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She knew Bastien was watching her, and it took all her willpower not to glance back at him. She wasn’t supposed to know he was a womanizer, out to bed the first new woman who’d come on the property. Besides, he was married, and that was one standard she shared with her feckless roommate. Sylvia might only sleep with bachelors in her quest for a wealthy husband, but Chloe was looking for something else. What, she wasn’t quite sure. She only knew that Bastien Toussaint wouldn’t provide it.
“At seven,” she agreed, privately wondering what kind of condition they’d be in if they drank for two hours before dinner. But it wasn’t her concern. None of it was, not even Bastien’s halfhearted suggestive comments. He didn’t really want her—she wasn’t his type. He’d have long, leggy models, women with style and a to-hell-with-you attitude. Chloe had been nursing her go-to-hell attitude for years now, and though living in Paris had helped, it was far from a finished product.
She was going to get lost in the damned maze of rooms, she thought, moving through the hall behind Marie’s stiff figure. Her own room was at the far end of one of those hallways, and the moment she stepped inside her misgivings melted. It was a room from a museum—a beautiful green-silk-draped bed, marble floors, a luxurious sofa and the largest bathroom she’d seen since she’d left the U.S. She couldn’t see a television, which shouldn’t have come as a surprise, but she’d surely be able to find something to read in a place like this. There’d been several well-known, pastel newspapers laid out on the hall table—she could always filch them and work on the crossword puzzles. Crossword puzzles were a well-loved linguistic problem, and a couple of them could probably keep her busy for days. She just had to remember not to pick the Italian or German newspapers.
At that moment she wanted nothing more than to get into something more comfortable and indulge in a nice, long nap. “Where is my suitcase?” she asked.
“It’s been unpacked and sent to the storage area,” Marie said smoothly. “I imagine Monsieur Hakim told you, but they dress for dinner. I think the silver lace would be appropriate.”
If Sylvia had parted with the silver lace then this job must be important indeed to her. She never let that particular dress out of her sight except for emergencies.
It was also just the teensiest bit too snug across her butt and her breasts, but Chloe wasn’t going to tempt fate by trying to guess what else might be suitable for such an occasion. Marie would know, and if she was kind enough to volunteer the information Chloe would take advantage of it.
“Thank you, Marie.” For a moment she felt a sudden panic, wondering whether she was supposed to tip her. Before she could hesitate Marie was on her way out of the room, clearly not expecting anything from a gauche American. She turned back at the last moment. “When do you want to be called? Five? Five-thirty? You want to allow enough time to get ready.”
Marie must have thought such a task to be arduous indeed. “Six-thirty will give me plenty of time,” she said cheerfully.
Marie had a long nose, and she looked down it with the perfect mixture of disdain and concern. “If you need any help you have only to ask,” she said after a moment. “I’ve had some experience with hair like yours.” She made it sound as if it were manure-encrusted straw.
“Thank you very much, Marie. I’m sure I’ll be fine.”
Marie merely raised her eyebrows, setting Chloe’s misgivings into full play once more.
3
Someone had made a very grave error in sending that young woman into the lion’s den, Bastien thought. She was far from the accomplished operative needed to work in such an intense situation. He’d known within seconds that she understood every language spoken in the room, and probably more besides, and she hadn’t been that good at hiding it. If it had taken him mere moments, it wouldn’t take some of the others much longer.
The question was, who had sent her, and why? The most dangerous possibility was that she’d come to ferret out his identity. As far as he knew no one suspected him, but one never took anything for granted. The part he was playing was a dedicated womanizer—sending a nubile young female into the mix was the perfect bait, like staking a young deer in the jungle to lure a hungry panther. If he went for her he’d be playing true to form.
She was dangerously inept. That veneer of sophistication was wafer thin—one look in her brown eyes and he’d been able to read everything. Nervousness, shyness even, and an unwanted spark of sexual attraction. She was in way over her head.
Then again, she might be much better than she appeared to be. The hesitant, slightly shy demeanor might be all part of the act, to put him off the scent.
Had she come for him, or someone else? Was the Committee checking up on his performance? It was always possible—he hadn’t bothered to hide the fact that he was weary beyond belief, no longer giving a damn. Life or death seemed minor distinctions to him, but once you went to work for the Committee they never let you go. He’d be killed, and probably sooner rather than later. Mademoiselle Underwood, with her shy eyes and soft mouth, might be just the one to do it.
And there was only one question. Would he let her?
Probably not. He was jaded, burned-out, empty inside, but he wasn’t about to go quietly. Not yet.
On the surface his mission was simple. Auguste Remarque had been blown up by a car bomb last month, the work of the covert, antiterrorist organization known, by a very few, as the Committee. But, in fact, the Committee had had nothing to do with it. Auguste Remarque was a businessman, motivated by nothing more than profit, and the powers that be in the Committee could understand and adjust for that. All they’d had to do was keep an eye on Remarque and the arms dealers, keep abreast of who was shipping what to where and make their own pragmatic choices as to when to interfere. A shipment of high-powered machine guns to certain underdeveloped countries in Africa might lead to civilian deaths, but the greater good had to be considered, and those poor countries had little of interest to the superpowers. Or so his boss, the venerable Harry Thomason, had told him.
Of course, Bastien knew why. Those countries had no oil, and they were of little importance to the Committee and its powerful, private backers.
It had been Bastien’s job to keep tabs on the arms dealers, posing as one of them. But Remarque’s assassination had changed all that. Hakim, Remarque’s right-hand man, had set up this meeting, and they were looking at redividing the territories and choosing a new head. Not that these were people who played well with others, but the leader of the arms cartel also took care of the tiresome business details, leaving the others to concentrate on the acquisition and shipment of the most dangerous weapons yet devised.
Hakim had been in charge of the petty details, but he’d gotten a little too ambitious. He wanted to take Remarque’s place, including taking his lucrative territories. And there lay the problems. Through decades of dealing, assassination and bribery, the late Auguste Remarque had controlled most weapons shipments for the Middle East, an inexhaustible market.
Areas like Chile, Kosovo, Northern Ireland and the cults of Japan might ebb and flow in their desire for weapons, but the Middle East never got enough. And since America had waded into the fray, time and time again, with bludgeoning attempts at control, things had only gotten worse.
The members of the arms cartel wanted a fair share of those lucrative profits. And Hakim was disposable.
Bastien was in no hurry to see things played out—he could spend a day or two watching and waiting. The members of the cartel had learned, one by one, that Hakim had been responsible for Remarque’s assassination, and it didn’t sit well. Someone would dispose of him in the next few days, and if they failed it would be up to Bastien.
It had been easy enough to subtly spread the word about Hakim’s treachery. The various reactions of the main players had been interesting indeed because, in fact, Hakim hadn’t been behind Remarque’s death, even though he was entirely willing to benefit from it.
One of the other members of the clandestine arms cartel had been behind the hit. Someone who was here now, or had yet to arrive. That person was probably delighted that someone else had been fingered, but so far the Committee had been unable to discern who had actually done it. Conventional wisdom suggested Baron von Rutter. Beneath his jovial exterior he was a brusque, impatient man and he’d made his way more by bullying tactics than finesse. Not to mention his equal partner, his young wife Monique.
One of Bastien’s fellow operatives had put her money on Mr. Otomi, the reserved, elderly Yakuza boss, and Ricetti was a good possibility as well with his Mafia connections. And one could never discount Madame Lambert.
