Page 18 of Icebound

“Wake up, chérie. We’re here!” Flambeau’s ham-like hand squeezed her breast painfully, and Chloe came awake with a start. The night was pitch-black—she could see nothing, and she had a sudden horrifying thought. Maybe they’d simply brought her out here to kill her—getting rid of a body in the middle of Paris could be a challenging thing. Dumping her in the woods would be a lot easier.

Bastien and Luc were already out of the car, and Chloe tumbled out after them, into the inky blackness of the night. There was only a sliver of moon shining down on them, and she could see the outlines of a building. Flambeau was coming after her, and she was filled with a sudden blind terror. Why the hell had she insisted on staying with Bastien? This man didn’t know her, didn’t care about her. She knew he was capable of cold-blooded murder, and he could easily change his mind about using her. Why hadn’t she run when she had the chance?

But no one was advancing on her with a gun, and her eyes were slowly getting used to the darkness. There was a cool breeze, and she shivered, whether from the cold or fear she couldn’t tell. They had pulled up outside what looked like a farmhouse, albeit in deplorable condition. There were outbuildings as well, including an old barn with a hole in its roof. The farmhouse didn’t look in much better shape—some of the windows were boarded up, the yard a tangle of brush that had taken years to grow. It looked even less welcoming than the catacombs of Paris.

She stood very still, her heart pounding. She didn’t want to die, but…

“Bring her along, Flambeau,” Bastien said. “It’s late, and I want to go to bed.”

Flambeau gave her a hard shove and she almost fell. She started forward, avoiding another push from him, and caught up with Luc, the closest thing to a friend she had. At least he wasn’t interested in hurting her. She picked her way carefully through the undergrowth and followed them into the house. A light came on, and she stopped, staring around her in surprise. Despite the derelict appearance of the outside, the inside of the old farmhouse was spotless, with a lingering warmth on the cool night air that was welcome indeed. “Where are we?”

“Don’t ask questions,” Bastien said sharply. “You aren’t going to get any answers. Go into the kitchen and see if you can find us something to eat.”

She just looked at him for a long moment. “I’m not cooking for

you!”

“You’re doing everything I tell you to if you want to survive,” he shot back in the icy cold voice she hadn’t heard for fifteen years. “It’s up those stairs.”

She glanced at Luc, who looked troubled, but Flambeau was coming at her and she decided she’d be better off in the kitchen. Besides, she was famished.

There were two steps up into a galley-style kitchen. She found the light switch in the back and turned it on, then almost did a doubletake. The kitchen looked like a chef’s dream, with shiny appliances and wooden counters. She went straight to the refrigerator and opened it, marveling at the abundance. Clearly this wasn’t an abandoned house they’d happen to run across—it had all the comforts needed for a long stay.

A charcuterie board was easy enough to assemble, and she was damned if she was going to cook for them. She was tired and cranky and didn’t particularly care anymore if they shot her—the board would have to do. Grabbing a bottle of wine, she headed back into the rustic living room and plopped everything on the low table by the massive fireplace where Luc was already starting a fire.

Bastien glanced at it. “Find the whiskey,” he said. “I hate wine.”

“Have you ever heard such a thing, Madame Chloe?” Luc said, trying to lessen the tension. “A Frenchman who hates wine? It’s unnatural.”

It also wasn’t true. Bastien drank wine, not whiskey—he didn’t like hard liquor, called it uncivilized. She stared at him in surprise.

“Whiskey!” he said again, his voice sharp as a whip, and she turned back into the kitchen. Sure enough, there were half a dozen bottles of what looked like some obscure Scotch whiskey that she hadn’t even noticed. She grabbed one and a couple of glasses and went back into the living room, to find all three men devouring the board of cheese and sausages, and she knew a pang. She’d tasted everything before she put it on the table, assuaging her worst hunger pangs, but the men didn’t seem inclined to share. The fire was blazing in the old stone fireplace, and a warm light filled the room. It looked soft and welcoming, and she had to remind herself she was here with men who threatened to murder her, and she didn’t think those threats were idle.

“Why did you bring two glasses?” Bastien snapped. “Did you think you were going to drink with me?”

She flushed. “I thought you’d share it with Luc.”

“Not me,” Luc said, as Bastien poured himself a generous glass. “I’m a true Frenchman.”

For a moment, Chloe had the absurd feeling that Luc lied, he wasn’t French at all. But that was absurd—his French was that of a Parisian, and he’d have no reason to lie. “Did you get something to eat, Chloe?” he asked solicitously.

“Yes,” she said, wishing she’d done more than sample. “Is there a shower in this place? And a bed?”

“Of course,” Luc said.

“She sleeps with me,” Flambeau announced. “I’m owed something for all I’ve done.”

“You’ll keep your hands off her,” Bastien said icily. “You want a woman, you can go into town and find one. You can afford it.”

“She’s right here and she’s free,” Flambeau argued.

“Not for you. I told you, I have use for her. Women don’t tend to survive your lovemaking.”

Chloe’s stomach roiled at that, and she found herself regretting the amount of olives she’d eaten.

“All right,” Flambeau acquiesced grumpily. “But I get her when we’re done.”

“Just keep your hands off her for now,” Bastien said.