But he didn’t. He moved away, sitting back on the floor several feet away. “I came to find Hakim about another matter, saw you were still alive, and on a whim I killed him.”
“On a whim?”
He shrugged, so very French, and yet she didn’t believe he was French. “Part of my own death wish, I expect. I’m living on borrowed time as it is, and taking you out of that place only made things move a little faster. God knows when you walked out today I should have just let you go, but you annoyed me. If I’m going to that much trouble you might at least do as I say.”
“I was never very obedient. I wouldn’t be here in Paris if I wasn’t accustomed to doing what I want.”
“I don’t give a damn what you want. You’re going back home to the States and you’re staying there. You understand me?”
At that point there was nothing she wanted more, but some inner devil prompted her to object. “And if I refuse?”
“Then I’ll cut your throat and leave you here. It seems a shame, since I’ve already gone to so much trouble. That stuff I put on your wounds is very valuable, and I wouldn’t have wasted it on you if I’d known I was just going to have to kill you a few hours later. But that won’t stop me. You’re a liability, a drain and a danger, and perhaps I never should have stopped Hakim, but since I did I may as well see this through. It’s up to you. You want to die now and get it over with? Or do you want to get back to your family and a normal life?”
He spoke so matter-of-factly about death and killing, and she had not the slightest doubt that he would do just as he said. All she had to do was look into his dark, empty eyes. “How do I know you can keep me safe?”
“You don’t. There are no guarantees in this life. You certainly stand a better chance with me than on your own. And if I fail, I can promise I’ll be the one to kill you before you get in the hands of someone worse than Hakim. I’ll make it fast and painless.”
Chloe swallowed. “There are worse men than Hakim?”
“Actually, the very best at torture and interrogation are usually women. Which is no surprise.”
She stared at him in the darkness. “Who the fuck are you?”
His cool smile was far from reassuring. “You no longer believe I’m an arms dealer from Marseilles? It’s taken you long enough.”
“Then who are you? Is Bastien Toussaint even your real name?”
“Do I look like a saint to you, Chloe? And you don’t need to know who I am. Suffice it to say I’m part of an international operation few people know exist, and it’s better they don’t. Just keep quiet and do as I say.”
She stared at him, a cold, sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. “Can you tell me one thing? Are you part of the good guys or the bad guys?”
“Trust me,” he said wearily, “there’s not much difference. We need to get out of here before dawn. Get out of that sexy lingerie and put some clothes on. Only Americans would dream of sleeping in such a garment.”
She looked down at her soft flannel nightgown. “I’m supposed to wear a lace negligee when I’m freezing and running for my life? You’ve seen too many movies.”
“I never go to the movies.”
She crawled across the mattress, keeping as far from him as she could. Not that it mattered—he seemed to have no interest in touching her. She kept her clothes in a small chest by the window, and rose, pulling out some clean underwear, a pair of jeans and a warm shirt. She started toward the bathroom, when his voice stopped her.
“Where are you going?”
“To the bathroom. I’m going to pee and then I’m going to change in there, unless you have any objections.”
“You don’t need to be modest, Chloe. I have no interest in your naked body.”
He’d already made that clear, but for some reason his calm statement was the final straw. She slammed her clothes down in a nearby chair and yanked her nightgown over her head, hearing it tear in her anger. She threw it at him, then picked up her clothes and stalked into the bathroom, her naked body illuminated by the moonlight.
At the last minute she remembered not to slam the door, much as she wanted to. Not enough to die for it, and certainly not enough to risk having him get up from his spot on the floor and put his hands on her again. He couldn’t have been clearer—he’d used sex for one thing and one thing only. To gain information. Now that he knew everything he needed to know he had no more use for her.
She wanted a shower, but that might be pushing it. She used the toilet, then dressed quickly. Her shortened hair had dried in a messy tumble that looked better than she’d hoped, but was still a far cry from a Hollywood makeover. But then, he didn’t go to the movies. And what he thought clearly didn’t matter, since he wasn’t interested. Thank God.
She’d do what he said, all right. She would be quiet, obedient—anything to get the hell out of France as quickly as possible. She wouldn’t be safe until she did, and despite those horrifying hours with Gilles Hakim she couldn’t really believe she was in that much danger. No, the most important thing was to get as far away from her mystery man, and not have to worry about him showing up again once she thought she’d escaped.
He caught the nightgown in one hand while he watched her walk from the room. Her body was pale in the moonlight, and he could see that the gunk had done its work.
He almost could have laughed. She was so offended, with little idea just how desirable she really was. He’d wanted nothing more than to strip off his clothes and crawl beneath the duvet with her, to lose himself in her body, in the darkness. He was tired, so very tired.
But he’d kept his distance, even when he read in her eyes that he could have her. He buried his face in the soft flannel, inhaling the scent of her body, her soap, her skin. She had no idea just how powerfully erotic the juxtaposition of soft, shapeless flannel covering a lithe, sexual body was. And he wasn’t about to tell her.