Page 25 of Icebound

“Maddelena will kill her.”

“Then that will solve the problem.”

“Maddelena will kill me,” Bastien said. “She’s tried before.”

“You’re a hard man to kill. String Madame Chloe along. Be nice to her. Tell her you’re her husband, but you can’t say more.”

“No!” Bastien said. “Things are complicated enough as it is. She says she believes I’m not her husband—we’ll play it that way even if she’s lying. I need her compliant for this to work.”

“You’re certain you need her? She seems like a wild card when it comes to that night.”

“She is. But I can handle her, and she’ll provide cover.”

“And afterward?”

“Afterward,” Bastien echoed. “Why, then I’ll probably kill her.”

Chloe slammed the dishes in the sink.

The woman, Chloe, was becoming more of a problem, Jean-Marc thought as he glanced up toward the noisy kitchen. She was easier to deal with when she was completely cowed, but time was making her less afraid, a mistake on her part. She had good reason to feel afraid—the chance of her surviving the night at Lake Como was small indeed. And yet it was the only chance she had. She was an encumbrance that he’d manage to find a use for, at least temporarily, but sooner or later, he was going to have to dispose of her.

He should have had Luc take care of her when they were in Paris. Luc would be gentle, efficient, and she wouldn’t suffer at his hands, not like with that pig Flambeau. Jean-Marc was not particularly tender-hearted, but it was illogical to leave a trail of dead bodies behind them. And he had an ethic of only killing the people he was paid to kill. If the woman’s presence meant she had to die in order for him to achieve his goals, then he would see to it. But he’d rather just leave her behind in Como. There was nothing she could tell the police or Interpol that would betray him, and she could go on to live a long life, maybe even find her beloved Bastien again.

But if he had to kill her, he wouldn’t hesitate. It was his job, his life, his fucking destiny. When people got in the way, they had to be disposed of. Despite what he’d said to Luc, he wasn’t sure about what he was going to do with Chloe with the big eyes and the smart mouth. He’d have to wait and see.

She was making a hell of a racket in the kitchen, and he suspected she’d heard his words. He’d meant her to. He needed her docile and frightened, not asking questions about his wife. He might have almost thought she was the jealous one, which was absurd. She had to know he wasn’t her husband—no two men were that much alike. But she was clinging to him like a boat in a storm, and he was going to have to disabuse her of the notion in the most elemental way possible.

He was going to take her to bed.

Chapter

Nine

Chloe lay on the narrow cot, wide awake. She was still dressed in jeans and a sweater, her sneakers on the floor beside her. She was going to have to escape, whether she wanted to or not. Because she’d heard him say, very clearly, that he would probably kill her after the mysterious event in Como, and she wasn’t about to stand by and let that happen.

If she managed to escape, and that was a big if, she knew she would never see her husband again. If she did, he’d probably try to kill her. The mysterious Jean-Marc wouldn’t have to try too hard.

She kept hoping he would wake up in the morning and suddenly recognize her, but that hope was fading. And what if he killed her and then remembered? Chloe shuddered at the thought. She was in too deep, and she had to get the hell out of there, not keep waiting for a deus ex machina. Maybe if she got away, then Peter Madsen would be able to find him.

It was the middle of the night. Her Apple watch had stopped working days ago, but she could tell it was somewhere between two and five a.m. The man in the room next door would be sound asleep, and all she had to do was creep out silently and lose herself in the woods that surrounded the old farmhouse. It was a slim chance—there were three of them to search and only one of her, but she couldn’t just stay here like Cinderella facing the guillotine without making an effort to survive.

She wasn’t going to think about what would happen if they found her, if Flambeau was the one who found her. It did her no good to dwell on the danger she was in, on the unlikelihood of a successful escape. She would be paralyzed with fear if she did, and no one was going to come riding to her rescue. In the past, it had been Bastien who’d rescued her. Now she had to save herself from him.

The cot creaked as she slowly rose from it, and she froze, listening for a sound from the adjoining bedroom. It would have been helpful if he snored, but that was one of the things he had in common with the real Bastien. More proof that he was her husband.

She made absolutely no noise as she moved through her tiny alcove into the main bedroom. It was pitch-dark, but her eyes had adjusted to it, and she looked at the man on the bed. He was sound asleep, lying on his stomach, and he wore no shirt. She could see the contours of his back, both familiar and yet foreign, and she reminded herself she had to keep moving. He was a heavy sleeper—she knew that much already. When she’d gotten up to pee, he hadn’t heard a sound, and she’d been deliberately noisy. At least something was going her way.

She skirted the bed silently, holding her breath, but he slept on. She let out a tiny sigh of relief as she reached the door, reached for the doorknob, when his lazy voice speared the darkness.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

All her fear and tension exploded and she yanked at the door, desperate, but it didn’t budge, and suddenly he was there, reaching for her and she exploded in rage and fear, hitting him.

It was a waste of time. Pushing her up against the door, he subdued her quickly, catching her flailing arms in one hand as he held her there with his body. He was so damned big—she couldn’t break free, and she kicked at him, panting.

“You can’t escape,” he said in a dark, cold voice. “Why would you want to leave your husband that you love so much?”

The hope was only for a second, and then it went crashing down. “You’re not my husband,” she said bitterly.