Page 90 of Icebound

“I don’t believe you.” He moved, turning back toward Bastien’s crumpled form, the gun raised.

Chloe pulled the trigger. The sound up close was deafening, the kickback from the gun surprising. Luc turned back to look at her, an astonished expression on his face, and raised his gun to shoot her. And then he fell against the side of the gangway, tipping over into the inky black darkness of the Thames.

Chloe didn’t hesitate, throwing the gun down and running to Bastien’s side. He looked white, drawn, and his black shirt was soaked in blood, this time his own. “Bastien!” she cried. “Where did he hit you?”

“In the side,” he said in a strained voice. “But I don’t think he hit anything crucial. I need to get this boat out of the shipping lanes.”

“You need to lie down while I see how bad it is.”

He shook his head, pulling himself to his feet. “First we make sure we stay alive.” He started slowly toward the back of the boat, leaving a trail of blood on the polished teak deck. Realizing she hadn’t moved, he turned back to her. “Come with me, Chloe,” he said, an order.

“I killed a man,” she said in a very small voice.

“If he’s dead. He’s probably swimming to Spain right now.”

She shook her head. “I killed him,” she said in a broken voice. He’d deserved to die, he’d been about to kill her husband, but the finality of it had shaken her to the bone.

“Come here,” he said again, and she moved, coming up to him. He put an arm around her, leaning down to kiss her full on the mouth, and she could feel the wetness of his blood sinking into her white shirt.

“You forget,” she said brokenly. “I’m not wearing black.” And she burst into tears.

Chapter

Twenty-Six

It was raining in Hampshire. The heat wave had broken, and England’s default weather pattern had returned—rain and clouds. Chloe rolled over in bed, looking out into the night, sleepless as always.

It was five days from the time Bastien had managed to guide the yacht back to the boat slip, five days from the time Bastien ended up in the hospital. The bullet had just missed his kidney, and they’d kept him several days before they were allowed to go back to Hampshire to recover.

And from then on, she hadn’t been able to get anywhere near him. The children were ecstatic to see their father, and Sylvia immediately insisted on spending the night in his room to make sure he didn’t need anything. The next night it was Swede. By the time Peter’s children started demanding a turn, Genevieve put a halt to it, and he was finally alone tonight.

Children adored Bastien. His own, of course, but Peter’s children and in fact, almost any child he met. There was something about his strength and gentleness that appealed to children, the knowledge that not only would he listen, but he would protect as well.

Chloe felt like small potatoes next to him, though she knew her children loved her deeply. But they adored Bastien and flocked around him whenever they could.

Peter and Genny lived in a sprawling old house that was always in need of repair. Among its many bedrooms was a dedicated hospital room for any member of the Committee who needed it, and they’d put Bastien in there once he’d gotten out of the hospital. They’d put up a cot for the children who wanted to watch over their hero, and Chloe had stayed in the background, willing to let them. She wasn’t ready to face him and all that lay between them. She wasn’t precisely angry anymore—Bastien always had his reasons for the choices he made. But as she curled up alone each night, she was haunted by the sound of the gun, the expression on Luc’s face with the bullet hole in his left eyebrow, as he fell into the river. They’d found his body the next day.

The sound of the rain overhead was soothing, and she tried to snuggle down, looking for comfort. Tomorrow, she would talk to Bastien, and together they could work out the tangled mess of what had happened. For tonight, she would sleep alone.

Five minutes later, she was moving down the darkened hallway, her bare feet cold on the old carpeting as she went. Genevieve was just coming out of his room when she saw her, and there was no missing the relief in her broad smile.

“He’s been asking for you,” she said. “Not now—he’s asleep—but all day. He loves having the children in there, but he misses you.”

All Chloe could do was nod. “I don’t want to wake him up…”

“Don’t worry about it. It’s you he needs, not sleep.”

Guilt washed over her. She’d been so caught up in her own trauma that she hadn’t thought about him. Without another word, she opened the bedroom door and slipped inside.

He was lying in the hospital bed, sound asleep. All the tubes and electrodes had been removed a couple of days ago, and he looked pale in the moonlight that filtered through the rain. She didn’t bother to turn on the light; she simply took off her bathrobe and climbed up onto the bed beside him.

His arm came around her, pulling her close. “Where have you been?” he whispered.

“I didn’t want to get in the way of your fan club,” she said, resting her head on his shoulder. He was shirtless, a wad of dressing over his wound, and she moved closer, so that their bodies touched everywhere. “The children come first.”

“Not always,” he said in a disgruntled voice. He lifted his hand to stroke the side of her face. “How are you?”

He knew her so well. Her voice was tight with pain when she answered, “Fine.”