Читать книгу Black Ice - Anne Stuart - Страница 8

There was no question, Bastien thought, as he methodically slid his fingers over Monique’s firm breast. The woman hadn’t come here for him. If she had, Mademoiselle Chloe would not have been so quick to push him away. Even a mediocre operative would know that sleeping with the enemy was the best way to find out what you needed to know, and most men were at their most vulnerable when they were fucking.

He wasn’t most men. He had ice water in his veins, in his cock, and even in the middle of an orgasm he was a dangerous man. Chloe wouldn’t know that—she was inept enough to betray her knowledge of languages within moments of arriving, and she would have taken the bait he’d dangled in front of her if he were really her target.

Which means she was after someone else. Normally that wouldn’t matter to him—he had a job to do and whoever she was there to watch would have to take care of himself.

But this whole affair had been in the works for too many months, and he wasn’t going to let an unexpected player destroy everything he’d worked so hard for.

He slid his hand inside Monique’s silk gown. She wasn’t wearing a bra, and she was hot for him, as she always was. Her husband was old and compliant, as long as she gave him details about her adventures, and he expected the old man had even watched them once or twice. It had neither excited nor bothered him. He could perform with or without an audience, and in the end his partner was unimportant if they were the means to an end.

Monique had no particular value at that point. He’d found out everything he needed from her at their last meeting, but it wouldn’t do to lose interest too quickly. She would be less trouble if he pulled up her skirt and did her against the cool stone wall of the château, in the shadows.

They would be seen, of course. By security cameras, by the armed guards patrolling with such impeccable deference. Hakim would probably have them taped, and provide a copy of it to the old man, as well as any one else with the right price.

He put his hands between her legs and she moaned in his mouth. She wasn’t wearing underwear either, in his honor, no doubt. She was groping for his zipper, and he knew she expected him to be hard. He willed it, by thinking of the look on her face when she came, and he reached for his fly with his other hand, ready to accommodate her, when he realized it wasn’t her face he was envisioning. It was the inept Miss Chloe.

And suddenly he wasn’t in the mood. Instead of unzipping his trousers he simply took her hand away, and with his other he made her come, instantly, so hard that she screamed as her body went rigid.

Not a good idea. He put his hand over her mouth and she bit, hard. Monique liked rough fun and games, and he knew she was trying to draw blood.

He put a stop to that, and the whimper that came from the back of her throat was like a female tiger who’d just been mounted. Monique was like a cat—ruthless, amoral, impervious to ordinary pain. A good match for him.

But he wasn’t interested. He pulled away, letting her skirt fall down around her perfect legs, and she leaned back against the stone wall, mouth open, panting, her eyes glazed with satisfaction. She had blood on her mouth, the bitch. He should have paid better attention.

“That was…interesting,” she said, her voice a husky purr. “But we’ve only just begun.”

“We’ve finished,” he said, and the words surprised him. He’d intended to string her along. After all, the last time he’d been with her was over four months ago, and some recreational sex would have only honed his senses.

But he didn’t want her, and there was nothing to be gained by having her. There were too many unanswered questions about the nervous woman who’d arrived that afternoon and looked at him as if he were crème brûlée and froze when he touched her.

“What do you mean?” Monique demanded.

He leaned over and kissed her full, red lips, taking his own blood with it. “We’ve had a good time, you and I, but don’t you think it’s past time to find a new playmate? Your husband must be tired of hearing about me. Choose a woman next time.”

As he expected, she wasn’t insulted. She smiled her cat smile. “We could ask Miss Underwood to join us. It could prove very entertaining.”

He kept his irritation well hidden. “She’s not my type.”

“And neither am I, apparently. Not any longer.” She shrugged. “Too bad, but as you said, my husband was getting bored. He likes it when men hurt me, and you weren’t particularly into that.”

“Maybe next time,” he said lightly, feeling a faint desire to wring her neck. It was a pretty neck, decked in diamonds.

