Page 58 of Icebound

He closed his eyes and slept.

Chapter

Eighteen

When Chloe woke, she was alone. Of course she was—she’d yet to wake up with Bastien’s beautiful body wrapped around hers. She lay very still, letting her hand trail across the crumpled sheet. Last night had been different. There’d been none of the feverish quality of their previous couplings—he’d taken time to seduce her, when he must know she wouldn’t deny him. Even if she did, he was still the one in charge—if he’d wanted to, he could have raped her nightly.

At the thought of rape, she shuddered. Where had they buried Flambeau, or had they just left him to rot? That house had been spotless inside, stocked with everything they could need. Whoever was in charge of it was probably adept at disposing of bodies.

At least she wasn’t one of the bodies to be disposed of. But what about now? She’d saved Bastien’s life, but she’d interfered with his murder contract. He’d hardly have made love to her if he was planning to kill her. Would he?

She sat up, looking around her. There was no sign of Bastien anywhere—he was simply gone, and she wondered what she would do if he didn’t come back.

First things first. She climbed out of bed, wincing slightly at the pain in her feet. Last night’s dash had been hard on them, though she’d been so caught up in following Bastien that she’d barely noticed. She noticed now. She went straight into the bathroom and turned on the shower, remembering how he’d held her beneath the water while she sobbed. She had broken last night, when she’d tried so hard to be strong, to fight back, and in return, he’d been gentle with her. Until the end, when the conflagration had overcome them both, and he’d thrust into her so hard it shook the bed.

She wanted him again. She wanted to wake up in his arms and have him roll her beneath him in lazy morning sex, something they’d had a hard time indulging with the children getting older and more observant. Bastien hadn’t cared, but Chloe had been unable to let go completely when there was a chance of a teenager strolling in on them.

But he’d gone, and who knew if he was ever coming back. She’d outlived her usefulness—he no longer needed her for cover. Maybe he’d just abandon her.

There was no question whether Peter Madsen had recognized them—of course he had, and he’d been willing to put a bullet in Bastien’s brain anyway. What would he think of her, who’d gotten in his way? At least LaDonna was safe. Unless he’d gone after her this morning, to finish what he’d started. And there was no way she could stop him.

Wrapping a towel around her wet body, she went back into the bedroom to pick up the remnants of her discarded dress. It was split in half—there was no possible way she could wear it. She was left in a hotel with no clothing, no identification, no shoes, no money. What the hell was she going to do if Bastien didn’t come back?

As the hours passed, that seemed more and more likely. She’d discarded the towel and wrapped herself in a sheet, but she couldn’t imagine facing that gimlet-eyed concierge while she was dressed in a toga. She was hungry—she hadn’t eaten a thing last night and sex always gave her an appetite. Where was Bastien, and what the hell was she going to do?

It was early afternoon when she heard the knock at the door and she considered ignoring it rather than risk facing the wrathful proprietress. And then she heard Luc’s voice.

“Chloe, let me in.”

She started toward the door, then halted, remembering the conversation she’d overheard. Luc had offered to kill her once the mission was accomplished. It wasn’t, but her part in it was done, and now she was a liability. She was only surprised Bastien hadn’t decided to do it himself. Just because they’d had sex wasn’t enough to stop him. He was far from sentimental.

“Chloe!” Luc called, more insistent though he didn’t raise his voice, and she looked at the window, wondering if she could climb out and escape over the rooftops like someone from a James Bond movie. Not stark naked, she couldn’t, and besides, there was no place to jump to, just the ground far below. She was well and truly trapped.

She could keep ignoring him, but sooner or later, he’d get in there, and she decided not to anger him further. He didn’t want to kill her—she knew that much, just as she knew he’d do it if he had to. Maybe she could reason with him.

She moved to the door, keeping the sheet wrapped tightly around her body, and took a deep breath before she opened it. Luc stood there, looking annoyed.

“It’s about time,” he said, pushing inside, ignoring her appearance. “I’ve brought you some clothes.” He tossed a paper bag on the bed.

“Where’s…Jean-Marc?” she said, making no move to take them.

“He’s gone.”

The pit in the hollow of her stomach yawned wider. “What do you mean? Where has he gone?”

“None of your business,” he said repressively.

She didn’t move. “Are you here to kill me?”

Luc looked disgusted. “If you don’t get a move on, I’ll be tempted,” he said, clearly not in a good mood, but Chloe’s tension began to ease.

“You told Jean-Marc that you would kill me,” she pointed out.

“And you shouldn’t have been eavesdropping. Why would I bring you clothes if I planned to kill you? It wouldn’t matter one way or another if you were dead. Get dressed—I’m tired of waiting.”

“Waiting for what?”

“We need to be on the road. The town is crawling with police and reporters and the sooner we get out of here, the better.”