Black Ice (Ice 1)

“I doubt that,” she muttered. “Suit yourself.” She turned away from him, with as close an approximation of an affronted flounce as she could manage while lying on a narrow bed, and stared at the cracked and stained wall.

“Merde,” he said. He rose, blew out the candle and climbed into bed with her. “It’s too small a bed not to touch you,” he said in a grumpy voice.

Unfortunately true. She could feel him up against her back, his body curved around hers. If someone broke in he’d be in the way of any danger. That was the only reason why she wanted him there, she told herself. The only reason why she suddenly felt warm and safe and able to relax. It was simply a question of survival.

“I can put up with it,” she replied. “But if you think that I—” His hand covered her mouth, stopping her midsentence. She could almost taste the pear juice on his fingers, an incredibly arousing sensation. She must still be hungry, she thought. But nothing under the sun was going to get her to eat a blood orange.

“Shut the fuck up,” he said sweetly in her ear, “or I’ll tie you up and gag you and put you on the floor. Understood?”

He’d probably do it, too. She nodded, as best she could with his hand covering her mouth, and he slowly moved it. She wanted to tell him that she was unwilling to share the bed after all, but he’d probably dump her on the hard cold floor if she said one more word.

His body was warm, deliciously so, pressed up against hers. Pissed off as she was, she could still feel a heated languor spread through her body. She might be able to sleep some more after all, she thought, what with the wine and the warmth and the undeniable feeling of utter safety with his body wrapped around hers. She didn’t want to—she wanted to keep awake just to spite him.

How was he going to get her out of Paris in one piece? The longer she stayed the more dangerous it became, the more likely it was that someone would find her. Would she be better off slipping into another country, leaving from Frankfurt or Zurich?

And how the hell was she going to do that with her passport back at the château? And someone must have found poor Sylvia by now. The police would have been called, they would have searched the place and found her belongings. Which meant the police would be looking for her as well.

Definitely a good thing. Even if they thought she’d somehow managed to kill Sylvia she’d rather take her chances in a French jail than running for her life, having to depend on one enigmatic man.

Everything had taken on a blessed haze of unreality. She’d seen him kill a man, and yet she could barely remember it. She’d been in such pain, and then the pain had stopped, and Hakim was lying on the floor.

He’d had sex with her. She would like to deny it, call it something else, but in truth it was sex, and he had come inside her. And to her everlasting shame, she had climaxed as well, powerfully.

But that didn’t feel real anymore. Even the stark horror of Sylvia’s body was beginning to fade. Maybe that would happen with everything, she thought, slowly relaxing her body against his. Maybe everything that had gone on in the last days she spent in France would wind up in a little bubble that never really touched her again. She wouldn’t have to remember it, wouldn’t have to deal with it. It would just be gone.

She didn’t know if that was how people usually managed to get through traumatic periods in their life. All this made nineteen hours in a pitch-black cave seem like a child’s prank in comparison. No one had died, no one had been hurt, no one had developed a kind of sick fascination for…

She didn’t like the way her mind was going. She tried to inch away from Bastien’s body, but his arm clamped around her waist, pulling her back. “Lie still,” he muttered sleepily in her ear.

She could feel him all along her back, the sensation of warmth and strength, bone and muscle and the unmistakable feel of him against her butt. It felt as if he had an erection, which surely couldn’t be true, since he had no real interest in her and she had all the interest in the world in him.

Stockholm Syndrome, didn’t they call it? When the hostage developed an unhealthy obsession with her captor. It was a normal reaction—they were in a life-or-death situation, and so far he’d managed to keep her alive. And to complicate matters, they’d had sex before she’d realized just how dangerous he was. And why couldn’t she stop thinking about the sex?

Because she was lying in the shelter of his strong body, she could feel his cock against her backside and she was scared. The only thing standing between her and a painful, hideous death was his body, and she wanted it.

But he didn’t want her, he’d simply been doing his job, and as he’d told her, he was very good at it. In the end his lack of interest was a very good thing. At least he wanted to keep her alive and safe and get her back home. Which was an even better thing.

&nb

sp; Developing an unhealthy fascination for him was not unexpected. And once she was safely home everything would be back in perspective.

He was right, the bed was too small. There was no way she could move away from his body. She could turn her head just enough to see his face. He slept, which amazed her, and even her thrashing around hadn’t woken him. She could barely make him out in the darkness, and she gave up trying, laying her head back down on the threadbare mattress, listening to the sound of his heartbeat against her back.

At least he had a heart—something she’d wondered about. He was human, he was warm and strong and ready to kill to keep her safe.

What more could a girl want in a man?

16

She really was the most damnable woman, Bastien thought, as her body finally stilled, her pulse slowed and she sank back into a reluctant sleep. She argued about everything, and then she looked at him with those huge brown eyes and for the first time in years he felt guilty.

He shouldn’t have given in and gotten in bed with her. Yes, it was warmer with their body heat combined. Yes, the thin mattress on the bed was better than the even thinner blanket on the bare wood floor. Yes, they managed to fit their bodies together too damned well for his peace of mind. And yes, he wanted to push her over on her back, rip off her jeans and finish what he’d only begun a few short days ago.

He wondered if she’d felt his erection before she fell asleep. Probably not—she seemed totally oblivious to the effect she had on him. Which was just as well. He wasn’t about to complicate this already tangled mess any more than he had to. And making love to her would definitely complicate things.

He’d already fucked her—an entirely different matter. That should be enough. It was a normal enough response, and he knew himself well enough to try to dismiss it. Life-or-death situations brought out all sorts of primal appetites. Ugly but true. Danger aroused him.

And being in the presence of death, whether he’d been the one to kill or not, made him want to experience life on the most basic level. It made him want to fuck, and whether it was some caveman instinct about replenishing the species or a twisted fascination with sex and death, it still existed. He either acted on it or he didn’t, depending on the circumstances. There were often women operatives around who shared the same reaction, and a fast, frenzied coupling usually only heightened their defenses in times of danger.