“Maybe not,” she said, and moved past him, reentering the living room without a backward glance.

He lit a cigarette, blowing the smoke skyward, dismissing her and moving back to more important things. Who had hired Chloe Underwood, and who was she checking up on?

And what a ridiculous name. She might as well call herself Mary Poppins. The name went well enough with her cover, but she should have gone with something a little less jeune fille.

His own organization might have sent her, but he doubted it. Anyone as obvious as she was would have been weeded out long ago. And who was she after? Mr. Otomi, Ricetti or Madame Lambert? Maybe Hakim himself?

One thing was certain—she hadn’t come from the most dangerous of the cozy little cartel. Christos Christopolous didn’t hire any but the best, and he had little use for women in any capacity.

He wondered where the original translator was. Probably in some alley with her throat slit. Just because Miss Underwood wasn’t an expert at dissemination didn’t mean she couldn’t accomplish wet work with the best of them. Those small, slender hands of hers could kill just as efficiently as Hakim’s fists.

And why was he still thinking about her, when she’d already made it clear that this wasn’t about him. Just a word in Hakim’s ear and she would be gone, and he could concentrate on his job.

But then, he was tired of the job. Tired of so many lies he’d forgotten what the truth was, so many names and disguises that he’d forgotten who he really was. So many years that he no longer knew who were the good guys and who were the bad guys. And even worse, he didn’t care.

For some reason Chloe Underwood piqued his curiosity. Made things a little more interesting. It would be a shame to get rid of her too quickly. This job wasn’t a particular challenge—his cover had been accepted long ago, and Hakim wouldn’t prove to be much of a problem. Until Christos showed up he could afford a minor diversion. And if she became an obstacle he could dispose of her just as easily as Hakim could. With more speed and mercy. Hakim liked to see them suffer.

He could watch and wait. He had an instinct for knowing when to act, and right now more could be accomplished by simply biding his time. Until Chloe Underwood decided to make her final, fatal mistake.

She’d made a fatal mistake, Chloe thought as she put her glass of wine back on the table. She should never have had so much to drink on a relatively empty stomach, not when she needed to keep her wits about her. It had been a simple enough matter to keep up with things during the long, leisurely dinner. The conversation had been purely social, and she hadn’t been called upon to translate more than a few words. Which was a good thing, since they kept refilling her wineglass whenever she took a sip, until she was borderline tipsy by the time the cheese course arrived.

She probably would have been fine, even then, if she hadn’t been operating on a base of two glasses of Scotch drunk in quick succession after Monique Von Rutter waltzed back into the living room, her lipstick smudged, her hair tousled, her eyes slumberous.

Bastien Toussaint had kissed her in the hallway, walked into a crowded room, singled out another woman and taken her outside to have sex. There was no question about it—one look at Monique’s flushed face made it crystal clear.

She should have at least waited long enough to let the color subside, Chloe had thought critically, tossing back the glass of whiskey someone had handed her. Bastien was showing more restraint, but then, Monique could have managed it with just lifting her skirts, whereas Bastien would have had to unfasten his trousers…

She drained the glass and reached for another. What the hell business of hers was it? Clearly the man was going after anyone who’d hold still long enough for him to nail them. At least she’d managed to drive him off quickly enough.

She slumped down in her chair, eyeing her brie with dislike. When Bastien had sauntered back in a few minutes later, he looked as cool and composed as he had when she’d first seen him. Really, she was absurd to even think about him. There was nothing less appealing than a man who refused to let his reactions show. If someone could still look that composed after a quickie in the garden then he wasn’t for her. She preferred men who weren’t afraid to show emotion.

And she was making wild assumptions all over the place, she reminded herself, none of which were justified. It didn’t matter whether he was her type or not, he was definitely out of her league.

He hadn’t glanced at her during the interminable dinner, making it even more clear that his interest had been a moment’s distraction. She sat quietly enough in her chair, translating when she needed to, saying nothing otherwise. Monique von Rutter, on the other hand, was the life of the party—witty, charming, flirting with everyone there, both male and female.

