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“I’m sorry,” he said. And moving back, he put the solid door back in place, closing her in there, in the coffinlike space with no light, closing her into her worst fear.
He half expected to hear her kicking at the panel, struggling. The silence was deep and cold as death. He kissed the wood, a soundless goodbye, and went out into the predawn air, ready to kill once more.
She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. She didn’t dare move, terrified that she would do something that might endanger Bastien. She sat huddled, trussed and gagged in the dark, tiny space and tried to keep from screaming. Knowing that no scream would be heard.
She moved, and through her panic she heard something hit the floor, something metallic against the cold, hard concrete. If her hands had been bound behind her she wouldn’t have been able to find anything, but with them in front she could hunt around, trying to concentrate on that rather than the inky darkness. It had sounded hollow and metallic, like a bullet, but she knew that was ridiculous. It had to be something else.
Her bound hands curled around the slender metallic cylinder, and for a moment she had no idea what it could be. She could feel the bubble of hysteria at the back of her throat. Was he French enough and crazy enough to give her lipstick? And then she knew.
Such a bright light, flooding the cramped space, all from a tiny little flashlight. She felt the clawing panic begin to recede, slowly, and she leaned back against the hard wall, trying to control her breathing. It took her a moment to realize she could also pull the duct tape from across her mouth, and she did so, not even wincing in pain as she yanked it from her skin. He would have known she’d figure it out sooner or later. But by then she’d be calm enough to know that any sound she might make would only endanger them both.
She jerked at her wrists, but that was the limit of his concessions. The rope held firmly, and she could do nothing about her ankles. She was trapped there, but not in the darkness. She could survive anything if she had even a tiny beacon of light. And if enough time passed, and he didn’t come back for her, if her parents returned she could call out, and someone would come and rescue her.
The very notion seemed bizarre, but Bastien had been prepared for all contingencies. Now all she had to do was stay calm and wait. Wait for him to come back to her.
Because he would. Though hell should bar the way, hadn’t they both said? She had to believe that, or even the security of the tiny flashlight wouldn’t be enough to keep her from crying out.
It must be sometime after four. She had no idea how long they’d been in bed together—time had lost all meaning. He’d told her he would kiss every part of her body. He had. He’d made love to her with such exquisite tenderness, such fierce possessiveness, such mind-shaking intensity that even now she felt shaken, shocked. Aroused.
The light was strong and bright, but the battery wouldn’t last forever. She had no idea whether any stray light would filter through the solid covering to the crawl space, but she didn’t want to risk it. Because if they found her, they’d have a weapon to use against Bastien, and she couldn’t let that happen.
She moved the tiny cylinder down in her hand and pushed the button at the tip. The thick, suffocating darkness closed around her like a smothering blanket, and she took a deep, shaky breath. She closed her eyes, refusing to be a victim of the darkness. She huddled there, silent, alone, and waited.
She almost thought she might have slept, though such a thing seemed impossible. She jerked suddenly, as the unmistakable sound of footsteps on the old stairway brought a surge of crazed hope.
She started to call his name, then bit her lips before anything more than a soft intake of breath could be heard. It wasn’t Bastien. Whoever was moving around the basement was very quiet—she could barely hear the softest sound of footsteps.
With Bastien, there would have been no sound at all.
Either her eyes had grown accustomed to it, or the darkness of the tiny cubbyhole had lightened slightly. She could see her hands in front of her, bound by rope and duct tape, but she couldn’t see the flashlight. She moved, just the tiniest amount, careful not to make a sound, when she felt something roll across her stomach, and a moment later it hit the concrete with a clang as loud as a pair of crashing symbols.
She held her breath, praying, panicked. Please, God, don’t let them hear. Let it be Bastien, let it be anyone but the crazy woman who wanted to kill her for reasons so obscure that she wouldn’t have believed it if the smell of blood from the Hotel Denis hadn’t stayed with her all these months later.
She had no warning. The door to the crawl space was pulled open, and someone stood there, silhouetted by the dim light coming from the cellar door. It wasn’t anyone she knew—the person was tall, painfully thin, bald. She didn’t move—maybe Bastien had brought help.
“So there you are, chérie.” Monique’s voice came from the cadaverous figure, sounding eerily cheerful. “I knew I’d find you sooner or later. Come out and play.” She put a thin, painf
ully strong hand on her bound wrists and dragged her out into the basement, letting her collapse at her feet.
Monique knelt down by her, and Chloe could see her more clearly now. She wasn’t bald—her head had been shaved. And Bastien hadn’t been wrong—she had been shot in the face. The left side of her jaw had been blown away, and after four months she had only begun the healing process. Four years wouldn’t help.
“Pretty, aren’t I?” Monique cooed.
“I didn’t do that,” Chloe said in a shaky voice.
“Of course you didn’t. I doubt you could even shoot a gun, you useless little idiot. I have no idea who did—whether it was the Greek’s men, or Bastien’s people, or even my own. It doesn’t matter. I’m just clearing up a few loose ends. And you’re the very final one. There’s no one else.”
A cold, sick dread filled Chloe’s throat. “What do you mean?”
“What do you think I mean? Bastien’s dead.”
25
“No!” Chloe said, hating the sound of fear in her own voice.
“But yes. Did you think he was some kind of super-hero? He bleeds red blood, just like everyone else. I will admit he’s harder to kill than most men, but in the end he’s only mortal. Or was.”
“I don’t believe you.”
