Black Ice (Ice 1)

Unless, of course, she was telling the truth. That she actually was a twenty-four-year-old woman from North Carolina with no knowledge of who and what they were.

But then, why would she be wearing the wrong shoes, the wrong bra. Why would she lie about her knowledge of languages?

No, given the circumstances, there was no way she could be an innocent bystander. She was there to do damage, and he needed to find out what, and to whom.

He began retying the ribbons that held the silken gown together, then stopped, leaving it open below the waist. She would wonder why, but she wouldn’t remember. He could really do anything he liked to her, and she wouldn’t remember.

There were any number of things he would have enjoyed doing to her, but most of them would be much better if she were awake and participating. She might be inexperienced enough not to take advantage of the blatant pass he’d made at her earlier today, but he wasn’t so sanguine. She’d already betrayed too much already. Get her naked beneath him, move inside her, and he’d know her better than she knew herself.

But not if she was comatose.

He sat down on the bed beside her, watching her as she slept. It would simplify matters if he killed her now. He could do it fast, neatly, and simply tell Hakim he didn’t trust her. Hakim would accept that.

He put his hand on her neck. Her skin was warm, soft beneath his skin, paler against his tanned hand. He could feel the pulse beat steadily, watch the rise and fall of her chest. He tightened his fingers for just a moment, then took them away.

Afterward he wasn’t sure why he did it. Uncharacteristic of him, but then, he’d been playing by different rules recently. Or ignoring the rules he’d been taught.

He stretched his body out alongside hers, his head on the pillow next to her. She smelled like soap and Chanel and cognac, an enticing combination.

“Who are you, bébé?” he whispered. “And why are you here?”

She wouldn’t be answering for another six hours at least. He laughed, at himself, and sat up. There was time. With no weapons, her clear mission was to gather information, and he could ensure that anything she discovered didn’t make it past the walls of the château.

There was time.

5

Chloe had never been one to wake up slowly. She tended to be alert immediately, and she was nauseatingly cheerful, while her sleep-fuddled siblings and parents threatened her with death or dismemberment if she didn’t stop the damned humming.

That morning was no different, except when her eyes popped open she had no idea where she was.

She decided not to panic, since panic tended to be a waste of time. She lay still, unmoving, and let memory sink back in. The château, and her sucker agreement to take Sylvia’s place. Too much wine last night, and Bastien Toussaint’s practiced mouth.

She hadn’t been kissed in months, so it was no wonder she could still feel the pressure of his lips against hers. Too bad she couldn’t have just let herself go with it. So what if it had been a performance on his part? He probably performed very well indeed.

But she’d always been too picky and too stubborn, and as her friends would tell her too American to really enjoy the pleasures of casual sex. And while a roll in the hay with someone like Bastien would be memorable, she didn’t really like having nothing but memories to hold on to.

She sat up slowly, putting her hand to her head in anticipation of the searing pain she absolutely deserved for drinking all that red wine, but it didn’t come. She gave her head a tentative shake, preparing for the delayed blast of pain, but felt nothing.

She glanced at the bedside table. She’d had a final cognac before she’d fallen asleep—she thought she could remember that much. She hadn’t been more than tipsy; it was odd that she couldn’t remember more. She’d had some cognac, and she thought she remembered dropping it. Falling.

But she was lying in the big, comfortable bed, the brandy snifter was sitting on the tray with just a trace left in the bottom, and she must have drunk even more than she realized.

She pushed back the cover and swung her legs over the side of the bed. And then stopped. Her…or that is…Sylvia’s nightgown was made up of silk and a row of tiny ribbons, but half those ribbons were unfastened, from the hemline to the waist. What had she been doing?

Nothing much fun, she decided after she’d showered and dressed and arranged herself in a decent repetition of Sylvia’s borrowed chic. She eyed the fawn leather shoes with their pointed toes and high, thin heels, and moaned. Maybe she could tell them she had Japanese blood and needed to go without shoes.

No, that probably wouldn’t fly. Much as she would have liked to have an interesting bloodline, she was depressingly, blandly WASP, and no one was going to be fooled into thinking otherwise.

She made it downstairs without getting lost, just in time for a light breakfast of coffee and fruit before the work began. The participants were seated on either side of a long conference table, and a number of them were accompanied by assistants. Except for von Rutter, who was accompanied by his sleek and beautiful wife Monique.

Hakim was at the head of the table, and he gestured to one of the empty places to his right. Toussaint wasn’t in the room, she realized as she sat, setting her cup of coffee down on the burled walnut carefully. Maybe fate was going to be kind after all.

She should have known better. He appeared a moment later, with his own coffee, and took the remaining seat. Beside her.

She listened to the proceedings with only half an ear. A moment of silence for their late colleague, Auguste Remarque. She’d heard that name before, but she couldn’t remember where. It would drive her crazy until she found out—maybe she could simply ask someone. Or maybe she should just keep quiet and try to blend into the background.

There wasn’t much to keep her mind occupied over the next few hours. The organization of food importers were arguing about redistributing territory, and while Chloe had a great fondness for lamb and oranges and a well-cooked chicken, there was a limit to her fascination. The discussions she was asked to translate were dull to the point of madness, she’d always found numbers tedious, and units of chickens and piglets and barrels of corn couldn’t even excite the failed chef inside her. The others at the table seemed to find the discussion endlessly fascinating, and given some of the numbers she was translating she could imagine why. In euros, dollars or pounds they were talking a very great deal of money. She hadn’t realized grocery importers amassed that kind of wealth.