Chloe was ready to slide under the table in defeat when Hakim finally rose, signaling an end to the endless meal. “We have a great deal to accomplish tomorrow, mesdames et messieurs. I suggest coffee and liqueurs in the west salon, and then we retire. Those who wish to go directly to bed may, of course, be excused.” He turned his small black eyes in her direction. “You won’t be needed anymore tonight, Mademoiselle Underwood.”

The dismissal was clear and welcome—a liqueur would have put her under the table for sure. She rose steadily enough, secure that her slightly impaired state wouldn’t be noticed in the general exodus.

He was watching her. She couldn’t imagine why, and she couldn’t actually catch him at it, but she knew that he had been watching her all evening, while he charmed every other female present.

Maybe it would make sense in the morning when the wine had worn off and she’d had some sleep, but right then it felt confusing, disturbing, threatening. And oddly, wickedly exciting.

She’d forgotten how tortuous the halls of the château were. Bastien had led her downstairs—she wasn’t about to ask for his help in finding her way back. Trial and error would work well enough.

It took her longer than expected. She should have asked for directions, but by the time she was halfway up the formal staircase there was no one in sight. She halted, slipping off Sylvia’s high heels with a grateful sigh, then continued onward, reasonably certain that she’d find her room sooner or later.

She hadn’t realized quite how large the château was. Even if she’d been entirely clearheaded she would have had a hard time finding her own hallway. At that hour, in the dim light, she could have wandered forever, down one tasteful hall and up another, each one familiar yet strange. It wasn’t until she turned a corner that a familiar-looking door appeared, and she practically sprinted toward it, certain it led to the hallway with her rooms.

She was wrong. The smell was powerful—rot and mildew, the decay of an ancient building. The renovations had only come this far, she realized, peering into the darkness. As far as she could tell the electricity hadn’t been added, but the reflected light through the dusty window illuminated a glimpse of what the rest of the château must have looked like, before someone with far too much money decided to save it. The plastered walls were crumbling, the floor was stained and buckled, and cans of paint stood as mute testimony to further renovation plans. There was another smell beneath the damp and mold, one she couldn’t quite identify, something old and dark and inexplicably…evil. And all that wine had definitely gone to her head—in another moment she’d start imagining she was in some kind of danger. Too much wine, too much imagination. She backed out of the room, slowly, only to come up against a solid, human form.

She screamed, biting back the sound as a heavy hand clamped on her arm, spinning her around.

It was M. Hakim. Her relief was palpable—she actually started babbling. Not that Hakim was warm and fuzzy, but anyone was preferable to the unsettling Bastien Toussaint.

“Thank heavens!” she said. “I’ve gotten all turned around and I was afraid I’d never find my room.”

“This section of the château is off-limits to visitors, Miss Underwood. As you can see, it has yet to be renovated, and it would be very dangerous to wander around in there. If you were to get in trouble no one would hear you scream.”

Chloe was suddenly entirely sober. She swallowed, looking into Hakim’s dark, calm face. And then she forced herself to laugh, breaking the tension.

“I think I need a map to find my way around this place,” she said. “If you can give me directions to my room I’ll head there. I’m exhausted.”

He hadn’t let go of her arm. He had thick, ugly hands, with dark hair across the backs of his sausage-like fingers. He said nothing, and for one brief, crazy moment she thought he was going to shove her back into the deserted wing where no one would hear her scream.

And then sanity returned, and he dropped her arm, and while his smile was far from pleasant at least it was a smile.

“You should be more careful, Miss Underwood,” he admonished her. “Other people might be more dangerous than I am.”

“Dangerous?” She just barely managed to keep the stammer out of her voice.

“Like Monsieur Toussaint, for instance. He can be very charming, but you would be wise to keep your distance. I saw the two of you in the hall this evening, and I was most concerned. For you, Miss Underwood.”

