Page 6 of Icebound

“I told you to get rid of her,” he said, poking her with his booted foot. She was out cold.

“We needed to know how she came to have a picture of you that she was flashing all over the place.” He shoved the crumpled photograph at him. “That’s you, isn’t it?”

Jean-Marc surveyed the photo. “Looks like me,” he allowed. “But it’s not me. He looks too fucking cheerful.”

“Yeah,” Flambeau said. “But still, it looks like you. Or your twin brother.”

“He’s not me,” he insisted. “And I’m an only child.” Though how he knew that he wasn’t quite certain.

“Then I’ll get rid of the woman.”

“How are you planning on doing that? You already dragged her down here, and missing American women cause too much attention.”

“Luc was the one who found her, and he told me to pick her up and bring her to you. I know what I’m doing. She won’t be found.”

Jean-Marc looked at the picture of his doppelganger again. It wasn’t him, but it was fascinating, nonetheless. The man stood in a place he’d never been, with an entirely too peaceful expression on his face. He was a stranger. He looked down at the woman and let out an irritated sound. “Maybe we’d better question her. If I have a double, I’m better off knowing about it. He might come in handy some time.”

“Up to you, boss.” Flambeau said. “She’s just another complication.”

“I’m wondering why she showed up here, and now,” Jean-Marc said. “You can get rid of her after we find that out.”

Flambeau shrugged his massive shoulders. “She’s pretty enough. I’ll take my time.”

Jean-Marc looked at her again, considering. She wasn’t his type, apart from her nice ass, and he couldn’t let himself get distracted. “We can’t afford noise down here.”

“Don’t worry, boss. I know what I’m doing,” he said again. He leaned down and scooped up the unconscious woman again. “Where will I put her?”

“Tie her up,” he said without thinking. “I’ll decide what to do with her later.”

Flambeau pawed at the woman’s breasts, another annoyance, and not for the first time, Jean-Marc considered getting word to his employer and getting the man removed. Le Fauçon was a hard man to find, and it would be easier said than done. But Flambeau was a pig, a distraction rather than an asset.

“Sure thing,” Flambeau said cheerfully enough. “Just give me a taste when you’re done with her.”

Chapter

Four

Everything hurt. Chloe couldn’t move, and she squirmed helplessly as she came back to consciousness. Opening her eyes, she squinted, trying to see through the shadowy confines of the room. She tried to move her feet, but they were tied, too tightly, to the chair she was sitting in, and her arms were behind her back, her wrists lashed to the chair. Her hair was falling in her face, and she shook it back, then took in a deep breath behind the gag that silenced her mouth.

A man was sitting across the room from her, bent over a mound of papers, his forehead creased, and she waited for him to look up. And waited. She made a muffled noise, but either he didn’t hear her or he ignored her, she wasn’t sure which. She tried it again, shaking the chair beneath her, and he lifted his head.

Bastien! Except, it wasn’t. This man had darker hair, longer, and dark, inimical eyes as he stared at her with absolutely no recognition. It was Bastien’s face, and yet it wasn’t. It was the face of a cold-blooded killer, no humanity in it at all, as he stared at her from across the room.

“Flambeau!” he called out suddenly, another anomaly. He had a faint French accent, not Bastien’s British one, and the expression on his face was so deadly that for a moment Chloe was convinced she was looking at a stranger. “Your little bird is awake.”

The bear-like man shambled up, a leer on his face. “Yes, boss,” he said, coming up in front of her, blocking her view of…of Bastien. “You want me to question her here?”

The man leaned back, as if he was no more than casually interested. “Might as well. Ask her where she got that picture.”

It was then she realized they were speaking French, speaking it as if they assumed she wouldn’t understand. But Bastien knew she was fluent, had spent her days in Paris translating children’s books, and she tried to look around Flambeau’s bulk to catch his eye.

But he’d gone back to his papers as if she were of no importance, and the man in front of her had an ugly expression on his face. “You are going to answer my questions, lady,” he said in thickly accented English. “Do not attempt to lie to me, because I will know, and things will not go well for you if you do. You will tell me who you are, what you are doing in Paris, and where you got that photograph.”

Since he made no effort to remove her gag, she simply looked up at him impatiently, glancing once again at Bastien. He must be playing some deep game, but he’d hardly let anyone hurt her. Even if he was studiously ignoring her.

“You will tell me, hein?” the man said again, and Chloe glared at him.

“She can hardly tell you anything while she’s gagged,” Bastien pointed out lazily, as if the fact that his wife was bound and gagged and about to be questioned by a brute was of no importance at all.