She didn’t show her reaction. “You can believe anything you want,” she said. “But next time you want to seduce someone you ought to pick a better place than the front seat of a Porsche. It’s hardly the right venue for sex.”
He smiled at her. “Let me assure you, Chloe, that I could have fucked you very well indeed in the front seat of this car. I’ve done it before.”
So why would such an insulting statement be erotic? She must be suffering hypothermia. “Just take me back to the château,” she said in a low voice, giving up. He was better at this than she was, and the truth was, she probably did want him as much as he thought she did. Probably more than he wanted her—she wasn’t even sure she believed him on that score. He was the type of man to go for an exotic butterfly like Monique Von Rutter or a ruthlessly chic Englishwoman like Madame Lambert. Gauche little American girls were hardly his type.
But whether he really wanted her or whether it was just an automatic response, as long as she kept her distance she would be fine. She’d seen it happen last night—it had taken him less than five minutes to disappear with Monique von Rutter. He’d find someone else to distract him once they got there.
He drove too fast, in complete silence the rest of the way. He pulled around to the back of the sprawling building, and she glanced at her expensive little watch, half expecting it to have stopped working.
It was only half past six, and a long night lay ahead of them. And all Chloe wanted to do was take a long, hot bath and crawl into bed.
Somehow she didn’t think that was going to happen. He stopped the car, leaned over and unfastened her seat belt. “I thought you’d prefer a different entrance. This is the door closest to your rooms, and you can take a shower and change before anyone sees you and asks questions.”
“What’s wrong with questions? I wasn’t anywhere I shouldn’t have been, I didn’t do anything I shouldn’t have done.” The moment the words were out of her mouth she regretted them. Kissing Bastien had been a very unwise move, and she would have done a lot worse if something hadn’t stopped them.
“Really?” he murmured. “In that case I can come up with you and finish what we started.”
She almost called his bluff. Fortunately she still had an ounce of sanity left. “No, thank you. I think we’ve already finished.”
“Do you indeed?” When he smiled that slow, annoying smile she wanted to hit him. He leaned toward her, and she was terrified he was going to kiss her again. But instead he simply opened the door for her. “I’ll see you at dinner.”
She grabbed the ruined shoes, the drenched leather purse and her dignity, and stepped out into the courtyard. The rain had changed to a fine mist, but the air was turning colder, and her clothes felt clammy. She looked back at the Porsche, but she couldn’t see Bastien in the dark interior. Just as well.
“Thanks for the ride,” she said, and slammed the door with a little too much force.
And before he drove away, she thought she heard him laugh.
7
Bastien didn’t like to be wrong about things. He’d been observing human nature, sussing out people for longer than he could remember, and his instincts were usually infallible. And now he was beginning to have second thoughts about Chloe Underwood.
Logic dictated that she was a dangerous operative. It would be absurd to think that there was any other possibility. And she was either very, very good or very, very bad. He just couldn’t figure out which.
She came down late to dinner, no surprise, and he kept out of her way. She was acutely aware of him—anyone with half a brain would have noticed, and there was no one in the room who was mentally deficient. She sat quietly, ate little and looked everywhere but in his direction. Under different circumstances he might have found it amusing. But right then nothing was particularly funny.
She didn’t look quite as polished as when she’d first arrived. Her dark hair was curly from the rain, her makeup more minimal, her mouth red and slightly swollen. He hadn’t kissed her that hard, had he? Maybe he had, but she’d kissed him back with equal enthusiasm, until the fucking headlights had interrupted them.
He could have found out a great deal once he got inside her. He still could.
Monique von Rutter had honed in on Chloe with the instincts of a great white shark, just looking for a limb to tear off. Bastien watched in silence as she focused in on her, chatting with Chloe in the most charming of voices that would have fooled no one but a complete innocent. Chloe was looking at her warily, answering Monique’s provocative questions in monosyllables, and she didn’t touch her wine. Too bad—he’d been counting on alcohol making his task easier.
But then, he wasn’t the kind of man who looked for the easiest way out.
“I find French men utterly tedious, don’t you, Miss Underwood?” Monique was saying. “They’re more interested in their own performance than in a woman’s pleasure. And vain! Take Bastien, for example. Only a very shallow creature would dress that well.”
Chloe’s eyes darted in his direction, then focused back on her barely touched plate, and she didn’t answer. Not much fun for Monique, Bastien thought lazily, twirling his wineglass in one hand. Maybe he should help her out.
“But you’re missing the point, Baroness,” he drawled. “A man who is fixated on his sexual performance is devoted to pleasing his lover. If he were more interested in his own pleasure it would
be one thing, but if his pride insists that he be a great lover then that can only be to a woman’s benefit, is that not so?”
There was a faint stain of color on Chloe’s cheeks as she stared into her plate, a stain that everyone around the table noted.
But Monique was in full flower. “Unless, of course, the woman realizes she’s nothing more than a prop for her lover’s vanity. That her pleasure is simply a reflection of his prowess, not real desire on his part.”
Bastien shrugged. “What does it matter? As long as she is pleased.”
“And you are so good at pleasing women,” Monique cooed. And then added with a touch too much haste, “Or so I’ve been told.”