Page 84 of Icebound

“Whiskey,” Chloe said flatly. She would drink her way to Barcelona, dammit.

But the flight was just a little over an hour, and after the first few sips, Chloe pushed that away too. Nothing was going to dull her feelings, and it was a waste of time to even try. He was gone, out of her life, and she had the horrible feeling she might never see him again.

They were just landing when she pulled out her second ticket. Another first-class seat, and the flight was in forty-five minutes. But she wasn’t getting on that flight, she was determined. She was going to England.

Her first task once she got off the plane was to find a flight to London. At that late date, the thousand dollars might not be enough, but chances were the ticket to America was refundable, and that could cover the cost. There was one small problem—the last flight for London had left half an hour ago.

Chloe wanted to scream. She had no idea how Bastien was planning to get there, but he might have taken a flight direct from Malaga, might already have tracked down Peter, might have killed him…

Control yourself, she whispered. There would be time to stop him, time to save both Peter and Bastien. She booked the first flight out in the morning, at the ungodly hour of six a.m., and then went in search of an airport hotel.

To her surprise, she slept, deep and long, exhausted by the emotions of the day. She woke up at eight a.m., having missed the first two flights to England.

She scrambled out of bed in a panicked hurry. At least she could get rid of the damned sweats—enough of her clothes remained in the suitcase for her to dress like a relatively normal human being, in jeans and a top and her beloved sneakers. She’d thought those would be long gone. She had no time to call Peter for help—she didn’t even know where he was. She cursed beneath her breath and then raced out the door, leaving the half-empty bag behind, determined to get the very next plane to London.

Which was sold out. She had to wait until noon to finally get a jump seat in coach, and by the time they took off, she was ready to fly apart with nerves. It was a longer flight than Malaga to Barcelona—closer to two and a half hours, but even with the time difference it was late afternoon when she finally got through Gatwick customs.

She was prepared for clouds and rain, but London was going through an unexpected heat wave, and she was sweltering by the time she got off the train at Victoria Station. The cacophony sent her already anguished nerves spiraling, and it took her way too much time to find the tube route to Blackfriars in the middle of London, where the Committee had an office under the innocuous name of Spence-Pierce Financial Services. It was getting close to five o’clock, but Peter had never worked regular hours, and she had to hope he was still there. If he’d already headed out to Hampshire, she’d be screwed.

It was too hot to rush, but she rushed anyway, racing down the busy sidewalks to a small office building that served as a front for the Committee. Tobias the doorman was there as always, a genial presence that belied the AK-47 beneath his desk and his particular talent for breaking necks. He didn’t look surprised to see her—that should have been her first warning.

“Mrs. Toussaint,” he greeted her. “I wondered when you’d show up.”

“Why?” she asked abruptly.

Tobias’s toothy smile broadened. “Seeing as how your husband’s been here for last hour. You two are never far apart from each other.”

She wanted to scream. She was too late, Peter or Bastien was dead. Maybe they’d killed each other—they were evenly matched. She ran toward the lift without another word.

Would Tobias have heard the sound of gunshots? Probably not—the noise from the street was too loud and the offices were on the third floor. She was going to arrive at a bloodbath, she knew it.

The door to the office was closed, but she didn’t hesitate. She slammed it open, only to find two guns trained at her. Bastien’s and Peter’s. They slowly lowered their weapons.

“Haven’t I told you never to surprise me, Chloe? I could have shot you!” Bastien said, his French accent gone, setting his gun down on the desk. There were two glasses of whiskey beside it, and Peter set his gun down too as he eyed her warily.

And she knew.

Chapter

Twenty-Four

Chloe stared at him in uncomprehending rage. “Isn’t this cozy?” she said icily. “I take it you changed your mind about killing him.”

“Chloe…”

“Did you ever have amnesia?” she interrupted him. He didn’t look guilty, he looked annoyed, and her fury surged to such levels she felt almost dizzy from it.

“No,” he said, and her heart spasmed. “They used a combination of brainwashing and drugs.”

“And when did these convenient drugs wear off?” she demanded.

“Last week.”

“Last week!” she echoed in a raw voice. “You knew when you took me out to the desert to kill me? You knew when you put me on a plane back to the States?”

“And why the hell didn’t you go?” he shot back. “These are dangerous men we’re dealing with. They’ve already ordered your death, and they’re going to do anything they can to see they succeed.”

She stood very still. The sense of betrayal was absolute, and for a moment, she thought she hated him. They never lied to each other, not ever, and yet he’d scared her half to death when he’d taken her out to the desert to die.