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“What did you say?”
She cleared her throat. She could taste the blood orange on her mouth. She could taste his fingers on her lips. “I said I’m sorry. For asking you rude questions, for arguing with you, for trying to run away and not listening to you. You’ve gone out of your way to protect me, and all I do is whine and complain. I’m sorry. And I’m grateful.”
He rose from the bed, stepping away from her, as far as he could in the tiny room. His eyes were hooded, unreadable, watching her. “Grateful? I thought you considered me a fiend from hell.”
“You are,” she said, her irritation bubbling up again. “But you’ve saved my life, at least twice, and I never said thank you.”
“Don’t thank me now. When you’re safely back in the States you can spare a kind thought for me.”
“Why do you care? I don’t understand why you’re going to so much trouble for me. I know you said you rescued me from Hakim on a whim, but I don’t believe it. I think you’re not as cold-blooded as you think you are, and when push came to shove you couldn’t let Hakim kill a woman. I know deep down that you’re a decent human being, even if I don’t know who and what you are, or even your real name.”
“You don’t need to know my name. Besides, you’re deluded,” he said, his voice clipped. “I’m a cold-blooded bastard. I don’t make a habit of rescuing women who wander into places they should keep away from. In your case it’s easier to get you back to the States than get rid of you here.”
“You wouldn’t kill me. I know you killed Hakim, but I don’t think you could kill a woman.”
“Don’t you?”
The faint mockery in his voice was very unsettling. Her father was right, she never could stop talking when she needed to. But she’d had to apologize, to thank him. He had saved her, was still protecting her, presumably out of the basic human decency he seemed so determined to deny. It couldn’t be anything personal.
He moved closer to her, his body blocking out the candlelight, and caught her chin in his hand, drawing her face up to his. “Look at me, Chloe,” he said softly. “Look into my eyes, and tell me you see the soul of a decent man. A man who wouldn’t kill unless he was forced to.”
She didn’t want to look. His eyes were dark, opaque, empty, and for a brief moment she could almost see the blackness inside. She tried to jerk her head away, but his hand tightened, holding her firmly, and his face was close to hers. His mouth was close to hers, and she could smell the blood oranges on his breath. “Tell me I’m a good man, Chloe,” he said in a soft, dead voice. “Show me just how stupid you really are.”
The words were cruel, harsh, and there was no light or warmth in his face. Only pain, hidden so deep inside that no one could see it, driving, wrenching pain that was tearing him apart. She could see it, feel it, like a tangible entity in the tiny room, and she put her hands on his wrist, not to pull his harsh grip away, just to touch him.
“I’m not stupid,” she said, feeling suddenly very calm and certain. He wasn’t moving away, and she was going to kiss him. She was going to put her mouth against his because she wanted to. And he was going to kiss her back, because beneath that darkness was a need as powerful as hers.
And then it wasn’t going to be up to her, because he dipped his head closer, and his mouth brushed hers, and her body rose to meet his mouth.
But it was no more than a featherlight kiss. “I’m the devil incarnate, Chloe,” he whispered. “And you’re an idiot if you can’t see that.”
“Then I’m an idiot,” she said, waiting for him to kiss her again.
But he didn’t. They stayed like that, for a long, endless moment, and then he said, “Come in, Maureen.” The hidden door slid open, flooding the tiny room with blinding light.
It slid shut again, but by then Chloe had retreated to her corner of the bed, trying to make her eyes adjust to the newcomer.
“Am I interrupting something, Jean-Marc?” The woman’s voice was rich with amusement. “I can always come back later.”
“You weren’t interrupting any
thing more than a little lesson in survival. Maureen, this is your charge, our little lost American.” He turned his dark, opaque eyes back to Chloe. “And this, ma chère, is Maureen. My sometimes wife. She’s a very good operative—I would only trust you to the best. You’ll be in her hands from now on. She’ll get you to the airport and safely on your way back home—she hasn’t failed a mission yet.”
“Oh, I’ve failed one or two in my time,” Maureen said in her rich, warm voice. “But in the end I’ve always made it right. We’ll be just fine, Chloe and me.” She was an attractive woman in her midthirties, chic, well-dressed in a suit that Sylvia would have died for.
Chloe’s thoughts stopped cold at the thought. She managed a stiff smile before turning her attention back to Bastien. Or Jean-Marc, as she’d called him. Or the man with no name. “You’re leaving me?”
He made no effort to hide his amusement. “I’m abandoning you, my sweet, leaving you to Maureen’s tender mercies. I’ve let my work slide for far too long, and I’m afraid I can’t wait any longer. Have a safe trip home and a good life.”
And then he was gone.
17
“Another one of Jean-Marc’s conquests,” Maureen said, moving into the room. “Poor thing. You’re all alike, with your pathetic eyes and pretty faces. Jean-Marc never could resist a pretty face.” She sounded affable enough, and she set the suitcase she was carrying down on the bed. She tilted her head to one side, surveying Chloe. “Though maybe you’re not his usual type, come to think of it. He’s never been one for the damsels in distress. I’m surprised he didn’t get rid of you himself.”
Her offhand words shocked Chloe into speech. “He wouldn’t—”
“Oh, I assure you he would. And has. But for some reason he wants to keep you safe, so he’s enlisted my help. What have you been calling him?” She snapped open the suitcase, pulling out some clean clothes.
