“They’re all dead, Chloe. No one wants to hurt you anymore. And the security system is very good. Just not good enough.” His eyes ran down her body, and there was just the faintest trace of a smile at the corner of his mouth. “You look well.”
“Do we have to do this? You got what you wanted. Why don’t you get on a plane and go back to France and we can forget we ever knew each other.”
“I’d like to,” he said with his customary lack of flattery, “but there seems to be a small problem.”
“What’s that?” she said. She should sit. The hours in the hot tub, followed by the spring chill of an open window and the shock of seeing Bastien once more made her disoriented. If she blinked maybe he’d disappear.
“I don’t want to blink,” she said out loud, her voice sounding peculiar. Bastien looked odd as well—prettier than she remembered, which was certainly unfair of fate, and she would have said as much but she seemed to have lost the ability to speak.
“Then don’t blink, chérie,” he murmured. “Just close your eyes.” And the blackness closed in around her.
He caught her as she fell. He’d lied to her—nothing new. She didn’t look well at all. She’d lost weight, and she had circles under her eyes as if she hadn’t been sleeping well. It shouldn’t have been a surprise, but he’d hoped…he’d hoped to find a healthy, buoyant American female ready to hand him his head on a platter. She’d had time to recover, to move past things.
But she hadn’t.
He picked her up, carrying her into the living room. The big old sofa was covered with books and newspapers, and he swept them on the floor before laying her down. He’d probably given her too much—he’d calculated the sedative in her coffee based on her Paris weight and she was down at least ten pounds from that.
Still, it would just keep her quiet longer. Maybe long enough to deal with the problem and then leave, with her none the wiser about her close call. She didn’t need to know that there was an unexpected survivor of the Hotel Denis debacle. And that particular survivor would risk anything to get to Chloe.
There was no mistaking the expression of shock and horror on her face when she saw him, and he couldn’t blame her. She would have counted on him being out of her life forever, and to have him show up was undoubtedly a nightmare come true. Fortunately he’d had the excuse of the old necklace, and she’d believed him. He just had to hope his luck would hold, as it had so many times before.
He’d hoped to leave it with her—the necklace. He’d had it for years, the first step on his self-determined road to hell. He’d been twelve years old, old enough and tall enough to be an embarrassment to his mother and Aunt Cecile, who liked to think of themselves as at least a decade younger. It was Monte Carlo, they’d been gambling unwisely, and his mother had had to sell her diamond necklace. She’d raged and cried and stormed, and young Bastien had never seen her so upset, and like a child he’d resolved to do something about it. He couldn’t get her necklace back, but he could replace it with another necklace.
It had been easy enough—people don’t suspect a child, even a tall, gangly one. And he was agile as a monkey and totally fearless. The woman who owned the necklace was so old and so fat that the wrinkles in her neck covered it. His beautiful mother deserved it far more.
She was lying in her bed at the hotel when he came in. He waited until her partner for the night left, a middle-aged wine importer whom he sincerely hoped wouldn’t become her next husband, and then he tiptoed in.
The curtains were pulled against the cruel daylight, and the room stank of cigarettes and perfume and whiskey. And sex. She was passed out, her artfully streaked blond hair flowing down her narrow back, and he whispered, “Maman?”
She didn’t move. He tried it again, but she simply let out an inelegant snore. He reached over and touched her shoulder, tugging at her, and she turned over, blinking up at him before her eyes focused.
“What the hell are you doing in her
e, you little brat? I’ve told you to keep a low profile when I’m having friends over.”
“I brought you something.” She’d lost the ability to frighten him when he was about nine, but the anger in her ragged voice almost made him turn around and leave.
“What?” She sat up, not bothering to cover herself with the sheet. He was used to his mother’s body. She had no modesty, and he surveyed her dispassionately. She was getting older. “What did you have to wake me up for?”
He held out his grubby little hand, the diamond necklace glittering even in the shadowy light. “It’s a present. I got it for you.”
She sat up farther still, reached for her cigarettes and lit one. “Give it to me.”
He put the necklace in her hand, and she examined it for a moment, then let out a little laugh. “Where did you get this?”
“I found it….”
“Where did you get this?”
He swallowed. “I stole it.”
He wasn’t sure what he expected. Rage. Tears. Instead she laughed. “Already embarking on a life of crime, Bastien? Maybe your father was that pickpocket after all, and not the American businessman.” She put the necklace back in his hand, stubbed out her cigarette and lay down once more.
“Don’t you want it? You were so sad when you lost your diamonds.” It was perhaps the last vulnerable thing he ever said to her.
She turned and looked at him out of slitted eyes, her makeup caked around them. “Those belong to Gertruda Schondheim, and she has some very nasty connections. I would never dare wear them. They’re far too recognizable. Besides, Georges has already redeemed my own, and I expect he’ll be good enough for a few other trinkets as well. Now go away and let me sleep.”
His hand closed around the diamond necklace. He turned and walked toward the door, when her voice stopped him. “You might as well leave it,” she said. “I don’t know if I can find a fence around here, but sooner or later I can find someone to cut it down and sell it stone by stone.”