It was shadowy enough that he wouldn’t be able to see the flush that mounted to her cheeks. “He was just showing me the way to the library.”

“With his mouth? I’d keep out of his reach if I were you. The man is notorious. His appetite for women is insatiable, and his tastes are, shall we say, peculiar. I would feel somewhat responsible if you were to run into any trouble while you’re here. After all, I’m in effect your employer, and I wouldn’t want anything unfortunate to happen to you.”

“Neither would I,” Chloe said.

“Turn left, down two corridors then two right turns.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“That’s the way back to your room. Unless you prefer I escort you?”

Chloe managed to suppress her shudder of revulsion. “I’ll be fine,” she said. “If I get lost again I’ll scream.”

“You do that,” Hakim said in a cool voice that somehow failed to reassure her.

But she made it back to her corridor without further mishap, and there was no one lingering, watching for her. The satyrlike M. Toussaint must have found his partner for the night, she thought, faintly disgruntled, as she pushed open her door.

Someone had been in there. There was no key, no way to keep anyone out, and the sense of violation was unavoidable. She shook her head, trying to clear the paranoia away. Why should anyone be interested in a hired translator?

The bed was turned down, one of Sylvia’s diaphanous nightgowns was laid out across it, and a tray with a crystal decanter and a plate of chocolates rested on the gilt table beside the bed.

“Relax, idiote,” she said out loud, to break the hush that enveloped the room. “It was just a maid.”

She got ready for bed quickly, pulling the confection of lace and silk over her head. If she had any sense at all she’d go straight to bed, but her encounter with Hakim had driven sleep right out of her mind. A snifter of brandy wouldn’t hurt.

She might not have made it as a chef, but her sense of taste was excellent, and the cognac was slightly unusual. Some faint undernote that she couldn’t quite recognize. Almost metallic, she would have said, but a place like Château Mirabel would never serve an inferior cognac. It must have been her imagination. It was quite deliciously warming, and she could already feel her eyes drooping. She’d sleep soundly tonight, and she wouldn’t dream of anyone, certainly not Bastien Toussaint.

It was then that she recognized the barest trace of scent in the air. A subtle, distinctive cologne that brought an instinctive, warm response. Until she remembered where it had come from. The silken folds of Bastien’s Armani suit. Why…

She tried to set the snifter of brandy back on the tray, but it was much farther away than she had thought, way of out her reach, and it fell on the floor with the faint tinkle of shattering glass, and she followed it, sprawling out on the carpet.

She hadn’t had that much to drink, she thought, trying to sit up. Surely that one sip of cognac wasn’t enough to send her over the edge.

But apparently it was, and the bed was much too high to climb into. The Aubusson rug underneath her was very beautiful, and if she was careful she could avoid the broken glass, curl up into a nice little ball, and fall into a deep, blissful sleep.

Bastien stepped into her room, closing the door quietly behind him. He didn’t have to be particularly discreet—he knew where the cameras were located, and he could manage his way around them without giving anything away. Besides, he was known as a dedicated womanizer, and it wouldn’t be surprising if he’d managed to do every beautiful female in the area.

Except that the girl wasn’t particularly beautiful. He stood over her, staring down at her curled-up body for a moment. She was pretty. Not a word he tended to use. She had good bone structure, even features, a sweet, full mouth.

Sweet? Pretty? Maybe she was better than he thought. She certainly managed to exude an essentially harmless persona.

He slid his arms under her and laid her out on the bed. She’d washed her makeup off—maybe that was why she was looking so innocent. The nightgown she was wearing was very expensive, with tiny little satin ties down the front. He undid them, one by one, until the gown fell open around her.

A good body as well. A little more butt than many young Frenchwomen, a little more breast as well, but basically young and strong and nicely formed. No sign of the rigorous training she should have gone through. Just enough softness through the arms and belly to tell him she would be warm and welcoming in bed.

