Читать книгу Black Ice - Anne Stuart - Страница 9

Chloe had never been one to wake up slowly. She tended to be alert immediately, and she was nauseatingly cheerful, while her sleep-fuddled siblings and parents threatened her with death or dismemberment if she didn’t stop the damned humming.

That morning was no different, except when her eyes popped open she had no idea where she was.

She decided not to panic, since panic tended to be a waste of time. She lay still, unmoving, and let memory sink back in. The château, and her sucker agreement to take Sylvia’s place. Too much wine last night, and Bastien Toussaint’s practiced mouth.

She hadn’t been kissed in months, so it was no wonder she could still feel the pressure of his lips against hers. Too bad she couldn’t have just let herself go with it. So what if it had been a performance on his part? He probably performed very well indeed.

But she’d always been too picky and too stubborn, and as her friends would tell her too American to really enjoy the pleasures of casual sex. And while a roll in the hay with someone like Bastien would be memorable, she didn’t really like having nothing but memories to hold on to.

She sat up slowly, putting her hand to her head in anticipation of the searing pain she absolutely deserved for drinking all that red wine, but it didn’t come. She gave her head a tentative shake, preparing for the delayed blast of pain, but felt nothing.

She glanced at the bedside table. She’d had a final cognac before she’d fallen asleep—she thought she could remember that much. She hadn’t been more than tipsy; it was odd that she couldn’t remember more. She’d had some cognac, and she thought she remembered dropping it. Falling.

But she was lying in the big, comfortable bed, the brandy snifter was sitting on the tray with just a trace left in the bottom, and she must have drunk even more than she realized.

She pushed back the cover and swung her legs over the side of the bed. And then stopped. Her…or that is…Sylvia’s nightgown was made up of silk and a row of tiny ribbons, but half those ribbons were unfastened, from the hemline to the waist. What had she been doing?

Nothing much fun, she decided after she’d showered and dressed and arranged herself in a decent repetition of Sylvia’s borrowed chic. She eyed the fawn leather shoes with their pointed toes and high, thin heels, and moaned. Maybe she could tell them she had Japanese blood and needed to go without shoes.

No, that probably wouldn’t fly. Much as she would have liked to have an interesting bloodline, she was depressingly, blandly WASP, and no one was going to be fooled into thinking otherwise.

She made it downstairs without getting lost, just in time for a light breakfast of coffee and fruit before the work began. The participants were seated on either side of a long conference table, and a number of them were accompanied by assistants. Except for von Rutter, who was accompanied by his sleek and beautiful wife Monique.

Hakim was at the head of the table, and he gestured to one of the empty places to his right. Toussaint wasn’t in the room, she realized as she sat, setting her cup of coffee down on the burled walnut carefully. Maybe fate was going to be kind after all.

She should have known better. He appeared a moment later, with his own coffee, and took the remaining seat. Beside her.

She listened to the proceedings with only half an ear. A moment of silence for their late colleague, Auguste Remarque. She’d heard that name before, but she couldn’t remember where. It would drive her crazy until she found out—maybe she could simply ask someone. Or maybe she should just keep quiet and try to blend into the background.

There wasn’t much to keep her mind occupied over the next few hours. The organization of food importers were arguing about redistributing territory, and while Chloe had a great fondness for lamb and oranges and a well-cooked chicken, there was a limit to her fascination. The discussions she was asked to translate were dull to the point of madness, she’d always found numbers tedious, and units of chickens and piglets and barrels of corn couldn’t even excite the failed chef inside her. The others at the table seemed to find the discussion endlessly fascinating, and given some of the numbers she was translating she could imagine why. In euros, dollars or pounds they were talking a very great deal of money. She hadn’t realized grocery importers amassed that kind of wealth.

