Page 24 of Icebound

“Paris is fine,” said Le Fauçon. “They can search for weeks, particularly if you find the occasional clue to keep them looking. You’ve done very well this time, Anderson. I won’t forget it.”

Anderson flushed with pride. He’d worked for Le Fauçon the entire four years that he’d worked for the Committee, but he’d only been called a few times before. Mostly, he’d been Peter Madsen’s right-hand man, loyal to a fault. Unless Le Fauçon found him with tasks to complete.

So far, they had all been minor chores, nothing that would affect the outcome of a particular operation, and Anderson had followed his orders with a clear conscience. Chloe Toussaint was a different matter. Anderson doubted she would survive this mess she’d walked into, and it served her right. Anderson didn’t like women—they were like cats. Duplicitous creatures. He felt no guilt for his part in this. He liked Peter Madsen, but the man was hopelessly old-fashioned, true blue. He’d lost his edge, and the Committee was ripe for being taken over. Anderson could see himself running it, with Le Fauçon’s guidance, subverting all their complicated operations. It would be fascinating work, and very lucrative.

“What else can I do?” he asked his employer.

“Nothing yet. The time is coming, and I know you’ll be ready. You like Peter Madsen, don’t you?”

Anderson winced. That was one problem with Le Fauçon—he ferreted out your deepest secrets. It wouldn’t help to lie—he would know. “I do,” he said. “But that won’t stop me from killing him when the time comes.”

“I know it won’t. You’re a good man, Anderson. You’ll find I can be suitably grateful.”

A moment of regret passed over him, but Anderson ignored it. He’d chosen a difficult path in this life, but a rewarding one. Killing Peter Madsen would be regrettable, but he wouldn’t shirk from it. It was all part of the grand plan, and he wasn’t going to do anything to tamper with it.

He sometimes wondered just who the man was on the other end of the burner phone. Young or old, gay or straight, idealistic or criminal. It didn’t really matter to Anderson, not as long as he followed him, and he was already in too deep to get out with his life intact. He didn’t want to. He had something to believe in. A man to believe in, and he was willing to give his life for him. He couldn’t wait to meet him.

It was hard to ruin a simple Boeuf Bourguignon, though Chloe had searched through the cupboards for rat poison. In the end, the bread was good, though not perfect, and the stew was delicious, and her captors would live another day to torment her. She ate her own meal standing up in the kitchen, watching the steps warily. She wasn’t sure if she was hoping Bastien would come after her again, kiss her again. She didn’t think so—she just couldn’t imagine sitting in the living room with them while they shoveled stew down their throats. She would clear the dishes away when they were done, but that was the limit to her socializing. She listened, waiting for a signal they were finished eating, when her name caught her attention.

“Madame Chloe can cook,” Luc’s voice drifted to her, rich with satisfaction.

“She can,” Bastien said. “For an American.”

Chloe controlled her irritation. She’d been feeding Bastien for fifteen years now—well, he cooked for her too—and they ate extremely well.

“Too bad you didn’t really marry her,” Luc said. “Your real wife probably can’t boil water.”

“Maddelena doesn’t need to,” Bastien said lazily. “Her talents lie in other areas.”

Chloe froze. His so-called wife. Jealousy roared through her like a freight train, and she almost stormed back into the living room, but wisdom prevailed. The less she called attention to herself, the better. Everything was a lie—what was one more anomaly?

But once more, doubt came trickling in. It was impossible—no two men could look that much alike, but this man didn’t know her. And now this man had a wife, and it wasn’t her. Why the hell hadn’t she escaped when she’d had half the chance? She might have ended up with a bullet in her back, but at least she’d be away from the lying, cheating…

No. She believed that this Jean-Marc didn’t know her. But he wouldn’t have had time to get married—he hadn’t been gone that long. The smart thing to do was pretend she hadn’t heard a word. But she’d been nothing but stupid ever since Bastien had disappeared.

She went down the two stairs to the living room, starting to scoop up empty bowls. The words came out unbidden when she reached Bastien. “Where is your wife?”

“Far away from here. You should be glad—she’d cut your heart out if she ever met you.”

“How long have you been married?” she persisted. “Doesn’t she miss you?”

“Why all the interest? She has nothing to do with you. Unless you’re still insisting I’m your husband.”

“I know you’re not,” she said, intelligent for once. “I was just curious.”

“Well, don’t be. The less you know, the more likely you are to survive,” he said coldly.

She was tempted to drop the dirty dishes in his lap, but she simply nodded like the cowed creature she was attempting to resemble and carried them back up to the kitchen, resisting the impulse to slam them into the sink. She started to run the water when Luc’s voice drifted back to her.

“You don’t have to be so cruel to her, Jean-Marc. I believe her when she says she thinks you’re her husband.”

There was a dangerous silence. “You believe I’m married to the woman?”

“No, of course not. I know you can’t be. But she believes it, no matter what she says.”

“Then it’s time I finally disabuse her of the notion,” Bastien, or was he Jean-Marc, said heavily.

“Let her have her delusions. She’ll be much more amenable to Como if she thinks she’s married to you.”