heaven….
He got there so fast she barely had time to swallow the sudden gulp of pain. “What’s wrong?”
She turned to look at him, managing to pull herself together. “If you try really hard you’ll probably be able to guess. Your former girlfriend killed Sylvia, you know. She thought she was me.”
“I know.”
“Then why do you ask me what’s wrong?”
“Because we don’t have time for it. Once you’re back with your family you can fall apart. Right now you need to have nerves of steel.”
“And if I don’t? I suppose you’ll kill me, right?”
He made no move to touch her. “No,” he said. “You’ll die, but I won’t be the one to do it. And I’ll die, too. I imagine that’s more of an incentive than a warning, but you’re not going to survive without me. And you know it.”
“Yes,” she said. “I know it.”
“So you have to be strong. No tears, no panic. You’ve managed to keep it together so far, and it’ll only be a few more hours and you’ll be safe. You can hold out for that much longer. I know you can.”
“How do you know it?” Her voice was close to breaking. “I’m a wreck.”
“You’re amazing,” he said softly. “You’ve managed to stay alive this long. I’m not going to let anything else happen to you.”
“Amazing?” she echoed, shaken.
“Go get dressed,” he said. And he turned from her, shutting her out once more.
19
He’d thought of everything. At first she thought he’d forgotten to get her a bra, and then she realized she couldn’t wear one under the slinky black halter dress. The black lace panties were only one step more generous than a thong, and the matching garter belt and stockings should have revolted her. She put them on, and thought of his hands on her legs.
He’d even ordered the right color range in the makeup—the man was unnatural. There was nothing she could do about her hair. It would have to pass muster as the latest in disarranged styles. She eyed the shoes warily—higher heels than she was used to, but they fit perfectly. He seemed to know her body better than she did, and it made her more than uncomfortable. He knew and understood her body, and yet he was an enigma to her. One she was crazy enough to long for. He’d called her amazing. For some reason she cherished the compliment. Amazingly brave, amazingly stupid, amazing curious, amazingly lucky. Amazing.
Stockholm Syndrome, she reminded herself, a silent litany to keep her absurdities in check. Once she was back home she’d remember this with astonishment. If she chose to remember it at all.
The lights of Paris were bright beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows of the living room, and Bastien stood in the center, half-dressed, fiddling with something under his open shirt. A white shirt—maybe he wasn’t expecting blood.
“I need your help,” he said, not turning to look at her.
“You don’t strike me as someone who asks for help.”
“There’s a first time for everything….” The words trailed off as he saw her. She’d been feeling awkward, conspicuous in the slinky black dress. That vanished when she saw the look in his eyes, one he quickly shielded. Maybe he had Stockholm Syndrome as well.
If so, he was able to ignore it far more effectively than she was. A moment later she might have imagined that surprising expression in his dark eyes. “I’m having trouble getting this right,” he said.
The white shirt was open, exposing his golden smooth skin. He was trying to tape something to his side, a wad of padding that looked like a bandage, when she knew his body well enough to know that he had no wound there.
She came up to him, because she had no reason, no excuse not to. And because she wanted to. “What do you want me to do?”
“I need this adhered to my skin, just below the fourth rib. I can’t quite reach.”