Because she was seated at the top corner of the table she had to turn to look at the speakers, and the man next to her was always just in her line of vision. Despite her hyperawareness, he seemed to have lost all interest in her, barely registering her existence. Since he spoke both French and English she wasn’t required to translate for him, and she could lean back in her chair and pretend to ignore him as well while she doodled on one of the pads of paper they’d set in front of them.

There was only one moment of trouble during the long, tedious morning. There was a word she didn’t know—no great surprise, though she was very fluent.

“What is ‘legolas’?” she asked, “apart from a character in The Lord of the Rings?”

Dead silence in the room, only the sound of a cup rattling in a saucer. They were all staring at her as if she’d asked them about their sex life or, even worse, their yearly income, and then, for the first time that day, Bastien addressed her.

“‘Legolas’ is a breed of sheep,” he said. “Of no particular concern to you.” Someone in the room snickered, whether at his cool dismissal or something else.

“Don’t ask questions, Miss Underwood, simply translate,” Hakim said. “If you’re incapable we can find someone else. We don’t want our progress impeded by incompetence.”

Chloe had never responded well to public reprimands, and she’d already decided she didn’t like Hakim very much. At that point she would have liked nothing better than to be driven back to Paris in that luxurious limousine and never see any of these people again.

Wouldn’t she? She kept her glance away from the man beside her, but she knew perfectly well she wasn’t going to leave before she had to.

“I beg your pardon, monsieur,” she said in French. “If I don’t need to know the meaning of a word I certainly won’t ask. I just thought it might help if I had a better understanding of the subject.”

“Better watch it, Gilles,” Monique said with a throaty laugh. “Bastien wouldn’t like it if you bullied his little pet.”

Bastien lifted his eyes from the table. “Jealous, my sweet?”

“Stop it!” Hakim snapped. “We don’t have time for these petty little squabbles.”

Bastien turned to Hakim, and in doing so, had no choice but to look at Chloe. His smile was beatific, and he lifted his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Forgive me, Gilles. You know I’ve always been easily distracted when a beautiful woman is around.”

“I know you’re only distracted when you want to be, and so do the others. There’s too much at stake to waste time with this kind of thing. This is too important.”

Ducks and pigs and chickens were too important? Fortunately Chloe simply blinked. It was only natural that an importer would think that whatever he imported would affect the fate of the world. The people at the table seemed totally devoid of any sense of humor, but then, financial matters had a tendency to make people deadly serious. She would have to control her own random frivolity.

Hakim rose. “We’ll break for lunch. There’s nothing more we can do at this point.”

“Good,” Bastien said. “I overslept, and I’m hungry.”

“You’re not going to be eating.” The other people were filing out of the room, and Chloe was doing her best to go with them, but she was essentially trapped between the two men. “I need you to do me a favor,” Hakim said.

Too close. “Excuse me,” Chloe interrupted, trying to sidle past him.

“You’re part of the favor, Miss Underwood,” Hakim said, putting a hand on her arm to stop her.

Men in France liked to touch women. For that matter, men in North Carolina did as well, and friendly touches were a matter of course.

But she didn’t like the feel of Hakim’s hand on her arm. Not one bit.

“Of course,” Bastien said immediately, glancing at her stubborn face with palpable amusement. “What would you like us to do?”

“I have an errand for Miss Underwood, and I’d appreciate it if you’d drive her. I need some books.”

“Books?” Chloe echoed.

“For my guests. They won’t be working all the time, and they must have something to occupy them in their off-time. You would know what’s needed, I’m sure, given your experience in the publishing business. Just get a handful in the most common languages. French, English, Italian and German. Something light and escapist—use your judgment.”

“But what about the limousine?” she stammered. “It seems a shame that Monsieur Toussaint has to waste his time on an errand like this instead of continuing with the work.”

“Monsieur Toussaint is more than happy to have a chance to escape for a bit, aren’t you, Bastien? Particularly in the company of such a lovely young lady. And the limousine is being serviced—it’s unavailable.”

