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be noticed.”
“Where are we?”
“The MacLean Hotel. I keep a room here for times like these.”
“Times like these? You’ve been through something like this before?”
“Yes.” It was only half a lie. He’d been in messes, with his cover compromised, with innocent people caught in the middle. In the past, he’d escaped and covered his own ass, leaving the casualties where they lay, but he hadn’t left this one behind.
The front of her shirt was in shreds—Hakim must have cut it open with his knife. He reached behind the seat and grabbed his shirt, watching with mild annoyance as she jerked away from him. She should realize by now that he was the least of her worries.
“Put this on,” he said, “and button the cuffs. It’ll make it harder to clean up, but we don’t want the world seeing Hakim’s marks.”
At the mention of his name Chloe shuddered. “I can pull it around me. Besides, people are more likely to notice I’m barefoot.”
“I stopped and bought you some shoes. You can’t run for your life in bare feet or someone else’s shoes. They’re in a package in the back as well.” He pulled the key from the ignition, reached under the front seat for his gun, two of his passports and a well-hidden wad of cash. She hadn’t moved.
He climbed out of the car. “The longer we wait around here the more dangerous it is,” he said. “Change your shirt or I’ll do it for you.”
He should have turned away while she carefully pulled her ruined shirt off, but he was beyond such polite considerations. Her white bra wasn’t nearly as erotic as the sexy underwear she’d been wearing only a few hours ago, and she moved awkwardly, painfully, pulling on his shirt, then the shoes with the distaste of someone dressing in discarded rags. He watched her, refusing to react.
She followed him to the elevator, moving slowly, and he let her take her time, keep her distance as long as no one was around to watch, to interfere. The elevator was small and smelled of exhaust and garlic, and the doors closed around them, leaving her staring down at her feet as it moved upward.
He looked at her feet as well. The simple black flats seemed to fit well enough, and the shredded cloth of her trousers flapped around her calves. Her hair smell liked burnt wool, and she was bleeding through the long, loose sleeves of his white shirt.
“Merde.” The elevator stopped short of his floor, the doors opening to let someone else on. He moved quickly, backing her into the corner, shielding her with his larger body, tucking her face against his shoulder. She tried to jerk away, but he tightened his hand around her wrist, causing just enough pain to make her behave without crying out. “Pretend we’re lovers,” he whispered in her ear, in German.
As he expected, she understood him perfectly, an anomaly that still needed explaining, but now was not the time. The middle-aged businessman who’d gotten onto the elevator averted his eyes with polite discretion, and Bastien moved closer to Chloe, pressing his hips up against hers like a passionate lover not yet satisfied.
She jerked her eyes upward, looking at him in shock. She must have felt his erection, and known what a sick son of a bitch he was. The thought was mildly amusing.
He was tempted to kiss her, just because she would have been so disgusted, but he was smart enough not to push it. Not when there were witnesses.
The man got off, and even before the doors had closed again she’d pushed him away, shuddering visibly. “Don’t touch me again,” she said in a low voice.
“Don’t be childish,” he replied. “I’m trying to save your life, though I haven’t quite figured out why. Just be quiet, do as I say and follow my lead. If I need to fuck you standing up in the middle of Notre Dame with half of Paris watching you’ll do it without objection. Understand?”
“Over my dead body.”
“Exactly.” They’d reached the top floor, and the hallway was empty. He’d considered cutting the throat of the man who’d seen them, but with any luck he’d be long gone from the hotel by the time his enemies showed up. And disposing of the body would have caused more problems than simply letting him go. Besides, Chloe would have probably started screaming. Very impractical, these Americans.
“We’re down at the end,” he said, waiting for her to precede him out of the elevator. It wasn’t courtesy—if he went first she might refuse to follow, and he didn’t want to get into a tussle with her. She raised her head and looked at him, and in the full light of day he could see her quite clearly. See pain and fear in her rich brown eyes. See hatred aimed straight at him.
Good. It would help to keep her alive. He’d found that hatred was a very useful commodity, and igniting hers would do no harm. He had nothing to fear from her—she couldn’t surprise him, hurt him, run from him. But her anger would keep her going after her body and her heart wanted to give up.
He followed her down the hallway, an anonymous corridor that could have been in a thousand different hotels all over the world. She balked when he unlocked the door, and he gave her a little nudge over the threshold. The look she gave him would have paralyzed a lesser man.
“Go into the bedroom and take off your clothes,” he said.
“Go fuck yourself.”
He laughed. “You’ve got cuts and burns all over your arms and legs, Chloe. You need them tended to, and you need to rest. Trust me, I have no interest in touching you beyond getting you in shape to leave tonight.”
She didn’t look like she believed him. “Leave?”
“I’ll get you on a plane out of Paris, back to the States. Where are you from?”
“North Carolina.”
