Any of them were capable and willing, and if any of them had ordered the hit then the Committee would not be alarmed.
But Bastien was banking on the last of their little group to arrive. Christos Christopolous was, on the surface, merely a minor player. The Greek connection had always been low-key, but Bastien was paid to be untrusting. And in the eleven months he’d lived as Bastien Toussaint he’d learned that Christos was the most dangerous of them all. He was the one who was most likely to have arranged for Remarque to be killed by the car bomb, along with his wife, daughter and three young grandchildren.
Thomason had taken his word and set the assignment. Hakim was to die—no matter who was responsible, the hit on Remarque couldn’t have been accomplished without his assistance.
And if Christos was chosen to lead the cartel, he, too, must die. The others were manageable—the Greek wasn’t.
Maybe Christos wouldn’t get chosen, and Bastien could once more vanish into the obscurity of another name, another nationality, another mission on some other continent. Not that it mattered—they all seemed to be the same, the good guys and the bad guys interchangeable.
One thing was certain, he wasn’t going to be able to do a damned thing if the innocent little newcomer st
uck a knife between his ribs.
He had no illusions that he was on his own here. Signor Ricetti’s young male lover was Jensen, a young British operative who’d told his wife he traveled a lot as a pharmaceutical sales representative.
Bastien had learned not to trust anyone, including his co-workers. It was always possible that Thomason had decided that Bastien himself was disposable. Jensen could take him out if that was what he was ordered to do, but he’d have a better chance of success than the girl. Anyone would. If they really wanted to get rid of him they needed someone a little more knowledgeable to do it.
Someone a little more adept than sweet Mademoiselle Underwood.
She was either there for him or for one of the others. Maybe just to gather information, maybe to dispose of an unwanted player. He had only to say something to Hakim and she would be the one they disposed of. Even if Hakim himself had hired her, she would be wiped out neatly and efficiently.
He wasn’t quite ready to do that, even if it was the safest route. He hadn’t been drawn into this business by the lure of safety, and Mademoiselle Underwood might offer more value alive than dead. He would find out who sent her and why, and the sooner he found out the better. Careful planning was important, but hesitation was disastrous. He would find out what he needed to find out, then drop a word in Hakim’s ear. It would be a shame to have such a promising young life snuffed out, but she would have known the dangers when she signed up for this job. And he’d lost any trace of sentimentality long ago.
He just wished to Christ that he knew why she was there.
Chloe was feeling slightly giddy. She slept deeply for a couple hours, curled up under a thin silk coverlet; she’d bathed in a deep warm bath perfumed with Chanel; she’d dressed in Sylvia’s clothes and put Sylvia’s makeup on her face. It was a few minutes before seven, and she’d have to slip her feet into the ridiculously high heels and glide downstairs like the soigné creature she was pretending to be.
The undergarments had begun the sensory overload. Chloe wore plain white cotton. Her taste ran to lace and satin and deep, bold colors, but her pocketbook did not, and she’d spent her clothing euros on things that would be seen.
Sylvia spent a great deal of time in her underwear, seldom alone, and her wardrobe of corselets, panties, demi-bras and garter belts came in a rainbow of colors, all made to be enjoyed by both the wearer and her audience. Chloe wasn’t currently planning on an audience, not here, not now. Bastien Toussaint might be distracting, but Chloe had no interest in married men, womanizers, or really anyone at all until she got back to Paris. This job was supposed to be a piece of cake, a leisurely few days in the country translating boring business details.
So why was she so damned edgy?
Probably just M. Toussaint, with his bedroom eyes and his slow, sexy voice. Or maybe it was the combined suspicion of the guests—they must be dealing with something very powerful to be so paranoid. Though in Chloe’s experience most people thought their concerns to be life-altering proportions. Perhaps they held the formula for a new type of fabric. The shoe designs for next season. The recipe for calorie-free butter.
It didn’t matter. She would remain in some unobtrusive corner, translating when called upon to do so, hoping no one else was going to say anything embarrassing in a language she wasn’t supposed to understand. Though it would help matters if she had her own wardrobe—Sylvia’s clothes were not made to be unobtrusive.
Maybe she could just plead a headache, crawl back into bed and deal with things tomorrow. As far as she knew she wasn’t on call twenty-four/seven, and tonight was supposed to be more of a social occasion. They wouldn’t need her, and she didn’t need to be around people who were drinking enough to be even more indiscreet than they had this afternoon.
Then again, it probably wouldn’t be a bad idea to find out why they were so paranoid. If she didn’t like the answer she could simply announce that she had to return home. Monsieur Hakim had insisted that she wasn’t really needed, and she expected they would muddle through even without a common language. In the end, her peace of mind was more important than the generous daily stipend.
But seven hundred euros could ease a little mental discomfort, and she was seldom a coward. She would go downstairs, smile charmingly, drink just a little wine—not enough to make her indiscreet—and keep her distance from Bastien Toussaint. He unnerved her, both with his dark, unreadable eyes and his supposed interest in her. For some reason she didn’t quite believe it. She was not an unattractive woman, but she was scarcely in his league—he was the type for supermodels and millionaires’ daughters.
It didn’t help that when she opened the door he was waiting for her.
He glanced at his thin watch. “A beautiful woman who shows up on time,” he said in French. “How delightful.”
She hesitated, uncertain what to say. On the one hand, the faint trace of irony in his voice was unmistakable, and Chloe knew that while she was attractive enough, beautiful was a bit too generous, even with the benefit of Sylvia’s wardrobe. But arguing with him would seem coy, and besides, she didn’t want to spend any unnecessary time in the cavernous, shadowy hall with him.
He was leaning against the window opposite her doorway, and the formal gardens stretched out beyond, surprisingly well lit for that hour of the night. He’d been smoking a cigarette, waiting for her, but he pushed away from the window and came toward her.
She thought she’d gotten used to how graceful some French men could be. For a moment she was distracted by his body, then mentally slapped herself. “Were you waiting for me?” she said brightly, closing the door behind her when she actually wanted nothing more than to dive back into her room and lock it.
“Of course. I’m just down the hall from you, on the left. We’re the only ones in this wing of the house, and I know how turned around one can get. I wanted to make sure you didn’t stumble into any place you shouldn’t be.”
Again, that faint hint of something wrong. Maybe she was the one who was paranoid, not Hakim’s guests. “I have a fairly good sense of direction.” A flat-out lie—even with a detailed map she inevitably took wrong turns, but he wouldn’t know that.
“You’ve lived in France long enough to know that French men like to think of themselves as charming and gallant. It’s hardwired into me—you’ll find me shadowing you when you least expect it, offering to bring you coffee or a cigarette.”