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“I beg your pardon?”
“Well, he certainly wouldn’t go by Jean-Marc. I doubt that’s even his real name. He’s probably forgotten what it is. Last I heard he was using Étienne.”
“Does it matter?”
“No,” Maureen said. “You’ll want to change into some fresh clothes before we take off. And what in God’s name happened to your hair? You look like you’ve been attacked by Edward Scissorhands.”
“I cut it.” There was a pair of black trousers, black shirt, even black bra and panties. Must be regulation issue for all…spies. Operatives. Whatever they were.
“I can see that you did,” Maureen said. “Never mind—I’m sure someone can fix it when you get back home. Go ahead and change.” She leaned against the wall, her arms crossed in front of her, waiting.
The last thing Chloe was going to do was strip down in front of her. “Could I have a little privacy?”
“You Americans are all absurdly prudish, aren’t you? I would have thought spending a few days with Jean-Marc would have gotten you over such squeamishness.”
Chloe said nothing. Clearly Maureen wasn’t going to move, and she had no choice but to pull the turtleneck off.
The room was cold. She looked down at her arms, but the livid marks were almost gone. Two days ago she’d been tortured and bleeding. Now she looked nothing more than a little worn-out and a little cold.
She reached for the new shirt, but Maureen stopped her. “Take off everything,” she said. “You’d be surprised at what people can trace when it comes to clothing. We don’t want to give anything away.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Of course you don’t. Take the bra off. Though where the hell you could have gotten such a thing astonishes me. Not in Paris. It’s the sort of thing nuns would wear. Don’t you have any sense of style?”
“Not much. And who says those clothes will fit me?”
“Jean-Marc told me what size to get. Trust me, they’ll fit. So tell me, how was he?”
Chloe was reluctantly changing her bra before Maureen’s interested eyes, removing her plain white cotton one for the black lace confection that did indeed fit her perfectly. “How was he?” she echoed.
“In bed, girl,” she said, impatient. “We had an affair a number of years ago, and I still remember his…inventiveness…quite fondly. You don’t look as if you had the stamina to keep up with him.”
She finished changing quickly, not giving Maureen any more time to catalogue her physical deficiencies. “It’s none of your business.”
“Of course it is. I need to know how enraptured he is. He’s been acting strangely for the past few months, and falling for an innocent little bird like you is one of the oddest things he’s done.”
“He hasn’t fallen for me. He simply felt responsible after he…” Her voice trailed off, uncertain as to how much Maureen really knew.
“After he killed Hakim.” Maureen finished the sentence for her. “Well, at least he got that part of the mission right,” she muttered. “Though why he didn’t wait until after you were dead is beyond my comprehension. And why he didn’t just finish you when he realized you were still alive.” She shook her beautifully coiffed head.
“He hadn’t planned to kill Monsieur Hakim—”
“Of course he had. That was what he was there to do, among other things. You just happened to be in the way. Don’t tell me he managed to convince you he’d wasted Hakim for your sweet sake?”
“No,” Chloe said bleakly.
She stood, and to her horror Maureen began examining the blanket, then stripped it from the bed. “It doesn’t look like the two of you did anything while you were here, but you never can tell. We’re better safe than sorry when it comes to DNA testing.”
“You’re way off base. Bas…Jean-Marc has no interest in me. I’m an inconvenience that he’s passed on to you.”
“So it seems. But I can’t imagine he didn’t at least sample the wares. He’s got a strong appetite, and he’d find you attractive in a wholesome, American sort of way.”
Chloe said nothing. Even with the light from the open door the room felt more claustrophobic than it ever had, probably from Maureen’s poisonous cheer. “Could we leave? I’d like to go straight to the airport if we could.”
Maureen snapped the suitcase shut, the discarded clothes and sheet tucked inside. “Yes,” she said cheerfully. “It’s time to leave. But I’m afraid you’re not going to the airport.”
It was getting colder by the minute. The old house was unheated, and even with the bright sunlight reflected from the snow it only seemed icier.
