Page 37 of Icebound

“I mean, what is it you’re going to want me to do?” she interrupted him hastily.

“Nothing too hard. You’ll get dressed up in something elegant and accompany me to a party, where you’ll mingle with the rich and the famous. All you have to do is stand by my side and be beautiful.”

She ignored her reluctant gratification that he still found her beautiful and persisted. “And then?”

“And then you will not stand by my side while I take care of business, and then you will rejoin me and we will leave. It will be like Cinderella—you Americans all like Cendrillon, don’t you? Dress up and go to the party and leave before midnight.”

“What do you have to take care of?”

“Nothing you need to worry about,” he said. “Now go to sleep and dream of beautiful dresses.”

She wasn’t going to be put off. “And what happens afterward?”

“Afterward, I let you go, of course,” he said smoothly.

She didn’t believe him. Jean-Marc wouldn’t leave loose ends lying about, neither would Bastien when he was a member of the Committee. And where was Peter Madsen—wasn’t he looking for them? The Committee had eyes and ears everywhere—why hadn’t they found them?

“I don’t—” she started to say, but his arms tightened around her, and the warmth of his skin, the touch of his body was having its mesmerizing effect.

“No more talking. Go to sleep, chérie. If you keep me awake, I may have to do something about you.”

She froze in his arms. “You promised you wouldn’t rape me.”

“I don’t make promises. And it wouldn’t be rape. Now go to sleep and you’ll be safe.”

Her body had a mind of its own—it softened into Bastien’s embrace, and she lay there, surrounded by him, drowning in him. If she were alone, she would cry, but if she did now, he would probably find a way to comfort her that she didn’t want. She couldn’t say that sex was the last thing on her mind, not with him all around her, but she needed time. She needed her husband, not this lethal variant.

She closed her dry eyes. She just had to hold on. For what, she wasn’t sure. But for now, she had Bastien, and that was enough.

Chapter

Thirteen

The dawn slowly filled the small, dark room, and Chloe lay very still, watching it come. To her surprise, she’d slept heavily, and she knew why. She’d felt safe in Bastien’s arms, her senses overwhelming her sense. He was still wrapped around her, and she closed her eyes, breathing him in, breathing in the new day. What would it bring? Death and destruction? Whatever Bastien was doing involved the gun he’d practiced with so determinedly. And she was going to be a witness.

She lay perfectly still, keeping all her muscles relaxed as he moved behind her, sitting up on his side of the bed. She kept her eyes closed—there was no way he would know she was already awake. This way she wouldn’t have to face him over the narrow bed they had shared⁠—

A sharp slap on her rump was her answer. “I know you’re awake, chérie. Time to get up and get going.”

She had no choice but to sit up, to face him, and then she quickly turned away, embarrassed. The bulge in his boxer briefs was unmistakable, and she tried to avert her gaze.

He laughed, and it was probably the first real amusement she’d heard from him. “You’re married, aren’t you? What do you Americans call it—morning wood? It’s nothing personal.”

“I didn’t think it was,” she said icily.

“Though if you feel like doing something about it…”

“I don’t,” she snapped. She was blushing—she could feel the heat in her cheeks. Blushing over her own husband’s erection, which was absurd.

Except he wasn’t her husband, not really, not at the moment. She hadn’t the slightest doubt—he didn’t know her, didn’t remember her. And then something hit her. “Why don’t you ever call me by my name?” she asked abruptly. “It’s always chérie or bébé or something like that. My name is Chloe.” His refusal to use her real name must mean something, maybe a subconscious memory…

He’d put his jeans on, but he was still shirtless, and he leaned back against the wall, surveying her. His temporary good humor had vanished. “I don’t name women I might have to kill,” he said.

She froze. “Why would you have to kill me?” she asked in a very small voice.

“If you don’t do what I tell you to do. Remember that, chérie,” his voice accented the endearment, “and follow my orders.”

She shouldn’t have pushed it, but she couldn’t help it. “Why did you bother saving me from Flambeau? Why kill him?”