Page 49 of Icebound

She could feel the color suffuse her face. She was tired, she was hungry, and she was so confused. Here she was arguing with her husband about cheating on him…with him. It was all so ridiculous that she wanted to laugh. But if she started laughing, she would never stop, and then she wouldn’t blame him for shooting her.

“You’re an asshole,” she said, calming her voice.

“Is that the best you’ve got?”

It was the last straw. She threw her shoes at him, as hard as she could. He moved fast, ignoring them as they bounced off his body, and caught her, and she struggled for a moment, until her training came back to her, and she stepped into him, prepared to hurt him quite badly, the way Bastien had taught her.

But, of course, he knew the move, and a moment later, she found herself slammed against a kitchen cabinet, his body hard against her back, holding her in place. “Where did you learn that little trick, chérie?” he murmured in her ear. “That’s not taught in self-defense classes.”

She struggled against his enveloping body, and she could feel his bare chest against her, feel his erection against her ass. If he planned to do anything about it, she would fight him, she swore she would.

A moment later he released her, stepping back. “You’re very angry, ma p’tite.” he said lazily. “I suggest you calm down, find something to eat and then go back to bed.”

“I’m not hungry!”

“Liar,” he said. “Sit down.”

There was a long wooden table at the end of the kitchen, but she stood her ground. He resolved things by moving in on her and shoving her into one of the chairs, and she glared up at him. He moved through the kitchen with that familiar, panther-like grace, taking a bottle of wine out of the cupboard and pouring her a glass of the ruby-red liquid. He set it down in front of her and she considered flinging it back at him. Which would get her exactly nowhere. She glared at it, not wanting to touch it.

He poured himself a glass as he busied himself with the leftover lasagne, putting a slice in the modern microwave while she sat there, numb, defeated.

He set the delicious-smelling plate in front of her, then took a seat opposite her, cradling his glass of wine. “Eat,” he said.

“What are you doing, fattening me up for the kill?” she said bitterly, making an effort not to touch the plate even though her mouth was watering.

“I’m not going to kill you.”

That startled her, and she lifted her head sullenly. “You told Luc you would.”

“I told him I would if I have to. I don’t intend to let that happen. I told you, I don’t like to kill women I fuck.”

“No, you said you don’t name the women you fuck because you might have to kill them,” she challenged him.

“I didn’t realize you were paying such close attention to my every word.”

“I’m your hostage. Of course I listen to every word.”

“Well, then, Chloe, eat your dinner. At this point, I have no plans to kill you.” He nudged the glass to her. “Drink your wine. It will help you sleep.”

The sound of her name in his familiar voice softened the core of anger inside her. She was so tired she wanted to weep, and there was nothing she could do. She took a sip of the wine.

Her eyes met his across the table, his dark, unreadable eyes. “What if things get out of control, and you have to kill me?” she pushed.

And there was real sorrow in his eyes as he answered. “Then I will make it fast and painless, and you won’t even know what’s happening.”

“That’s hardly a recommendation. Now I’ll be expecting it.”

“Don’t,” he said.

She picked up her fork and began to eat.

Chapter

Sixteen

There was no sign of him the next morning. Only Luc, the one she’d thought of as a possible friend, was eating breakfast in the salon, and the dishes were still in the sink. She made herself some toast and carried it into the salon, looking out over the sparkling lake. How could something bad happen in such a beautiful place?

“Where’s Jean-Marc?” she said airily.