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He blew out the candles, and in the sudden darkness she heard the door slide open. She swallowed, then jumped as she felt him take her hand.
She tried to pull away, instinctively, but he held on tight. “You’re not going to find it without holding on to me,” he said, matter-of-fact.
She took a deep breath, her hand still in his. “Of course
,” she said.
It helped, holding on to him, though she wasn’t about to admit it. They walked through the cavernous darkness, down a narrow flight of stairs to a wall by an old fireplace. The door opened, and he put the tiny flashlight in her hand before giving her a little push. “Don’t turn it on until the door is closed. I’ll wait here.”
It was utilitarian indeed, but the toilet flushed, the water ran cold from the sink, and there was even a square of mirror. She could have done without that—but curiosity got the better of her, and once she’d rinsed her mouth and done her best to wash up she took a curious look.
She’d expected hollow eyes, pale color, some kind of mark from the horrors of the last few days. Instead she looked like Chloe—practical, not unpleasant to look at, the damnably pedestrian freckles still scattered across her nose and cheekbones, the bane of her existence. Her hair was ridiculous, standing up around her face like a dark halo. But she was no saint either.
She took a deep breath, flicked off the light, and then realized she had no idea how to open the door. She rapped on it, lightly, and it slid open. She couldn’t see him, but she didn’t jump when he took her hand this time, and she was almost happy to be back in the safety of the little room in the attic.
She scrambled back onto the bed—the room was so small she’d bump into him if she remained standing. He lit the candles again, reached behind his coat and pulled out a gun, setting it down on the table. She looked at it like it was a poisonous snake, which it was, but it was there to help her, not kill her. She hoped.
“So what now?” she asked.
“Now we eat,” he said, and she almost wanted to kiss him. “There weren’t many stores open, but I managed to get us something. And don’t tell me you don’t feel like eating—you have to. You’re not out of this yet, and you need your strength.”
“I wouldn’t tell you any such thing. I’m starving. What did you bring?”
She hadn’t noticed the paper sack he’d brought with him. He’d brought a couple of baguettes, some brie, two pears and two blood oranges. And a bottle of wine, of course. She wanted to laugh, but that would have been as bad as screaming. She’d never stop. Just breathe, she reminded herself.
He sat on the other end of the bed, their meager feast spread out before them. Their only utensil was his pocketknife, but he managed to open the wine with it, and they passed it back and forth to hack off pieces of bread and cheese.
The pear was divine—ripe and messy, and she wiped the juice from her mouth with the paper napkin he’d brought. And then she realized he was watching her, an odd expression on his face.
He passed her the bottle of wine. There was nothing else to drink, and no glasses, and she had no choice but to put her mouth where his had been. She took a long swallow, letting it begin to warm her, and when she passed it back to him their fingers touched. She drew back hastily, and again he smiled.
When they’d had enough he cleared the bed, putting the rest of the food on the small table next to the candle. Neither of them had touched the oranges, she noticed.
“What next?” she asked, leaning back against the wall.
“Next we sleep.” He was spreading the thin blanket on the floor. There was just enough space in the tiny room for him to lie down by the bed.
“I’ve been sleeping for hours,” she said. “Days, it seems. I don’t know if I can sleep anymore.”
He stared at her through the candlelit shadows. “Then what do you suggest we do?”
She had no answer to that, of course. In the two years she’d lived in Paris she’d learned a very creditable shrug, and she did just that, then stretched out on the narrow bed, staring fixedly at the candlelight while he watched her.
She had no earthly idea what he was thinking. Probably what an annoyance she was. That he should have let Hakim finish her off, or maybe that he should have killed her himself once she started fussing. But he hadn’t, he was stuck with her, an albatross around his neck.
He blew out all but one of the candles, then stretched out on the floor. The hard, cold floor—she’d felt it on her bare feet.
“You don’t have to sleep down there,” she said suddenly, before she could regret the impulse. “There’s room for both of us up here.”
“Go to sleep, Chloe.”
“Look, I know perfectly well you have no interest in me sexually, thank God. What happened yesterday was an aberration….”
“Two days ago,” he said, his voice matter-of-fact. “And it was part of my job.”
That shut her up, for at least a moment, even though she’d known it. She took a deep breath. “So, clearly there’s no problem with us sharing a bed. You’re not going to touch me. The room is cold, and we’d both be a lot warmer if you slept up here.”
She couldn’t see his face clearly in the shadows. He was probably exasperated. “For the love of God,” he murmured, “would you please stop prattling? You may have had too much sleep but I haven’t had more than an hour or so in the last three days. I’m only human.”
