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“Would you do me a favor?”
“What is it?”
“Would you at least tell me your name?”
He shook his head. “I’ve told you, you don’t need to know. The less you know, the safer you are.”
She’d expected no more. “Then would you at least kiss me? Just once, like you really mean it.” If he didn’t kiss her she might not make it through the next few hours. If he didn’t kiss her she might not want to.
But he shook his head. “No,” he said. “Once you’re back home there’ll be dozens of handsome young men wanting to kiss you. Wait until then.”
“I don’t think so.” She put her arms around his neck and yanked his head down to hers and kissed him, hard. She half expected him to fight, to push her away, but he simply let her kiss him, not reacting, not participating. She might have been kissing her own reflection in the mirror.
She wanted to cry, but the tears could wait as well as the handsome young men. She drew back, a jaunty smile on her face. “For luck,” she said brightly. And without another word she walked out into the hallway, leaving him to follow, closing the door behind them. Closing safety away, as he took her arm once more and slowly walked her toward destiny or disaster. She would find out which soon enough.
They were all there. Otomi and his assistant, whose tattoos showed beneath the elegant cuffs of his dinner jacket. Bastien wondered idly whether Otomi was covered with the traditional colorful tattoos sported by most Yakuza, or whether he’d always been management level. He still had all of his fingers, so he might never have been in the trenches. His silent, impassive assistant was missing only part of one digit. Obviously he didn’t screw up very often.
The baron glowered at him from across the room, and Monique froze when she caught sight of them. Chloe was clinging to Bastien’s arm, nervous now that it was show time, and he patted her hand reassuringly, because he could. For an hour or so, a very dangerous hour or so, he could touch her all he wanted. It was part of a show, it meant nothing, and he could indulge himself and she’d never know how damned hard it was for him.
He figured he had a fifty-fifty chance of making it through the night, but he was getting Chloe out of there if he had to gun down everyone in the room. Some of the people in the room were ostensibly on the same side as he was, assuming he even had a side. It didn’t matter—he would sacrifice anyone to keep Chloe alive. Even risk her parents.
They should have arrived in Paris about now. His phone call had caught them at the airport—they were already on their way to France to find their missing daughter. Sylvia’s body had been found, as well as Chloe’s passport, and the gendarmes had tracked down her parents. With luck they’d be on their way to the hotel, in time to stop Chloe from getting caught in the bloodbath he knew was going to go down.
She had no idea that when he sent her out of the room he’d be sending her to her parents. And they would make sure she wouldn’t come back, no matter what sounds they heard. He could only hope they’d be long gone from the hotel before the shooting started.
“Well, isn’t this a surprise?” Monique cooed, gliding up to them. “We wondered where you’d gone to. We figured you’d killed Hakim, but we weren’t sure whether the little American had gone with you or whether she’d left on her own. I’m glad to see you’ve kept track of her.”
r /> “I keep track of everything, Monique,” he said, stroking Chloe’s pale, cold hand.
“So tell me, why did you kill Hakim? We’re all quite interested. It was unexpected, to say the least.”
“And does anyone really care?”
Monique smiled. “No. He was disposable. We’re simply curious.” She put out her thin, bejeweled hand and touched Chloe’s exposed skin. “I can see traces of his handiwork.” There were the faintest of marks left from Hakim’s worst wounds, and he could see the gooseflesh rise on Chloe’s arm at Monique’s touch.
He grabbed her strong wrist and pulled her hand away. “No touching, Monique,” he said. “She’s mine.”
“It’s always nice to share,” Monique replied with an exaggerated pout. “She’s very pretty when she’s dressed up. And where did she get those very spectacular diamonds? I haven’t seen anything quite so stunning in a long time. Where did you get them, petite?” She turned her attention to Chloe, who jumped nervously.
“Bastien gave them to me,” she said after a moment.
Monique frowned. “I had no idea he could be so generous. If I’d known you had something quite so nice in your possession I wouldn’t have broken off our relationship.”
Her eyes dared him to correct her, but he was already getting bored. Monique enjoyed playing cat and mouse, but she wasn’t his target tonight. Compared to the man he’d come to deal with, Monique was child’s play.
“Where’s Christos?” he said. “Another no-show?” It would be a mixed blessing if the Greek didn’t bother to join them one more time. Once Christos appeared most of the attention would be directed toward him. If he didn’t, Chloe could still be a target, both of the cartel and the Committee. And while the presence of her American parents might cause the cartel to reconsider, the Committee would barely hesitate.
No, it would be better all around if Christos showed up and things went down as planned. There was always the chance that the dummy taped to his side was the only wound he’d get, but he wasn’t counting on it. As long as Chloe was safe he really didn’t give a shit what happened.
“Your guess is as good as mine,” Monique said. “If he doesn’t show up I’m sure we’ll find some way to occupy our time.” She reached out to touch Chloe again, but this time Chloe jerked out of her way.
“Hands off, you skanky bitch,” she said in her sweetest voice. In Monique’s native German.
Monique blinked, and her smile widened. “Oh, she is a little treasure, Bastien. I’m going to have fun with her. And yes, I know. Over your dead body.” And she blew them both a little kiss before sauntering back to her glowering husband.
“Perhaps not a wise idea, Chloe,” he murmured. “Not that I blame you.” She looked up at him, and in the bright light he could see her more clearly than he wanted to. The troubled brown eyes that would fill with tears when she heard he’d died. The full, soft mouth that would find someone else to kiss, someone who would kiss her back.
“Is that the worst?” she asked.
