Black Ice (Ice 1)

But Chloe wasn’t an operative, she was ten years and a lifetime younger than he was, and a life-or-death situation would wipe all thought of sex from her mind. It would be a while before she got over the sight of her butchered friend, before she got over her hours with Hakim. She would, though. She might be not much more than a girl, but she was strong and resilient. She was back in a dark hole with him and she was sleeping, her suffocating claustrophobia at bay.

He could smell his scent on her, probably from wearing the coat that was now draped over both of them. For some reason he found that erotic. Then again, he was finding everything about her erotic.

The goddamned snow couldn’t have come at a worse time. If not for that, she’d already be on her way across the Atlantic, out of his life for good, and he’d be concentrating on his assignment. His final assignment.

He had to finish what he started at the château. Find out how the territories were going to be redistributed, and who was going to take Remarque’s place. Hakim had never held that much power. In fact, he’d been nothing more than a glorified administrative assistant, running things smoothly while the principals discussed disbursements. Of cabbage heads and fresh veal. Of long-range missiles and heat-seeking bullets. Of oranges and C4 and blood all around.

Christos was the big question mark. Why hadn’t he bothered to show up, and when he did, what did he have planned? Because the Christos he knew never entered a situation without a very detailed plan. There would be at least one person at the château who was privy to those plans—that was the way Christos worked. It might be the baron, who wasn’t nearly as harmless as he seemed, or perhaps even Monique. She was very difficult to pin down. She had a taste for pain, as well as sex, and he had yet to discover anything that made her vulnerable. It could be Ricetti or Otomi, Madame Lambert or even Ricetti’s assistant. It didn’t matter that the elegant young man servicing the Sicilian dealer was a Committee operative as well as Bastien. He wasn’t the only one there, and anyone could change sides if the price was right.

One thing was certain. Christos couldn’t be allowed to take over the leadership of the cartel, and it was up to Bastien to see to it. Thomason had been unclear as to what would happen to the rest of the dealers. Once the leader was disposed of, would they be left to reform? Probably—the Committee tended to prefer the devil they knew to the unknown, but it wasn’t his responsibility. He only had to kill one more person. And then he was done. Finished. Gone.

He moved his head slightly, so that his face brushed her ridiculous tangle of hair. She looked very different as a shorn lamb. Younger, and more vulnerable. And even more desirable.

But looking like that helped remind him that she was off-limits. He had no right or reason to touch her again, and it would only complicate things.

And he needed to stop thinking about her and get what sleep he could. It didn’t matter that the feel and the scent of her was all around him. He was cool enough to ignore trivial distractions like that. He closed his eyes, breathing in the scent and sound of her, and let himself sleep.

It was midday. Chloe wasn’t quite sure how she knew that—the room was pitch-black, not a speck of light coming from the roof window. Her body had a natural clock—she woke up at eight-thirty every morning whether she needed to or not, and if something woke her in the middle of the night she always knew what hour it was, whether a clock was around or not.

Everything had been thrown off balance the past few days. She slept more than she’d ever slept in her life, probably a reaction to the horrors she’d seen. For all she knew she could have been asleep this time for fifteen minutes or three days.

Bastien was still with her. She’d turned in her sleep, and she lay in his arms, sprawled across him, her head on his shoulder, her hand on his chest, his arm around her. She should have yanked herself away, but she didn’t. She didn’t move a muscle, only her eyelids as she tried to decipher something, anything, through the darkness.

Bastien slept deeply and silently. Probably part of his self-discipline. He wouldn’t allow himself to snore like most men. He slept so soundly he probably wouldn’t even notice if she carefully pulled herself out of his loose embrace and turned her back on him. It was too exposed, lying like this. Too…confusing.

Stockholm Syndrome, she reminded herself unhappily. It had nothing to do with reality. She didn’t even like the man. For now she had to stay with him, but once she was home things would be put into perspective and her momentary attraction would vanish with a dollop of self-loathing.

Well, perhaps not self-loathing. There was no denying that the man who called himself Bastien Toussaint was physically beautiful. And no denying that he saved her life, perhaps more than once, which would be bound to make her grateful.

She didn’t want to think about it. She didn’t want to think about anything, not the man beside her, not Sylvia, not the people who’d sat around that huge board table and pretended to talk about groceries. She would think about the snow. Thick and white and blanketing the city in stillness, drifting down in big flakes and clogging the roadways, closing the airports, trapping her in the arms of a killer…

“Stop thinking about it.”

He hadn’t moved, his steady breathing hadn’t changed, but his soft voice broke the stillness like a shard of glass.

She rolled away from him, moving as close to the wall as she could. There was still no way she could keep from touching his long, lean body in such a narrow bed. “I thought you were asleep.”

“I was. Until you woke up.”

“Don’t be ridiculous—I didn’t move. I opened my eyes and t

hat was all. Don’t tell me the draft from my eyelashes woke you.” Her voice was low and caustic, pushing him away as her body couldn’t.

“No,” he said, his voice low and sleepy, but she wasn’t fooled. “Once you started thinking your blood began to move. I could feel your heartbeat speed up, your pulse race. Even though you didn’t move a muscle.”

“Well, aren’t you special?” she said, sarcastic.

“I beg your pardon?”

Of course he wouldn’t know the American reference. He might read pulses and heartbeats but he’d probably never watched Saturday Night Live and the Church Lady. Maybe he’d never watched television at all. It wouldn’t surprise her. He’d said he never even went to movies.

What did surprise her was that even with her back safely to him she was still acutely aware of him. Still had a totally irrational longing for him. One that would lead nowhere and only embarrass and frustrate her.

“What time is it?”

“Late morning,” he said. He moved then, away from her, getting out of bed, and she breathed a sigh of what she told herself was relief.

“So what do we do now? Go outside and make snow angels? I don’t think I’m dressed for it.” Yes, she sounded nicely cool. He wouldn’t have the faintest idea how jumbled her emotions are.