Page 83 of Icebound

He’d said those very same words to her when he’d sent her away the first time, so many years ago, and she couldn’t believe he didn’t remember. Didn’t want to believe it.

He opened the car door. “I’ve got a small suitcase packed for you—going without luggage would attract too much attention.” He pulled it out of the back seat, and she recognized her own battered carry-on. He stood there, waiting impatiently, and she finally undid her seatbelt.

“I should say goodbye,” she said numbly.

“What kind of fool do you think I am? If I let you go into the airport on your own, you’d walk right back out again. I’m seeing you on the plane.”

“What’s to keep me from walking out in Barcelona?” she shot back.

“You’ll be over me by then, bébé. Trust me, you’ll be glad you’re safely away from me.”

No, he definitely didn’t know her, she thought, staring up at him. “You’re not that forgettable.”

“Make an effort.” He took her arm in a seemingly solicitous gesture, but she knew it for the restraint it was. He walked her through to the terminal, but at the last minute she held back.

“What about your gun?” she asked.

“They only check for weapons if you’re boarding a plane. I’ll be perfectly fine. Come along.”

It would be a waste of time to try to hold back. She let him bring her along, not bothering to argue with him. She was going to Barcelona whether she liked it or not. And then she was going to London to warn Peter Madsen and see her children. And there was nothing he could do about it.

But would she be leading Le Fauçon to her children? He struck her as the kind of man who held a grudge, and he wouldn’t like the fact that she’d managed to escape her execution. Would he come after her?

She’d talk to Peter first, see what he said. Assuming she could find him. She had the emergency number memorized—she could always call once she made it through security. But she knew what he’d say—he’d tell her to get on the plane back to the States and let him handle it. And Bastien could wind up dead.

They crossed the passageway to the terminal, blending in with all the other passengers, and wondered if she could get away from him, go hide in the ladies’ room until he left, but his hand was painfully tight on her arm. He was going to personally deliver her to the security lines. At least he couldn’t go with her, not with his gun tucked in his waistband. But she knew he’d be watching. The security line was relatively short at that hour, and he stayed with her, and if he looked like death, people could attribute it to watching his woman leave him. She looked up at him, but he was concentrating on the Spanish version of TSA officers, and she shuffled forward dutifully enough.

When it came her turn, she stepped forward and Bastien stepped with her, pulling out a card he handed to the Spanish equivalent of a TSA officer. To Chloe’s horror, they simply nodded Bastien on through the line, not bothering to check for the gun, not bothering to demand any kind of check. She stood there, barefoot and fuming as they went through her spartan suitcase, but they only glanced at her phony passport, and a moment later, they were through.

“Who did you tell him you were?” she demanded in an angry whisper.

“Air marshal,” he said succinctly.

“Are you coming with me there?” she demanded, hope surging suddenly.

“No. Hurry up—they’re already boarding.”

“I don’t want to go.”

“I know.” His grip on her arm was like iron. He’d forgotten how easily she bruised. At least she’d have something from him to take with her. The black and blue imprint of his hand on her upper arm.

He waited until they got to the line, then dropped the bag beside her and released his hold on her. “Good-bye, chérie. Have a good life and forget about me.” With that, he turned and started away from her, and she could feel her heart breaking inside her.

“Next,” the gate attendant said, and she moved closer, numb with grief and despair.

And then suddenly he was back, pulling her into his arms, against his hard body, and he kissed her, long and hard and deep, a promise and a farewell. She flung her arms around his neck and kissed him back, desperate not to let him go, but a moment later, he reached up and unfastened her grip, putting her arms by her side. “Goodbye, Chloe,” he said in a hoarse voice, and then he was walking away, and this time he didn’t look back.

She didn’t move, frozen by pain and loss, until she was ordered forward. Blinded by tears, she followed the others down the ramp to the plane, clutching her ticket receipt in one hand, her suitcase in the other. She couldn’t think about this now, she had to stop crying, she had to get herself under control…

A moment later, she found herself in a seat, a glass of champagne in front of her, a box of tissues prominently placed. She swallowed the small sob that bubbled up and looked around her at First Class.

“I shouldn’t be here,” she said dazedly.

“Ah, senora, I know it is hard,” the flight attendant said sympathetically. “But soon you’ll be back.”

Chloe blinked and reached for the tissues before glancing at her ticket. He’d put her in First Class, for God’s sake. Bribery so he wouldn’t feel guilty. Well, she was going to make him feel guilty if they ever saw each other again. If he ever remembered.

She managed a watery smile for the flight attendant. Her suitcase seemed to have disappeared, and she could only assume the woman in the bright red uniform had seen to it. If not, who cared? She pushed away the sparkling glass of champagne, and the woman was immediately by her side. “Would you like something stronger?”