Who was he kidding? She’d cut his throat in bed, if he happened to get distracted. And fucking was marginally distracting.

There were marks on her body, beneath her breasts. Red lines, and he ran a finger along them, wondering what kind of torture she’d endured in the distant past.

And then he smiled. Not so distant past—she’d simply been wearing a bra that was too tight.

No woman he’d ever known would wear a constricting bra unless she had no choice. He glanced down her long legs to her feet. The lines were even more pronounced—she’d been wearing the wrong shoes as well.

The drug he put in her cognac was good stuff—she’d sleep for six to eight hours and wake without a hangover, even though she deserved one after all the wine she’d drunk at dinner. His little gift to her.

He searched the room methodically, from top to bottom. She had three more pairs of shoes, all the same size, all slender high heels. She was going to be hobbling in a couple days. If she was still here.

There were no black ops clothing. Not in the room, at least, and she couldn’t have hidden them anywhere on the grounds without someone finding them. No weapons, no papers of any interest. Her passport was an excellent fake—the picture inside looked like a plainer, younger version of the woman who’d walked in today. She supposedly came from North Carolina. She was almost twenty-four years old, five seven, one hundred and twenty-one pounds, and she’d entered France two years ago on a student visa. She had a work permit, a surprise in itself. He never trusted anyone with too clean an identity.

Nothing else in terms of papers, either forged or otherwise. Not much money. No prescription drugs, nothing personal.

There were a bunch of pictures in her wallet—fakes with the young woman posing with various genial family types. Easy enough to doctor.

He put the purse back, moving around to the side of the bed. The glass had broken in large pieces, the drugged brandy seeping into the carpet. Not a bad mess for him to clean up—he’d done far worse. This time there was no blood to get rid of, no body to dispose of. Yet.

He poured the drugged brandy down the bathroom sink, then refilled it from the flask he’d brought with him. He’d brought an extra glass, just in case, and he poured a splash in it before replacing it beside the bed.

He stared down at her again. She was a real professional after all—if he couldn’t find anything in his search then she’d figured something out that even he hadn’t thought of.

Unless, of course, she was telling the truth. That she actually was a twenty-four-year-old woman from North Carolina with no knowledge of who and what they were.

But then, why would she be wearing the wrong shoes, the wrong bra. Why would she lie about her knowledge of languages?

No, given the circumstances, there was no way she could be an innocent bystander. She was there to do damage, and he needed to find out what, and to whom.

He began retying the ribbons that held the silken gown together, then stopped, leaving it open below the waist. She would wonder why, but she wouldn’t remember. He could really do anything he liked to her, and she wouldn’t remember.

There were any number of things he would have enjoyed doing to her, but most of them would be much better if she were awake and participating. She might be inexperienced enough not to take advantage of the blatant pass he’d made at her earlier today, but he wasn’t so sanguine. She’d already betrayed too much already. Get her naked beneath him, move inside her, and he’d know her better than she knew herself.

But not if she was comatose.

He sat down on the bed beside her, watching her as she slept. It would simplify matters if he killed her now. He could do it fast, neatly, and simply tell Hakim he didn’t trust her. Hakim would accept that.

He put his hand on her neck. Her skin was warm, soft beneath his skin, paler against his tanned hand. He could feel the pulse beat steadily, watch the rise and fall of her chest. He tightened his fingers for just a moment, then took them away.

Afterward he wasn’t sure why he did it. Uncharacteristic of him, but then, he’d been playing by different rules recently. Or ignoring the rules he’d been taught.

He stretched his body out alongside hers, his head on the pillow next to her. She smelled like soap and Chanel and cognac, an enticing combination.

“Who are you, bébé?” he whispered. “And why are you here?”

She wouldn’t be answering for another six hours at least. He laughed, at himself, and sat up. There was time. With no weapons, her clear mission was to gather information, and he could ensure that anything she discovered didn’t make it past the walls of the château.

There was time.