Now why on earth would he lie to her? He wouldn’t—there was no reason for him to trump up an excuse to get rid of her. He could simply fire her ass and have done with it.

“And the work this afternoon?” Bastien sounded completely unconcerned. “We wouldn’t want to miss anything.”

“Don’t worry, Bastien. I’ll be looking out for your best interests, you know that. We all rise and fall together. And we’re far from coming to any kind of conclusion as to who will take over as head, not with Mr. Christopolous still absent. This afternoon will be simply jockeying for position. You can safely take the afternoon off and enjoy yourself. Take Mademoiselle Underwood for a nice long lunch in St. André. There’s no hurry.”

Chloe racked her brain for a good excuse, even a lousy one, to get out of it, but for the moment she could think of nothing. “If you’re certain, Monsieur Hakim.”

Gilles Hakim’s smile was benevolent, and it was only her imagination that the shadows in the brightly lit room made it look faintly sinister. “I am certain, mademoiselle. Tomorrow morning will be time to get back to work. In the meantime, enjoy yourself.”

“I’ll see that she does,” Bastien said. Taking the arm that Hakim had clamped down on, his pressure was only slight, but she moved with him anyway.

Not that the touch of his hand on her skin was less unsettling, she thought, letting him steer her out of the room. The feel of his skin next to hers was a different kind of threat, one that was dangerously enticing.

It was easy enough to pull free once they left the room. “If you’d lend me your car I’m sure I can find the bookstore myself,” she said evenly.

“But then I wouldn’t have the chance to spend some time with you,” he said. “And no one drives my car but me. I’m particular that way. Why don’t you go up and change into some more comfortable shoes? I’m certain you have some.”

She would have given ten years off her life to have more comfortable shoes, but Sylvia hadn’t thought it was necessary, any more than she’d considered the difference in their sizes to be important. It was all Chloe could do not to hobble, but she summoned her best smile.

“These are perfectly comfortable,” she said. “I’m ready if you are. The sooner we go, the sooner we can get back.”

“True enough,” he murmured. “Though I find I don’t believe you’ve been quite as honest about the shoes.” There was a faint emphasis, as if he thought she hadn’t been honest about other things. Or maybe her crazy imagination was going at it again.

He drove a Porsche. Of course he did, Chloe thought, sliding into the front seat. He’d waited long enough for her to get her purse, and she’d tried on every pair of shoes Sylvia had sent, but the other ones were even worse. In the end she grabbed a coat and went out, finding her way downstairs without mishap this time, only to find him waiting by his tiny little car.

It was a cloudy day, so at least the top was up. Despite the lack of brilliant sunlight he was wearing dark glasses, and he was leaning against the side of the car, arms folded across his chest, calmly waiting for her. Another custom silk suit, probably Armani, with a pale silk shirt and no tie. His black hair curled behind his neck, and his face was unreadable. He opened the door for her, and the interior looked very small and cozy. Too cozy.

And she could think of absolutely no excuse not to go with him. She pulled Sylvia’s Hermès bag to her shoulder, stiffened her back, and climbed into the low-slung car, avoiding his helping hand. She heard him laugh before he closed the door behind her.

The interior of a Porsche was as tiny as she’d feared. And he seemed bigger. In the château he’d seemed average size—elegant, clean lines, not too tall, not too bulky. In the car his presence was overwhelming, and his legs were a lot longer than she’d realized. He had the seat all the way back, and he peered up at the sky before putting the car into gear.

“Are you sure you don’t want to bring an umbrella?” he asked. “The weather looks uncertain.”

Sylvia hadn’t packed an umbrella. “We’ll just have to hope the rain holds off until we get back. We shouldn’t have to be gone too long. I just need to choose a few novels for Monsieur Hakim’s guests and then we can come back.”

“What about lunch?” He started down the long, curving drive away from the château.

“I’m not hungry,” she lied. “I can get something when we get back if I change my mind.”

