Page 51 of Icebound

“It’s not a threat, it’s a promise.”

And he meant it.

The garment bag and the boxes were in the living room, waiting for her, and her déjà vu hit her hard. Fifteen years ago, he’d dressed her in elegant clothes for another formal event that had turned into a bloodbath. Would this be the same?

She hadn’t behaved herself that night, and she had no intention of behaving herself tonight. She would stop him from killing LaDonna, and she would stop him from killing her. Somehow, she would pull a rabbit out of a hat and keep disaster from raining down. She had to.

The dress was a far cry from Maddelena’s deliberately frumpy one. It was silver and black, shimmery and beautiful, and she suspected she would stand out in a crowd. Making it easier for him to shoot her.

He wasn’t going to, she reminded herself with more determination than belief. Something would stop him at the last minute.

The dress fit perfectly, but the narrow skirt made walking difficult. There was a slit up the back to help, but she still had to hobble slightly, particularly in the four-inch heels that went with it. She would have a hard time running if she had to, and tonight was a night for running.

The dress was her size, but she didn’t take that as any proof that he was remembering her. Years ago, he’d guessed her size perfectly. He’d make a fortune as a carnival barker.

She hung the dress up again and dressed in her jeans and cotton sweater, heading out into the salon. Bastien was standing in the French door, looking out over the azure lake, but he turned when she walked in.

“I told you to try on the dress!” He frowned at her.

“I did. It fits. If you think I’m going to prance around expecting you to admire me, you can forget it. I’ll put it on tonight.”

“What about the shoes?”

“I’ll have a hard time running in them.”

“So you will,” he said evenly. “Let’s hope you don’t have to.”

It was an endless day. It would be too much to say that Bastien was edgy, but he spent most of his time staring out at the water. She doubted it was anything like second thoughts—he’d done this before.

The Bastien she knew didn’t have a conscience. He did what was needed, quickly and efficiently, with the minimum of fuss. If people needed to die in order to keep them safe, he would take care of it, and she suspected it had happened more times than she’d been aware of in the last fifteen years. He would hardly regret the killing of one unknown woman.

He ignored her, and she wasn’t encouraged about her chances to survive the evening, but she simply ignored him right back, concentrating on the Elena Ferrante novel she found.

The sun was setting earlier as summer moved forward, and long shadows were enveloping the old villa when he finally noticed her.

“You speak Italian too?” he said in that language, eyeing her book, and mentally she swore.

“I’m good at languages,” she said, an understatement.

“Which ones?”

She rattled them off, no longer caring that he knew. He nodded, thoughtful. “We’ll be speaking German tonight,” he said in that language. “There will be others who speak it, but they’ll be in the minority.”

“You don’t look German,” she pointed out. He looked French, tall and slim and lethal.

“I can look any way I please,” he answered, and she believed him. “Time to get dressed.”

“Already?” she looked out the window into the afternoon light, surprised.

“The gala starts early. There’s a reception line, dinner, speeches, and dancing.”

“And when will you kill her?”

He didn’t answer her. “Go change. I expect you to look beautiful.”

She almost made a caustic comment, but she held back. This wasn’t the man from a few nights ago, feeding her lasagne and promising not to kill her. This was a man on a job, laser focused.

And he didn’t promise not to kill her, she reminded herself. He merely said he didn’t want to. He was a man who would do what he needed to do.