Page 22 of Icebound

There were tears burning at the corner of her eyes, but they were tears of rage, she told herself. She would never forgive him. Her hands were shaking when she reached for her lukewarm cup of coffee, and she heard a sudden burst of male laughter from the living room. He must have told them he kissed her. Told them her hostile, clumsy response.

Well, at least she’d changed his mind about screwing her. Hardly worth the trouble, wasn’t that what he said? She’d make sure of it.

She took a deep breath, straightening her shoulders. She would not let him, let them, demoralize her. There was just one thing bothering her.

What was he planning to do with that rifle?

Chapter

Eight

“She’s somewhere in Paris,” Anderson said, poking his head in the door to Peter Madsen’s private office in Richmond. “She used a false passport to come into the country and to check into the Hotel St. Just, but she’s definitely there.”

Peter Madsen looked up at him from his desk. “Where is she now?”

“She was last seen on the Left Bank three days ago. There’s been no sign of her since—she never went back to her hotel room and some man checked her out of it, took her suitcase. Maybe we’ve got this all wrong. Maybe she was meeting a lover.”

“You don’t know Chloe and Bastien,” he said heavily.

“Maybe not, but sometimes the most obvious answer is the right one. He walks out on her for another woman, she follows suit. How long have they been married? People get tired of each other.”

“Not those two.” Anderson was beginning to piss Peter off, but he controlled his irritation with an effort. “What do we know about the man who checked her out of the hotel?”

“French. Looked like a student. I tell you, she’s paying Bastien back for leaving her, and⁠—”

“Bastien didn’t leave her. He wouldn’t.” His voice was cold.

“Then where the hell is he?”

Peter didn’t answer. He had no answers to Anderson’s questions or his own. Bastien had been gone for almost six weeks now, with no sign of him, which meant one of two things. Either he was hiding out—but what possible reason could he have for that? He had the skills to remain out of sight, but if any of his enemies had resurfaced, Peter would know.

No, either Bastien was in hiding for some unknown reason. Or he was dead.

Peter had to consider that possibility with all his cold-blooded rationality. Bastien Toussaint was a legend, but even legends die, and he had a great many enemies. He’d been gone too long, without a word to the Committee, even though he no longer worked for them. There was a very good chance he was dead in some unmarked grave, never to be heard from again.

And now Chloe had disappeared. At least their children were safe at his home in the Hampshire countryside. Genny would see to them, keep them safe and loved. But time was running out. Bastien wouldn’t be gone that long without resurfacing. Chloe wouldn’t just disappear into the heart of Paris.

“Go to France,” Peter said abruptly. “Find her.”

Anderson didn’t make the mistake of asking how he was going to do that. He simply nodded. “What about Bastien?”

“You’ll never find him if he doesn’t want to be found. He’s above your pay grade. Concentrate on Chloe—she’s been gone a shorter period of time and should be easier to find.”

“Yes, boss.”

Peter Madsen eyed him dubiously. Anderson had been an operative for four years now, smart and loyal. It wasn’t his fault that he was having to be the bearer of bad news. If Bastien and Chloe were dead, Peter would know it—he counted on his instincts which had saved his life and others many times. Anderson wouldn’t find Bastien, but Chloe would be an easier task. Once Anderson had her safely back in England with her children, Peter could concentrate on where the hell Bastien had disappeared to.

One thing was for sure—Anderson was wrong in his supposition that either Chloe or Bastien had a lover. The two were joined at the hip, with just enough room for their two children. Peter would be jealous if he didn’t have Genevieve and his own obstreperous offspring.

No, if they weren’t together, they’d be looking for each other, and God knew what kind of mess they’d gotten themselves into.

Much as Chloe resented her new status of maid-of-all-work, she appreciated the fact that at least she had something to do. The kitchen was small, up two stairs into an annex that had just enough room for the basic appliances. It didn’t matter. She’d cooked in her tiny apartment kitchen in Paris, she’d cooked in her huge gourmet kitchen in North Carolina. She could manage a decent dinner anywhere.

She found a package of frozen stew meat in the freezer, fresh mushrooms and baby onions on the counter, and it would be a simple enough matter to make a Boeuf Bourguignon for dinner. It was one of Bastien’s favorite meals—would his doppelganger like it as well? The kitchen was well-stocked—there would be enough food for weeks, assuming they could get fresh fruits and vegetables, but the one thing missing was bread.

Chloe could make bread of any sort, including baguettes. The kitchen came equipped with a baking stone, and anything that kept her from her captors seemed like a good idea. She’d changed into her jeans and a sweater, keeping an eye on the open door to Bastien’s room, but no one came near her, and by the time she was back in the kitchen, she was almost in a good mood. Baking always soothed her soul, and it didn’t matter if the bread was going to the three criminals. It was still bread, the staff of life, and she kneaded it with slow, deft hands, emotionally clinging to this one sure thing in a world of lies and chaos.

By the time it was rising, she had nothing else to do—the kitchen was spotless and it was too early for the Boeuf. She eyed the space-age coffee maker dubiously, then set to work. The book-sized manual was in a drawer, in French, of course, and she wasn’t up to date on the most technical coffee terms. But she persevered, and by the she’d formed the baguette loaves, she had a perfect tiny cup of espresso.