Page 56 of Icebound

The rain started again, a soft mist, but the evening had turned cool, and by the time he finally stopped, she was shivering. He looked down at her with annoyance and stripped off his jacket again, placing it around her. At least it would partly cover her butt.

“Don’t say anything,” he said, and she looked around her with belated interest. They’d stopped at a small hotel, the lamps sending glittering pools of light onto the street outside the front entrance. “I’ll handle things.”

It seemed to her as if all small Italian hostelries were the same. The woman behind the counter looked just like the one outside of Milan, and just as suspicious. That suspicion vanished the moment Bastien opened his mouth.

He was suave and charming, such a marked contrast to his grimness as he flirted with the old lady, and she flirted back, as giggly as a schoolgirl. Within moments, he had the key to a room and the innkeeper’s blessing as he followed her up the stairs.

“Go left at the top of the hallway,” he said in English, and she wanted to kick him. He came close behind her up the stairs, and she climbed higher, following his instructions until they stopped outside a polished mahogany door with a brass number seven on it. He reached past her with the key, and she stood very still, a wave of longing washing over her. She was just beginning to come down from the tension from their close call, and she felt weak, almost weepy in reaction. He had come so close to dying tonight.

She preceded him into the room, not watching as he closed the door and locked it, tossing the key onto a small table. The room was lush and old-fashioned, with a large bed with velvet hangings in the center of the room. There would be no separate place for her to sleep, and she knew tonight would not be a platonic snuggle.

He unfastened his tie and pulled it off, then crossed the room to her side, moving with lethal grace. He was stalking her, and she knew it, and she began to tremble.

Coming up behind her, he slipped the jacket off her shoulders and sent it flying toward a chair. He caught the skirt of her dress in his strong hands and ripped it to her neckline, and the gown parted company, falling down around her before she caught it and held it to her breasts. She was wearing nothing but a pair of black lace panties, and she was hardly going to go prancing around in that.

“There’s an en-suite,” he said, gesturing toward the bathroom. “Take a hot bath.”

She wanted to object, just to be difficult, but she was cold and shaky and her feet were filthy, so she simply nodded. A moment later, she was alone in the bathroom, the door shut behind her, and she let the ruined dress drop on the floor. She moved like an automaton, stripping off her panties and heading toward the shower. She waited until the water was hot enough, then stepped in. And began to cry.

Once she started, she couldn’t stop. She let the water pour down over her, washing away her tears, but they kept coming. It had been so close. Peter Madsen was a crack shot—if she hadn’t barreled into Bastien he’d be dead now, a bullet in his brain. And she’d be lost.

But she was lost. There was no escape when she wasn’t sure she wanted to get away, and there was no help from the one man who could help them. She’d counted on reaching Peter, but her fantasies had never included Peter with a gun aimed at her husband. She was on her own.

And she was so tired. Tired of being threatened, tired of missing her husband, tired of life. If he said one more word to her…

The shower curtain moved, and Bastien slipped into the shower behind her.

She froze beneath the hot water. The tears were still pouring down her face, but he would simply think it was the shower. And then he pulled her into his arms, against his hard, strong body, and the last of her self-control vanished.

He held her as she cried. He was naked and hard, but none of that seemed to matter as his arms went around her and held her against his chest, and once more, Bastien was a place of safety and comfort, not a threat. She tried to stop crying but she couldn’t, and she shook in his arms.

He said nothing. She could feel the slow, steady beat of his heart against her, skin to skin, and finally, the tears began to slow, leaving her hiccupping in the aftermath. She pressed her wet face against his shoulder and breathed him in, the familiar scent of him, and she wanted to stay like that forever.

No, she didn’t. She wanted more.

She lifted her head. “Take me to bed.”

To her horror and shame, she felt real hesitation in his body, and she tried to pull away, but he simply picked her up in his arms, turning off the water as he stepped out of the shower. He took her at her words, not stopping for a towel to dry their bodies, heading straight back to the bedroom and the big bed, where he set her down carefully, then stood back to look at her.

“What do you want from me, chérie?”

“I want you to make love to me. And I want you to call me by my name.”

“I don’t make love. I fuck. Chloe,” he added.

“Then fuck me.”

He didn’t move. “You saved my life tonight. Why? All your troubles would be over if you’d let that man shoot me.”

“I don’t want you to die.”

“That’s inevitable in my line of work.”

She raised herself on her elbows. “I want you to live.”

“Then give me something to live for.”

She climbed out of bed, sleek as a jungle cat, and dropped to her knees before him. She ran her hands up his strong thighs and then put her mouth on him.