Page 48 of Icebound

Genny was not going to be happy with him for leaving her with a horde of children in the house, but in truth, she handled them all with ease. Even sullen Mahmoud was eating out of her hand. Peter just needed some answers, some way of knowing Bastien and Chloe were all right.

But he didn’t think so.

He went back to his desk, making the preplanned phone call to the clean-up crew. He’d never had to have them come to the office, and he didn’t particularly like the idea, but Anderson had been a compactly built man with a fondness for pumping iron, and Peter was damned if he’d do the clean-up. He needed the cleaners to come before Anderson started to smell.

In the meantime, he had plans to make.

Chloe was leaving. There was no clock in the room, and she still missed her Apple watch, but it was somewhere near zero dark thirty, and Bastien had to be asleep somewhere in the back of the house. It was time to leave.

She dressed quickly, carrying her shoes with her as she slipped out the door. All was silent in the house, and then she caught the faint sound of someone snoring. Bastien didn’t snore, so it could only be Luc, but doubtless Bastien was just as solidly asleep. The man was only human, hard as it was to believe. He needed to sleep just as much as the next man. Probably in Maddalena’s arms.

She moved silently through the hall. She was starving—she hadn’t eaten since yesterday morning, and while on the road, their meals had been far from sumptuous. At the last minute, she made a detour to the kitchen, looking for something she could grab and take with her.

They’d left their dishes in the sink, and she almost scoffed out loud. They must think she was going to keep up cleaning up after them, like a good little hostage, until they had no more use for her. She wanted to take the dirty plates and smash them against the terrazzo floor, but she controlled her fury. They would have to wash their own fucking dishes. She would be gone.

She opened one cupboard, peering inside, finding nothing but baking supplies. Not even a stray bag of cookies, and she didn’t dare open the massive refrigerator. She had to get out of there—the hell with food.

But what was she going to do, with no money and no identification? She could go to the police—that was the sensible thing to do. She had to stop him before he killed LaDonna, and she would do anything she had to do.

But the gala was still two days away, they said. That would give her enough time to get in touch with Peter. Peter would be able to stop it while still keeping Bastien safe. If she alerted the police and they came to the villa, Bastien wouldn’t go quietly. There would be a shoot-out, and he would be lying dead on this terrazzo floor, and she couldn’t bear it.

“Going somewhere?”

The calm words sent a sinking feeling in her stomach. Slowly she withdrew her head from the cabinet to meet Bastien’s inimical eyes.

He was standing in the kitchen wearing only his jeans, his chest bare in the lambent light, and he was barefoot. He had no gun with him, but then, he didn’t need one to subdue her.

“I was hungry,” she said innocently. “I haven’t eaten in a long time.”

“You needed shoes to eat?”

“I was going to go sit on the terrace while I ate.”

“It’s dark—you wouldn’t see anything.”

“It’s peaceful,” she said. “Go back to Maddalena.” She didn’t bother to keep the bitterness out of her voice.

“Maddelena’s gone,” he dismissed her. “And I don’t believe you.”

“Then kill me,” she said. “I’m tired of playing your games. If you don’t trust me, then you shouldn’t take me to the gala. Kill me now and avoid the June rush.”

He looked momentarily confused by her language. “What are you talking about?”

She wasn’t getting out that night, or any night, and she knew it with sudden despair. “You’re going to kill me,” she said. “I heard you and Luc talking. Why don’t you do it now and get it over with?”

“You heard Luc and me talking?” he echoed. “Now why didn’t I figure that out?” He spoke in French, and color flooded Chloe’s face. She’d let her frustration get the better of her and given away her one weapon against them.

“Figure what out?” she answered sullenly in the same language.

“That you speak French. Few Americans can speak anything more than their native language. What else have you been hiding from me?” His voice was silken. “For instance, who is this Bastien you insist I look like? What does he do, where does he live? How long have you been married?”

“Fifteen years!” she shot back.

“And here you’ve been fucking another man, probably for the first time in those fifteen years. You don’t strike me as someone who has affairs. You must be riddled with guilt.”

“It hasn’t been my choice,” she snapped.

“Oh, yes? I don’t remember hearing the word ‘no’ when you climbed on and rode me.”