“Whatever pleases you, Chloe,” he said, his voice as silken as his charcoal-gray suit, as silken as the tanned skin at his narrow wrists. His hands on the steering wheel were lean, beautiful, and he wore a wedding ring. Of course he did. Those hands looked very strong as well. “Better use your seat belt. I drive fast.”

She opened her mouth to protest, then shut it again. By now she should have gotten used to the crazed speeds used in Europe, and the faster he drove, the faster this would be over with. She pulled the seat belt across her and fastened it, leaning back in the leather seat.

“I presume you don’t wish to talk to me?” he asked. They were speaking in English, she realized, and had been for the last few minutes. She hadn’t even noticed.

She certainly wasn’t in the mood for light conversation in either French or English, since his light conversation included flirtation, and his wedding ring was plainly visible. “I’m very tired,” she said, closing her eyes.

“Then I’ll put on some music.” The sound of Charles Aznavour filled the car, and Chloe stifled a little moan. Aznavour had always been her great weakness, and listening to the sadness of Venice made her bones melt.

She could always lose herself in the sound of his voice, forget who she was with. Except that Bastien wasn’t easily ignored. Without speaking he still filled her senses—the subtlety of his very expensive cologne teased at her, the gentle sounds of his breathing serenaded her.

The cologne was insidiously appealing. She ought to ask him what the name was, so she could buy some for her brothers. On second thought that might not be so good an idea. She would never smell that particular scent without thinking of Bastien Toussaint, and the sooner his presence—his very married, womanizing, undeniably seductive presence—was out of her life, the better.

It was her own damned fault, Chloe thought, as Aznavour’s voice surrounded her like a swathe of rough silk. She’d been longing for adventure, a little vicarious sex and violence to shake things up. She’d had the vicarious sex, and that was already more than she’d bargained for. And it had been nothing more than a kiss. She could only hope that fate hadn’t decided to toss a little violence her way as well.

I was only kidding, God. She cast her thoughts skyward, still trying to feign a nice, deep sleep. A nice, comfortable, boring life in Paris is all the adventure I want.

Be careful what you wish for. She opened her eyes just a crack, to take a surreptitious look at Bastien. His attention was focused on the narrow road ahead of them, his hands draped loosely, confidently on the small steering wheel as he sped through the countryside. For some silly reason she thought spying on him when he didn’t realize she was looking might tell her something about him. He looked the same, the high, strong nose, beautiful mouth, the calm, slightly amused demeanor. As if he found the world to be nothing more than a joke of the blackest humor.

“Change your mind about lunch?” he asked, not turning. So much for spying—he’d known she was watching him and as usual he’d given nothing away.

She closed her own eyes again, closing him out. “No,” she said. And beneath the sound of Charles Aznavour her stomach growled.

He knew the minute she actually fell asleep. Her hands had been in her lap, clutching the leather handle of her bag, and they’d relaxed. Her breathing had slowed, too, and her pretty mouth was no longer a narrow, nervous line. He should have told her to take off her shoes, at least until they got there. But then, she would refuse to admit they hurt her.

What other lies would she tell? It would be interesting to see, and if all went well he’d have time enough to find out. First he had to get to a pay phone and call Harry Thomason, see if the Committee knew anything about exactly who Chloe was. As well as see what they were going to do about the shipment of Legolas sheep to Turkey. Because they weren’t sheep, they were very powerful weapons with infrared sites and smart bullets capable of doing a very great deal of damage by even the most inept of marksmen. He had little doubt what the Committee wanted him to do. Let them deliver the weapons, let innocent people die while the Committee went in search of bigger fish to fry. Collateral damage was their mantra, and Bastien had long ago stopped caring.

He glanced at his sleeping companion. She wasn’t going to last long, not with her ineptitude. But in her case it wouldn’t be collateral damage, it would be the fortunes of war.

He just hoped, for some odd reason, that he wouldn’t have to be the one who killed her.