“I’m certain he was,” Hakim grumbled. “The baron is waiting for you, Bastien. And behave yourself—we have work to do.”
“Bien sûr,” he said, flashing an ironic smile in her direction as he moved past Hakim.
Chloe started to follow, but Hakim put a strong hand on her arm, halting her. “You need to be warned about Bastien,” he said.
“I don’t need to be warned. I know his type very well.” Not true, she thought. He was trying to convince her he was a certain kind of man—sophisticated, charming, flirtatious and totally without morals. And he was that kind of man—she had no doubt of that. There was just something more, something darker inside, and she couldn’t figure out quite what it was.
Hakim nodded, though he was clearly unconvinced. “You are very young, Mademoiselle Underwood. I feel I am in a fatherly position, and I would not like to see anything unfortunate befall you.”
It was his overformal English that made it sound threatening, of course. Not any real danger. But that uneasy little shiver slid down her backbone, and she wondered if she’d made a very real mistake in taking Sylvia’s place. Adventure, luxury and money were all very nice things, but not at too high a price. And remembering the feel of Bastien Toussaint’s practiced mouth against her, she was afraid she’d already gotten herself into too much trouble.
Because she wanted to see what it would be like if he really kissed her. Not a performance, meant to dazzle her. But something he wanted as much as she did.
And she was out of her mind, she thought, moving past Hakim into the library, in time to see Bastien in close conversation with one of the women she’d seen earlier. The baron’s wife, who seemed far too friendly with someone who wasn’t her husband, with her beautifully manicured hand on his Armani-clad arm, her perfectly made-up face tilted toward his. Chloe took a glass of sherry from the waiter and moved to a seat by the open doors, looking out over the brightly lit gardens, away from Bastien and his more amenable partner. The jumble of languages was at first indecipherable, and she didn’t want to listen. It was like eavesdropping, and she was already uncomfortable with what she’d overheard earlier.
But then she realized they were politely speaking only French and English, and anything she heard was far from secret, and she relaxed back against the wing chair. Her imagination had always been her besetting sin, and she was imagining conspiracy everywhere. What could possibly be dangerous about a group of high-level grocers?
She looked up to see Bastien and the woman slip outside, into the shadows, and her attempt at rationalization vanished abruptly. Seeing him go would have been difficult enough, if he hadn’t paused at the last minute to look directly into her eyes, and he gave her a faint, rueful shrug.
“Miss Underwood.” The elderly baron sank down beside her, wheezing slightly. “It looks like we’ve been abandoned. Now why did such a pretty young thing like yourself want to spend days locked away with such tiresome old capitalists like ourselves? Surely you must have had better things to do in Paris? Some young man waiting for you?”
She smiled at him, willfully forgetting the couple who had just disappeared. “No young man, monsieur. I live a very quiet life.”
“I don’t believe it!” he said. “A young girl as pretty as you are? What has happened to young men nowadays, that someone like you should be unattached? If I were forty years younger I’d go after you myself.”
She roused herself to play the game. “Surely not forty!” she said lightly.
“I’m thirty years older than my wife, and even that is a bit of a strain. Which is why I give her a lot of room to entertain herself.”
Chloe blinked. “That’s very generous of you.”
“Besides, what can she and Bastien do out on the terrace with so many people wandering around? An indiscreet caress, a kiss or two? In the end it only sharpens the appetite.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I saw you watching them. Bastien is fine for someone like my wife, who knows how the game is played and expects nothing but immediate gratification. He’s not for an innocent like you.”
He was the second man to warn her away in the last ten minutes. Little did they know that she hadn’t needed the warning—her own defenses had popped up just in time. “I am here to translate, monsieur,” she said brightly. “Not to indulge in dangerous flirtations.”
“I hope you don’t count me as one of those dangerous flirtations,” he said. “Or perhaps I do. No one considers me very dangerous anymore.” He sounded mournful.
“I’m certain you’re a very dangerous man indeed,” she said in an encouraging voice.
His smile was almost beatific. “You know, my child, you may actually be right.”
4
There was no question, Bastien thought, as he methodically slid his fingers over Monique’s firm breast. The woman hadn’t come here for him. If she had, Mademoiselle Chloe would not have been so quick to push him away. Even a mediocre operative would know that sleeping with the enemy was the best way to find out what you needed to know, and most men were at their most vulnerable when they were fucking.
He wasn’t most men. He had ice water in his veins, in his cock, and even in the middle of an orgasm he was a dangerous man. Chloe wouldn’t know that—she was inept enough to betray her knowledge of languages within moments of arriving, and she would have taken the bait he’d dangled in front of her if he were really her target.
Which means she was after someone else. Normally that wouldn’t matter to him—he had a job to do and whoever she was there to watch would have to take care of himself.
But this whole affair had been in the works for too many months, and he wasn’t going to let an unexpected player destroy everything he’d worked so hard for.
He slid his hand inside Monique’s silk gown. She wasn’t wearing a bra, and she was hot for him, as she always was. Her husband was old and compliant, as long as she gave him details about her adventures, and he expected the old man had even watched them once or twice. It had neither excited nor bothered him. He could perform with or without an audience, and in the end his partner was unimportant if they were the means to an end.
Monique had no particular value at that point. He’d found out everything he needed fro