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“Of course you do. I can hear it in your voice. I think you knew all along that it was hopeless. I never expected to find him here in the first place. Why didn’t he try to run with you? He wouldn’t have gotten far, but at least it would have been better than waiting here like a cornered deer. Then again, maybe he decided he’d rather be dead than have a wet little creature like you hanging around his neck for the rest of his life.”
From somewhere deep inside she pulled the last of her resources. “He wouldn’t have come to save me if he didn’t want me.”
Monique shrugged. The daylight was growing brighter—it must be a little after six. Chloe’s sleep had been so erratic that she’d become far too familiar with how the sky looked at different times during the endless night. “Our mutual friend has a death wish—I’ve known it for quite a while. I’m merely the instrument to deliver his salvation.”
She didn’t say she’d already delivered that salvation. Surely she would have changed tenses if, in fact, he was already dead.
But then, English wasn’t her first language, and Chloe couldn’t place her hopes on the grammatical nuances of a crazy woman.
“So if you’ve done what you came for, why are you still here? Bastien is dead—what else do you want?”
“Chérie!” Monique said, mocking. “Haven’t you been listening to me? Killing Bastien, while enjoyable, wasn’t what I came for. Besides, my men found him first, trying to escape. He would have abandoned you to my tender mercies, but Dmitri was too fast for him. If we hadn’t killed him now I would have found him in Europe sooner or later. No, I came here for you.”
“Why?”
Monique shrugged. “Because you annoy me. Because Bastien seemed willing to risk everything, including me, for some ridiculous notion of honor.”
“Honor? You think that’s why he saved me?”
“Of course. What other reason could he possibly have?”
“He loves me.”
Monique hit her so hard she fell back on the rough floor of the basement. She’d been holding a gun, a fact that had managed to escape Chloe’s attention, and the solid metal had connected with her face, her mouth. She could taste her own blood, but she was well past the point of caring. If Bastien was dead then she would be as well, but she’d make her last few minutes as painful for Monique as she could. She was willing to pay the price.
“Jealous?” she asked sweetly. “I’m sorry he preferred you to me, but I think he was tired of older women.”
Monique kicked her in the ribs, so hard that the breath was knocked out of her. The pain in her side was excruciating, and Chloe thought her rib might have snapped. In a while it wouldn’t matter. “Or maybe he just tired of you,” she managed to choke out.
Monique squatted down beside her, catching Chloe’s shirt in her fist and jerking her upright. The pain in her side was agonizing, but she managed to meet Monique’s furious gaze with stony unconcern, even when she felt the cold steel of the gun barrel against her forehead. “Would you like to see what it’s like to have part of your face blown away, little girl? I know exactly what to do—where to shoot you so that you won’t die right away. You’ll lie there writhing in misery, praying for it all to end….”
“I don’t really care,” Chloe said, wishing she could manage a convincing yawn. “If you’ve already killed Bastien then why would anything matter?”
“Oh, Christ, you’re in love with him!” Monique cried in disgust. “Of course you are. How absolutely pathetic! I will admit he’s very good in bed—one of the best I’ve ever had, even if he had a faint aversion to some of the games I like. But he’s hardly a romantic hero. He died begging for his life. As you will.”
“Don’t count on it.” She didn’t see the second blow coming. A flash of blinding pain, pure white, and Chloe wondered if Monique had shot her. And then the darkness followed, and there was nothing left.
The spring storm had finally stopped, leaving the landscape blanketed with white. Bastien had hoped the explosion of the burning guest house had taken more than one of them, but only one charred body lay in the melting snow. There might be another inside, but he couldn’t count on it. He’d already circled around to check on the security system, and the second man was down there, electrocuted.
He broke the third one’s neck behind the garage, but not before he’d been stabbed. The knife had missed anything vital—he’d moved fast enough before his attacker could turn and pull the knife up, cutting through major organs. He recognized the shape and the style of the attack even before he turned the body over. It appeared that Fernand had gotten tired of running that little bar in the Marais and decided to pick up a little outside work. He was good, but no match for Bastien.
Still, he’d managed to prick him. He’d also been well briefed—the knife went in close to the recent bullet wound. Obviously he was hoping his target would be more vulnerable, but he’d grown enough scar tissue that it had deflected some of the blow.
Bastien stepped back. He was still bleeding freely, and it was soaking into his pants, but he put Fernand’s knife into his belt. He was well armed, but at that point he still wasn’t sure how many he had left to face. Jensen had told him Monique had entered the country with five men. Had she picked up anyone else along the way, or did he only have the two left to deal with?
He was better off assuming there were more. He skirted around the garage, as the sky slowly grew lighter, streaks of iridescent peach spearing across the sky, and he stopped for a moment. The snow was already melting as the temperature began to climb. In the midst of death and danger it was very beautiful, and he could hear the faint noise of birdsong. What kind of morning birds did they have in America? It was a random thought, quickly dismissed. He would never know. But it gave him some kind of peace, to know that Chloe would wake to skies of that brilliant color, to the songs of unknown birds.
He headed for the house—Monique would have sent her cohorts through the grounds but she’d head straight for the house. Her instincts had always been strong—he could only hope they weren’t strong enough to lead her straight to Chloe. The crawl space would be hard to find in the darkness, and if she just stayed there, quiet and unmoving, she might have a chance.
Leaving her the flashlight had been a stupid idea, but he couldn’t stand the idea of sealing her into the dark that terrified her so much. He could only hope that tiny gesture didn’t kill her.
He heard them coming from a distance. They were making no effort to keep silent, and moving through the fresh snow was cumbersome going. Presumably they were hoping to lure him out. He vanished into the shadows, waiting, as Monique came out of the cellar, accompanied by a couple of men. One of them had Chloe’s limp body slung over his shoulder.
She was unconscious, but not dead. If she were dead they would have left her there. He could see the blood on her pale face, matted into her hair, and it took everything he’d ever learned not to move, not to make a sound. He couldn’t risk taking them in the darkness. If he failed, Chloe would die. He had to wait.
Monique opened the door, and he got his first good look at her. In the dawn light he couldn’t see much, only enough to know that the skeleton-thin figure was his former lover. The bullet could have done major damage—no wonder she wanted to kill. Her logic in choosing Chloe was twisted but undeniable. If Chloe hadn’t been there, everything would have been resolved at the château, not in a blood-splattered night in Paris. She’d let her anger at Chloe lower her defenses, and she’d almost died because of it.
She would die because of it, as soon as he got a clear shot. In the meantime he couldn’t do anything but follow and watch until the moment was right. He’d put Chloe in danger too many times. This would be the last.
