Page 55 of Icebound

Chapter

Seventeen

A moment later, Bastien had Chloe’s arm in an iron grip. He moved fast, pulling her along, and they raced past her discarded shoes without a second glance. They were about to descend the stairs when they heard the sound of heavy footsteps, and Bastien swore, but he didn’t turn back. Down the first, narrow flight of stairs, and then out onto the balcony. Pushing her back against the wall, he lifted her skirts to her waist and proceeded to kiss her.

It was a performance, meant to fool the people looking for them. She didn’t care. She rose into the kiss, knowing only his mouth on hers, and then she felt his hand between her legs, and she jerked, startled.

It didn’t matter. He put his knee between her legs, pressing against her, and desire swept through her, erasing the danger and the opportunity of escape.

The footsteps were coming closer, and still he kissed her, reaching up to the skimpy top of the dress and pulling it down, baring her breasts in the cool night air.

“You there!” Came a voice in Italian. “What are you doing up here? This is off-limits to the guests.”

He broke the kiss and pulled up the bodice of the gown to cover her as his eyes met hers for a long, pregnant moment. And then he turned. “You can see what we were doing,” he said in perfect Italian. “We needed privacy.”

“You need to get back to the other guests. You’re lucky I don’t arrest you for trespassing. What about you, miss? Did you see anyone?

Here was her chance. All she had to do was say something and this nightmare would be over. Peter Madsen was nearby, and he could help…

But Bastien wouldn’t let himself be caught. He would try to run, and they would shoot him.

She gave the men a woozy smile. She could feel Bastien’s tension as he stood in front of her, shielding her from their eyes. Her skirt was still pulled to her waist, and he’d made no attempt to restore it. “I’m sorry,” she said in a slumbrous, desire-filled voice, while her inner tension made her want to shake.

“The two of you, go down to the main floor and join the others.”

“Of course,” Bastien said smoothly. “Just give us a moment.”

“Now!”

Bastien pulled her skirts down, setting her to rights, and took her arm in a deceptively gentle hold. They were about to move forward when one of the men demanded, “Where are your shoes?”

If they found them, they’d know they were on the third-floor balcony and that they’d been lying. Chloe answered quickly. “I left them down in the cloak room. They hurt my feet.”

There was real doubt in the flinty gaze of the first man, but Chloe met his stare with a simple look of her own, and a moment later, he lowered the gun. “No Italian woman would take off her shoes at an event like this one, no matter how much they hurt.”

She hadn’t even seen the weapon. A shiver ran across her mostly exposed skin. “I’m American,” she said, and the man nodded, as if that explained everything.

“The two of you, go and join the others. We’ll have more questions for you later.”

“Of course,” Bastien said politely. “And I’ll make her put on her shoes.”

“You do that,” said the second man. They moved on past them, and Bastien took her arm again, his grip painful. She would end up with bruises, she thought. Or a bullet in her brain.

The first balcony was crowded, people milling around, chattering in a babble of languages. He led her through them, moving at a leisurely pace, until they reached the far end, and she realized there was a door hidden in the wall. He pushed it, and it popped open. A second later, they were through it, and he closed it behind him.

“Come,” he said, and pulled her through the back hallways, down a flight of stairs, out a service door onto a side street. Rain had fallen while they’d been inside, and the narrow, twisting streets were wet and shiny with it. The streets were paved with cobblestones and medieval tile, and her bare feet slid as she tried to keep up with him. She held back as he headed for the steep, wide stairs that led up away from the villa, into the heart of the city. The stone tiles were easier on her feet, but the tight dress held her back.

“Move faster,” he said in a dangerous voice.

“I can’t,” she said. “The dress is too tight.”

He swore, releasing his iron grip and turning her around. To her horror, he took the skirt in his hands and ripped it upward, so that it was now split to her waist. “No more excuses.”

“I can’t walk like this!” she said, scandalized.

“You can if you want to survive.”

She shut her mouth, following him up the wide pedestrian stairs, past the shuttered shops. She didn’t know how long he dragged her through those steep passageways—he always seemed to find a corner to turn, and another street would branch off, leading them farther and farther away from the villa. And their boat ride home.