There was a commotion at the door, and he tore his gaze away from her to look at the group of men who walked in. “I’m afraid not,” he said softly. “Christos has arrived.”
20
Christos didn’t look like the monster Bastien had painted him, Chloe thought. Compared to Gilles Hakim he seemed like nothing more than a well-dressed businessman, albeit surrounded by a small army that could only be bodyguards. Part of her had been expecting Zorba, but this was no jovial fisherman. He stood in the doorway, flanked by his men, and let his eyes scan the room, cataloguing the inhabitants. He had strong eyes—clear, almost colorless, and when they rested on Chloe’s skin she felt a cold rush.
“I’m glad to see you’re all still here,” he said. His English was perfect though heavily accented. A good thing, because Chloe’s Greek was marginal at best. “I’m sorry I couldn’t join you sooner, I had business matters to attend to. But that doesn’t mean I don’t mourn the loss of our dear friend August Remarque and his excellent leadership skills. I gather we’ve lost Hakim as well. Another sorrow.” He turned his gaze on Bastien, who was watching him with total impassivity. “But seeing old friends will help to make up for the loss.”
“Who have you brought with you, Christos?” Mr. Otomi demanded, clearly displeased. The six men surrounding Christos’s small, elegant figure trumped Otomi’s lone assistant cum bodyguard.
“A man can never be too careful. What with all these sudden deaths I thought it would be wise to ensure my safety. Don’t look so concerned, my dear friends and colleagues. My men are very well trained. They won’t do anything I don’t tell them to do.”
None of the others in the room looked particularly gratified by that information, Chloe thought, moving infinitesimally closer to Bastien. He’d been right. The previous meetings had been mere skirmishes compared to this highly charged atmosphere.
“We need to discuss the disposition—” Signore Ricetti began in a strident voice, but Christos cut him off with a wave of his hand. Pale, small hands, Chloe noticed.
“There’ll be time enough for business,” he said. “In the meantime I’d like a drink. Some decent French wine for a change. I’m sick to death of retsina.”
“Of course.” Madame Lambert seemed to have taken on the role of hostess—she signaled for the waiter. “And for your men?”
“They don’t drink when they’re on duty,” Christos purred. Chloe felt the tension in the room rise.
Bastien put his arm around her waist, steering her toward a less-crowded section of the room. It had taken all her initial self-control not to jump when he touched her, then an even stronger effort not to sink back against him. His touch was an illusion. It offered no more safety than a cobra sliding up her back. But it made her feel better.
He settled her onto the smooth pale leather banquette, then sat down beside her, close but not touching. Had he brought a gun? She couldn’t remember. She’d been far more interested in his skin and his body than what kind of weapons he carried. It would serve her right if she died, she thought in disgust. Besotted little idiot.
Someone had given her a glass of champagne. She hadn’t even noticed how it got in her hand, but she sipped at it for something to do, saying nothing as she watched the remaining members of the arms cartel circulate around the room with perfect party manners.
Monique was flirting with Christos—a temporary reprieve, but after a moment she turned, looking directly into Chloe’s eyes. And then she came straight toward them, a wicked smile on her deep-red lips.
Chloe could feel the tension radiating from the man beside her. “Time to pick a fight,” he murmured.
It should have been easy enough. He was equal parts irresistible and maddening, and she could have concentrated on the maddening part. Except that she could read the tension in the room, see Christos’s phalanx of bodyguards, and she wasn’t going anywhere.
“I’m fine,” she said in a dulcet tone.
He swiveled on the banquette to give her his full attention. “Time to leave,” he said in a low voice. “Things are getting dangerous around here.”
She gave him a bright, limpid smile. “I’m not going anywhere without you,” she said in a low, sultry voice that wouldn’t carry beyond the two of them.
His dark, dark eyes could freeze her in her tracks, but she refused to be cowed. “Don’t play this game, Chloe,” he said in a dangerous voice.
“It’s no game. I’m not leaving this room without you. If I do, you’ll die, and I don’t want that to happen.”
“If you stay, you’ll die.”
“Probably. Which means if you’re still determined to keep me alive you have no choice but to come with me.” She didn’t have long to feel pleased with herself for her plan—his expression was calm and faintly bored, but the look in his eyes was sheer fury.
He’d been sipping at a glass of whiskey and ice. He proceeded to dump it in her lap, leaping up in fake consternation. “Forgive me, my dear,” he
said loudly. “I don’t know how I could be so clumsy.”
The icy liquid soaked through the gown, onto her thighs, and it took all her effort to smile up at him, unmoving. Black could cover things other than blood. “It was just a drop, my love,” she murmured, reaching up for his arm. “Don’t worry about it.”
“I really do think you should go clean yourself up,” he said.
“I’m fine.”
“He’s trying to get rid of you, child.” Monique, unfortunately, had joined them. “Go away and give us a few minutes alone. We need to renew our acquaintance.”