Page 50 of Icebound

“He’s busy,” Luc said repressively. In French. Bastien must have told him of her deception.

“Oh? Off to kill LaDonna?” It wasn’t the smartest thing to say—they didn’t know exactly what she’d overheard.

Luc scowled. “You know everything, then?”

“Including that you’d happily kill me if necessary.”

“It’s nothing personal, Chloe. You don’t know the man we work for—he’s very unforgiving. For some reason, Jean-Marc wanted to let you go after we’re done, which, from a practical point, is foolish. You know too much.”

“I know very little. I doubt Luc and Jean-Marc are your real names.”

“They aren’t. But you can give them descriptions, and then there’s Jean-Marc leaving his DNA all over you.”

“Is that what they call it?” she murmured. Luc stared at her as if she’d grown a second head, and she said, “What?”

He shrugged. “Jean-Marc made the same joke.”

Of course he did. Bastien was very open about sexual matters, and they shared the same slightly twisted sense of humor. She managed a wry smile. “Great minds think alike. What’s Jean-Marc doing?”

“Gardening,” he said flippantly, and Chloe went back to her coffee. She should stop asking questions—the less she knew, the more likely they wouldn’t decide to kill her. But she could hardly stand by and watch as he assassinated a living saint, a woman revered around the world, even if it meant her own life.

“Did he take the car?” she asked casually. She hadn’t given up on her hope of escape. This was out of her control—she should have tried to escape days ago so she could go to Peter Madsen. He could stop Bastien. He could fix things. He fixed everything.

“What do you think he did, walk?” Luc shot back in a grumpy voice. “Stop asking me questions. The less you know the better.”

She could hardly argue with him since she’d come up with the same conclusion. “Very well,” she said amiably. “Doesn’t the lake look lovely today?”

Luc snorted.

Bastien didn’t return until after she retired to her room, and she was relieved she didn’t have to face him. He had a hypnotic effect on her whenever she was near him. Stockholm Syndrome, she thought with a bitter laugh. But then, she’d succumbed years ago—this was nothing new.

He was gone the next day as well, and she would have counted her blessings, but tomorrow night was the night of the gala, and the very thought terrified her. It was too late to escape—the car was home every night, but she knew he would catch her if he tried. He still slept far too lightly.

At least there was no more sign of Maddelena. Could he really have married her? In that short a time? They were hardly behaving as newlyweds, but then, Jean-Marc wasn’t the sentimental type. He knew she would wait for him, he knew any damned woman would wait for him, even if he was going to kill her.

She was sound asleep in bed when he woke her on the third day, and she pulled the covers tight around her in instinctive protection. He would have made a snarky comment if he’d bothered to notice, but he had other things on his mind. “Time to get up,” he said. “Your clothes are here.”

“Clothes?”

“You’re on call tonight,” he said. “But I expect you already knew that.”

“The gala,” she said glumly.

“Exactly. And you know what I’m going to do there.” It wasn’t a question.

“You’re going to murder LaDonna.”

“It’s a job.”

“Find a new one,” she snapped.

“Why?” he said with a bone-chilling smile, “when I’m so good at this one?”

She sat up in bed, keeping the heavy sheet wrapped around her chest. “And what do you expect me to do? Hand you the gun?”

“The gun is already there. I expect you to enjoy yourself. Drink champagne, dance, and flirt. If you say a word, I’ll shoot you first.”

“I’m getting tired of being threatened,” she said.