Black Ice (Ice 1)

“I don’t smoke.” The conversation was making her more and more uneasy. Complicated by the fact that looking at him, the dark, opaque eyes, the lean, graceful body, was leaving her far from unmoved. Why did she have to be attracted to someone so…wrong? “And how do you know I’ve lived in France a long time?”

“Your accent. No one speaks that well if they haven’t lived here for at least a year.”

“Two, actually.”

It was just the faintest of smiles. “You see? I have an instinct for such things.”

“I don’t need anyone to be charming and gallant,” she said, still uneasy. Not only did he look good, but the damned man smelled good, too. Something subtle, luscious, beneath the lingering scent of tobacco. “I’m here to do a job.”

“So you are,” he murmured. “That doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy yourself while you do it.”

He was making her very nervous. By now they were walking down the hallway, in and out of the shadows. She was used to the continental art of flirtation which was usually nothing more than an extravagant show. And she knew this man to be a womanizer—he’d said so himself in a language she wasn’t supposed to understand. It was expected that he behave just this way.

Unfortunately she didn’t want to play the game, not with him. He wasn’t someone to flirt with and then dance away, despite the practiced charm. She couldn’t rid herself of the notion that he was something else entirely.

“Monsieur Toussaint…”

“Bastien,” he said. “And I will call you Chloe. I’ve never known a woman named Chloe before.

I find it quite charming.” His voice slid over her like a silken caress.

“Bastien,” she capitulated. “I really don’t think this is a good idea.”

“You are already involved with someone? That doesn’t need to make any difference. What happens here stays here, and there’s no reason why we can’t enjoy ourselves,” he said smoothly.

She wasn’t sure how she’d react if he were someone else. She knew how to extricate herself from unwanted situations, though they didn’t crop up as much as she might have hoped. The unfortunate fact was, she was both attracted and afraid of him. He was lying to her, and she had no idea why.

She halted. They had managed to reach the more populated part of the renovated château, and she could hear the voices, an amalgam of French and English, from beyond the double doors. She opened her mouth, not sure what she was going to say, what kind of argument she could come up with, when he spoke.

“I’m very attracted to you, you know,” he said. “I don’t remember when I’ve been quite so charmed.” And before she realized what he intended he’d put his hands on her, moving her back against the wall, and proceeded to kiss her.

He was very good, she thought dazedly, trying not to react. His hands were touching her, his mouth the merest whisper against her lips, and without thinking she closed her eyes, feeling his kiss brush against her cheekbones, her eyelids, then down to her mouth again, clinging slightly, then moving on, down the side of her neck.

She didn’t know what to do with her hands. She ought to reach up and push him away, but she didn’t really want to. The soft, feathering kisses simply made her want more, and since this was definitely going to be the only time she let him kiss her then she ought to experience it entirely.

So when he moved his hands from her waist to cup her face, and when he pressed his mouth against hers, harder this time, she opened for him, telling herself that one little taste of forbidden fruit was all right. After all, it was France. Vive l’amour.

But just as she was about to let herself sink into the pleasure of it, nasty little warning bells stopped her. He was, oh, so adept. He knew how to kiss, how to use his lips, his tongue, his hands, and if she were just a little bit more stupid she’d be awash with desire.

But something wasn’t right. It was a performance that even she could see through. He was making all the right moves, saying all the right things, but some part of him was standing back, coolly watching her response.

Her hands, which were just about to clutch his shoulders, pushed him away instead. She used more strength than she needed to—he made no effort to force her, he simply fell back, that faint amusement on his face.

“No?” he said. “Perhaps I misread the situation. I’m very attracted to you, and I thought the feeling was mutual.”

“Monsieur Toussaint, you are a very attractive man. But you’re playing some kind of game with me, and I don’t like it.”

“Game?”

“I don’t know what’s going on, but I don’t believe you’ve developed a sudden, uncontrollable passion for me.” Sylvia was always chiding her for being so outspoken, but she didn’t care. Anything to upset the smooth, beguiling lies of the man who was still standing too close to her.

“Then I’ll have to work harder to convince you,” he said, reaching for her again.

And fool that she was, she might have let him, but the door to the drawing room opened and Monsieur Hakim appeared, glowering.

Bastien stepped back, in no particular hurry, and Hakim’s expression darkened further. “We wondered where you were, Mademoiselle Underwood. It’s half-past seven already.”

“I had trouble finding my way here. Monsieur Toussaint was kind enough to guide me.”