Page 47 of Icebound

Bastien looked back out at the calm waters. “I can get her back here. Otherwise, I’ll finish her at the gala. But as you said, there’s a problem with my DNA.”

“Just don’t touch her again. I’ve never known you to be at the mercy of your dick.”

“I’m not. We’ll do it your way. We don’t want anything left at the Villa Foscarelli to lead them to me. Then you can do it, quickly, painlessly.”

“Is that doubt I’m hearing in your voice?” Luc asked.

“No doubt at all,” Bastien said firmly. “I wouldn’t have thought we’d hold onto her this long. But she’s had her uses.”

“She’d be nothing but a liability once you kill LaDonna.”

“I know. We’re agreed, then. I’ll bring her back to you and you’ll take care of things,” Bastien said. “She’s too pretty for me to kill.”

Luc snorted in disbelief. “There’s no such thing.”

Bastien smiled ruefully. “Perhaps I’m more sentimental than you think.”

Chloe lay on the bed, a fine linen sheet over her naked body, closing her eyes as the voices travelled to her. The doors to the lake were open in her room, just as they were open in the salon, and the sound of their voices came drifting over to her as she lay in the rumpled bed. She ought to get up, move closer, listen to what they were saying, but her bones still felt like liquid, and she simply lay there, thinking about what had just happened.

He’d called her by her name. What did that mean? Did his body remember her as he fucked her? She couldn’t call it making love—it was too dark, too visceral. He’d told her he didn’t call women he might have to kill by their name. Did that mean he’d decided to let her live?

Or had he simply forgotten in the heat of the moment? The sound of her name in his voice had been powerful, shattering the last of her restraints. Would he continue to call her by her name? That would be the test. One more “bébé” and she would scream.

She sat up on the bed, her body aching despite its pleasure. He’d ridden her hard, but then, Bastien had never been an easy lover. He demanded, and he knew how to get what he wanted. Wrapping the loose sheet around her body, she climbed off the bed and wandered over to the French doors, looking out at the pristine water.

“After you kill LaDonna.” The voice came to her, clear in the early evening stillness, and she froze in horror, almost dropping the sheet. She was not so innocent that she hadn’t known he had murder in mind. But the woman who’d been a political prisoner for over ten years, the closest thing to a saint since Mother Teresa, and he was going to wipe out her life? For God’s sake, why? She’d never harmed a soul.

“She’s too pretty for me to kill.” Bastien’s voice travelled across the water, and she wanted to throw up. The plan to kill her was still a go. Two women in one night. Oh, no, Luc was going to do the honor in her case. He’d almost been her friend, looking after her when Bastien was difficult, smiling at her. Would he be smiling when he put a bullet in her brain?

She listened a while longer, but they’d stopped talking, and she moved away from the window, suddenly cold. She’d been lured into believing she had some control over the situation, when in truth she had none. He could fuck her, kill her without a second thought. And she had to get away.

He was never going to remember her. If he didn’t have the telltale map of scars on his strong, beautiful body, she might doubt her own mind. But there was no mistaking it—this was her husband, about to kill a Nobel Peace Prize winner. And her.

She knew one thing—she couldn’t face him right now and pretend she hadn’t heard. She couldn’t face him after what they had just done. He’d probably slap her across the butt and call her “mon ange” again. Avenging angel was more like it. She was not going to let him get away with it.

She should get out of here—neither of them was watching her that closely, and she knew how to hotwire a car. The Renault used an old-fashioned key—surely that would mean it would start beneath her deft fingers.

She had to count on the fact that Bastien wouldn’t sleep with her as he had the last few nights. He’d said he wouldn’t, but that was before his wife had shown up, when he’d suddenly declared they were lovers. Was Maddelena still here, sitting with a smug smile on her beautiful face, listening to their plans to kill her?

And why would Bastien sleep with her when he had such a glorious-looking wife available? It certainly wasn’t because he found her irresistible. He hadn’t touched her the last few nights, even with an erection the size of Chicago. She couldn’t imagine he’d come anywhere near her tonight.

She couldn’t afford to hesitate—she would leave in the middle of the night and they would sleep right through her clandestine departure. The other bedrooms were at the back of the house, away from the car and any noise it might make, and Bastien seemed to be a heavy sleeper, different from the man she’d slept with for more than fifteen years.

She would escape, and this time she wouldn’t look back.

Peter Madsen stared at the dead man with imperturbable curiosity. Anderson had come as a surprise, as much as anyone could surprise him nowadays, but he’d heard the tell-tale snick of a handgun being cocked and known what was coming. Anderson lay in the doorway, a bullet hole in the middle of his forehead, the gun fallen from his hand, and Peter set his own gun down on the desk before rising to inspect the body. It had made a hell of a racket, but the offices of Spence-Pierce Financial Services were soundproofed—there was no need for a silencer on the handgun he kept in his desk.

Anderson’s baby blue eyes were wide and staring, and his whole expression was one of childlike surprise. Clearly, he’d underestimated his target. It was a shame—Peter had liked the man, counted on him for the last four years as much as he ever counted on anyone, and he wondered who had gotten to him. Did it have anything to do with Bastien, or was it some other operation that had managed to turn him?

He was betting on Bastien with the instinct that had been honed by years of experience. Anderson didn’t like that he’d traced Bastien to Italy, and he’d felt it worth the danger to eliminate him. He should have known better. Peter was a hard man to kill—he might almost say impossible, given his history, but he didn’t want to jinx things. He and Genny had an ongoing joke—“Don’t you dare die and leave me with them,” referring to their unruly brood.

Genny would be fine with the motley horde of children and teenagers filling their old manor house in Hampshire, but he had no intention of leaving her, ever. He glanced down at Anderson and gave him a small nudge with his foot. Anderson had come out to the house—he’d charmed Genny and impressed the teenagers, not an easy thing to do. He’d been good at both his jobs, as Peter’s right-hand man and his betrayer. Too bad for him he’d underestimated his intended target.

Anderson hadn’t wanted him to go to Italy, enough so that it was worth blowing his cover. Which made the trip all the more necessary. He needed to find out what the fuck was going on with Bastien, and where Chloe was. They didn’t seem to have anything to do with an ongoing operation, and maybe it was as simple as a marital spat gone nuclear. Maybe they really were now touring Italy on a second honeymoon.

Except that he had no proof that the woman with him was Chloe. And there was another man with them, not the best company for a honeymoon. Peter was entirely at a loss about what was going on, and he didn’t like it. If it truly was Chloe, then there would be no need for secrecy. And she hadn’t called the children in two weeks, another anomaly.

Unfortunately, there was no one else he could send. MacGowan was in Philadelphia with his millionaire wife, awaiting the birth of their first child. Taka and Reno were in the midst of a Sarin gas threat that was far too credible. And God knew where Killian and Isobel were, and it was better off that way. Not that Killian would be any use, but Isobel knew both Chloe and Bastien and she could scare the truth out of anyone.