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“You can get out now,” he said, reaching over and turning off the car. He had blood on his hand as well. She could only hope it was the same fake blood that stained his shirt, not someone else’s.
She opened the door and slid out. The snow had been scraped from the roadway, but there was still a thin coating of frozen slush beneath her slender evening sandals, and she was freezing. Her dress was ruined—it had been drenched in whiskey and dumped in snow, and the wind whipped through the night air, swirling the loose snow around her.
She saw the two figures materialize out of the darkness, and for a wild moment she wondered whether he’d simply brought her out here to have someone else kill her, when she realized the people approaching her were more than familiar. They were her parents.
She let out a shriek, running across the snow-packed tarmac to fling herself in their arms. For a moment all she could do was cling to them, trying to catch her breath, the feel of them suddenly real and safe in a crazy world of guns and blood.
“What are you doing here?” she babbled, once she caught her breath. “How did you know where to find me?”
“Your friend was able to track us down,” her father said. “We heard about Sylvia, and we were already headed to France when he called us. We were supposed to meet up with you at a hotel, but our plane got delayed.”
She turned to look back. Bastien had approached them, staying just a ways back, watching them without expression. “You told them to come to the hotel when you knew what was going to happen? They could have been killed!”
He shrugged, a little stiffly. “The point was to keep you alive. I didn’t particularly care what it cost.”
“You son of a…”
“Hush, now, Chloe,” her mother said. “He saved your life.”
James Underwood released Chloe and held out his hand to Bastien. “I just want to thank you for looking after our daughter. She can be quite a handful sometimes.”
“She was the least of my worries,” Bastien said in his calm, even voice.
“Do you want me to look at the wound of yours? I don’t know if Chloe told you but we’re both doctors….”
“I’m fine.” He dismissed it. “But you should leave. Take her out of France and don’t let her back for at least ten years. It probably wouldn’t be a bad idea not to let her out of your sight for at least five.”
“Easier said than done,” her father muttered.
She could see Bastien’s faint smile in the lamplight. Without another word he turned away, moving back to the car, and she stood, shivering, frozen from more than the cold, certain he was going to walk away without another word.
He opened the car door, then hesitated. He reached into the back and pulled something out, then approached her, carrying it over his arm.
She was shaking, but for some reason her mother and father had stepped back, away from her.
“Why are you limping?” she asked, trying to keep her tone light as he came up to her.
“I twisted my ankle when we jumped.” He held his black cashmere coat in his arms, and he put it around her shoulders, wrapping her in the warmth and scent of it, pulling it around her. “Do as your parents tell you to do,” he said. “Let them take care of you.”
“I never was particularly obedient.”
He smiled then, a brief, honest, heartbreaking smile. “I know. Do it for me.”
She was too exhausted to fight him. She simply nodded, waiting for him to release his hold on the coat he’d pulled around her.
“I’m going to kiss you, Chloe,” he said in a quiet voice. “Just a simple kiss goodbye. And then you can forget all about me. Stockholm Syndrome is nothing more than a myth. Go home and find someone to love.”
She didn’t bother trying to explain. She simply stood there as he cupped her face in his hands, warm, strong hands that had protected her, killed for her. His lips were whisper-soft against hers, just a touch. He kissed her eyelids, her nose, her brow, her cheeks with the tears streaming down them, he kissed her mouth again, a slow, deep, gentle kiss that held all the promise of what they would never have. It was the kiss of a man in love, and for a moment she simply floated, lost in the perfect beauty of his mouth on hers.
He released her. “Breathe, Chloe,” he whispered. For the final time. And then he was gone, the BMW disappearing into the Paris night before she could do more than catch the coat as it fell from her shoulders.
“Where in the world did you happen to find such an interesting young man?” Her mother had come up to her, putting her arm around her. “You were always so traditional when it came to your boyfriends.”
Boyfriend, Chloe thought dazedly. The last word she’d spoken out loud before the chaos and death had begun. “He found me,” she said. Her voice sounded odd, strained.
“A good thing,” her father said. “It seems as if he managed to get you out of a very dangerous situation. I just wish he’d let me look at that gunshot wound.”
“He wasn’t really shot,” Chloe said. “It was just a fake we…he set up earlier this evening. Fake blood and a tiny explosive device to simulate being shot.”
