Page 27 of Icebound

It was his cue. He sped up and then held still as he reached his own release. A moment later, he rolled off her, leaving her cold and empty. “I hate you,” she said in a low voice.

“I’m sure you do,” he replied, sitting up on the side of the bed.

At least this time she didn’t cry. She stared at his back, dry-eyed and hollow, and she wanted to kill him. And then she froze.

The man was not without his physical charms. His back was to her, narrow at the hip, broad at the shoulder. On his left side was a knife scar, from a bar fight in Algiers. On his right, just under his arm, was the mark of the gunshot that almost killed him the night they escaped Paris.

He was Bastien.

He rose from the bed, moving naked through the room, and she wondered that she had ever doubted. She knew him, as only a wife could know a husband. But to him, she was a total stranger.

“Get dressed,” he snapped. “We’ll want breakfast.”

Climbing out of the bed, she kept her own back to him. He hadn’t used a condom and she was wet between her legs, but she barely gave that a thought. Without hesitation, she went straight into the bathroom, into the shower. She didn’t want to wash the signs of his possession off her, but she really had no choice, and he made no effort to stop her. She washed quickly, and when she came out, he was waiting for her, still gloriously naked.

Without a word, he took her place, and she dressed quickly, moving to the door. It was locked—she would never have gotten through it the night before. She looked around and found the key on the table next to the bed, unlocking it and leaving the damned door open behind her.

Flambeau and Luc were sitting in the living room, staring at her with speculation, and she realized they knew she’d spent the night in his bed. Ignoring them, she went up into the kitchen and set the water on to heat—even though she’d mastered the expresso maker, she wasn’t about to make their lives more pleasant by sharing the secrets. The water was boiling by the time Bastien came into the living room, and she cringed as she heard Flambeau’s lewd whistle.

“How was she, boss?” he demanded. “Did she…” She couldn’t translate the idiom, and she was just as glad.

But Bastien answered him in English. “You wouldn’t be interested in her, Flambeau. She fucks like a nun.”

“And how many nuns have you fucked?” Luc said lazily.

“You’d be surprised,” he replied, and both men laughed.

Chloe checked once again for rat poison beneath the sink.

Peter Madsen hung up the phone. Anderson’s latest report was nothing—he’d found no trace of Chloe in Paris, but he was still searching. The damnable truth was that Chloe on her own couldn’t hide from them. Bastien had trained her, but she didn’t have the killer instinct, the ability to disappear that her husband had. But Anderson was one of his best men and so far, he hadn’t found a trace of her.

Heading back to the crowded dining room table, he braced himself for the usual chaos. Bastien and Chloe’s children had been better behaved when they arrived—Sylvia was a demure thirteen, a new teenager, and Swede a quiet fourteen-year-old. Now, after five weeks of exposure to Mahmoud’s goading and Dylan’s cynical charm, they were just as obstreperous as the two young men who shared their residence. He looked at his younger children. Alex and Ali were thirteen and ten, mostly well-behaved, but the organized chaos surrounding them had taken its toll.

Genevieve met his glance across the table, managing a cheerful shrug. The more children she had the better—she’d taken in Mahmoud and Dylan the moment they’d arrived in England, and they were truly a part of them by now. If Chloe and Bastien were never found, they could count on Swede and Sylvia joining their haphazard little family.

But that wasn’t going to happen. Bastien was somewhere in hiding, though Madsen had no idea where or why, and now Chloe had disappeared in her quest to find him. He could only hope they were together somewhere—at least then Chloe would be safe. If something happened to her on his watch, Bastien would probably kill him. Or at least he’d damn well try. Madsen wasn’t an easy man to kill, any more than Bastien was.

Genevieve had learned long ago not to question his off-hours phone calls, though she made a face at the interruption. She was about to say something when a piece of chicken went flying, thanks to Alex, who didn’t like being teased by Dylan, and the rest of the dinner became airborne as a full-on food fight began. It wasn’t the first one in the last few weeks, and it wouldn’t be the last, and they knew perfectly well they’d have to clean it up. Peter thundered his disapproval, and the battle stopped abruptly, leaving Ali’s golden blond hair caked with mashed potatoes and Dylan dripping with gravy.

He had to find Chloe and Bastien, or he wasn’t going to have a place left to call home.

Chapter

Ten

Bastien ignored her the rest of the day. She’d been afraid he wouldn’t, but she might have been an automaton, serving them food, invisible the rest of the time. It was as if last night hadn’t happened. He disappeared for most of the day, and she could hear the distant sound of gunfire once more. She was washing the dishes, resentfully, as a thousand questions danced in her head.

Who was he planning to shoot? It seemed clear, the constant planning, the gun practice. Someone in Lake Como, where she was supposed to come along as arm candy and distraction, but she had no idea who. How was she going to manage to stop him if she didn’t know who he was planning to murder? Because stop him she would, even at the risk of her own life.

By the time she was finished in the kitchen, the three men were deep in a game of what she assumed was poker, ignoring her. She only spared a thought for the days when she cooked and watched Bastien clean up after dinner—apparently when he lost his memory, he lost all of his feminist leanings. She’d make him wash dishes for a year once they got back, a fitting punishment. Assuming they did get back. She could only go with hope in the midst of this disaster. If she lost hope, she’d lose everything.

Her plan was simple—share his bed and remind him through touch and taste who she was. His body would know hers, even if his brain was stubbornly blank. Not that she was particularly pleased with the notion. Sleeping with her husband when he thought she was simply an easy hostage went against the grain, but at the same time, she craved his touch, his mouth, his beautiful, strong body.

“I’m going to bed now,” she announced. Bastien didn’t even look up, but Luc smiled at her.

“Sleep well, Chloe,” he murmured.

Flambeau let out a coarse laugh, but he said nothing. He probably spent last night listening at the bedroom door, touching himself. She shuddered.