Page 82 of Icebound

“I don’t kill the women I fuck. I’m sentimental that way.”

“Don’t call it that! It was more than a fuck and you know it.”

His laugh was without humor. “Did you think we were making love? Bébé, I don’t make love, I fuck, and I fucked you. No choirs of angels, the earth didn’t move. A small death, I’ll grant you, but nothing more. But you American women, you always have to think love has something to do with it.”

“Then why did you save my life?”

“Because I’m a fool,” he said flatly. “Now shut up and let me drive.”

One thing was sure—she wasn’t going to be getting on any airplane back to North Carolina, and there was no way he could force her. They drove in silence, through the gathering darkness, while Chloe tried to figure out what to do.

It took her a long while before she started to relax. The danger was over, at least for now, and despite Bastien’s terse demeanor, he wasn’t about to hurt her. He just wanted her out of his life.

But if she left him, she would never see him again, she knew it deep in her heart. He would die or he would disappear. Either way, he’d be gone. She could imagine all sorts of horrific possibilities, like him showing up at Peter’s Hampshire home and being shot dead in front of his children. She shivered at the thought.

“Are you cold?” he asked in a grim voice. Clearly, he was paying more attention to her than he was pretending, and she shook her head.

“It’s been a rough day,” she said mildly.

“It’s not over yet,” he said grimly. “You’re not safe until you’re flying over the Atlantic.”

“Why do you care?” she said, trying to keep the misery out of her voice.

“I told you.”

“That’s right, you don’t kill women you fuck,” she repeated bitterly.

“So, stop asking me questions.”

The drive was endless, and far too short. They’d been on the road for less than three hours when she saw the road signs directing them to Malaga Airport, and her stomach knotted in dread. She said nothing as he navigated the heavy traffic and bewildering roundabouts, and the brightness of the lights was dazzling against the darkened sky. To her amazement, he pulled into a parking garage and turned off the car before turning to her.

He reached across her, his arm brushing her, and she wanted to cry as he pulled paperwork out of the glove compartment. She recognized the blue booklet that had to be her passport among the sheaf of papers, and she sat there numbly as he handed it to her.

“Your name is Mary Bishop and you live outside of Boston. Once you land there, you can get a plane down to North Carolina and this will all be over with.”

“Why can’t I use my own passport?” She opened it and saw her face above the wrong name.

“Because Luc will be looking for you. I didn’t go to all this trouble for you to get shot before you get home.”

“They can find me. They know my name…”

“Not your last name. It’s barely been mentioned. You could be Chloe Bishop for all anyone cares.”

“I’m Chloe Toussaint,” she said, hoping it would spark some tiny bit of recognition. It didn’t.

“You’re Mary Bishop. The passport was done by one of the best forgers—it’s absolutely flawless. There’s your printed ticked to Barcelona, your ticket to Boston, a credit card belonging to Mary Bishop and a thousand dollars. That should be enough to keep you safe until you get back to the States.”

“I don’t want your money.”

“Tough. Consider it compensation.”

“I don’t want to leave you.”

He made an exasperated snort. “Next thing you’ll be telling me that you love me.”

“I do. It’s Stockholm Syndrome.” She said it deliberately, to see if it would spark a reaction.

“Bébé, Stockholm Syndrome is a myth.”