Icebound (Ice #7)

Beginnings

He was gone.

Chloe Toussaint dragged herself downstairs in her sprawling house, certain she’d find him sitting at the wooden counter, a cup of his infernally dark coffee in one hand, a wry expression on his face.

He’d come to her, and kiss her, and carry her back upstairs, and they would exorcize the demons that had come out last night, and she would feel safe and whole again.

They fought infrequently, but when they did, it was powerful, made right by incendiary sex and resulting compromise, but last night had been epic.

The children were gone, spending the summer with Peter and Genevieve Madsen, and their wood and glass house in the middle of the woods created a cocoon of privacy that allowed them full access to their passions.

Last night had been a monumental blow-out.

“I’m going,” he’d said, his flat black eyes brooking no disagreement.

“Where?” she’d demanded.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Are you leaving me?”

“No.” But that was all he’d said, as he’d thrown a few things into a suitcase, including his handgun.

She hadn’t known he still had it, and suddenly, years vanished and she was back when she’d first met him, terrified of him, mesmerized by him, the man, the killer, the cold, heartless stranger who’d become her tender and loving husband.

Swede and Sylvia were teenagers now, unaware of their father’s dangerous past, their mother’s deadly adventures on the streets of Paris, and she had been determined to keep it that way.

At least they wouldn’t know that he’d left her.

Except that he said he wasn’t leaving her. But she hadn’t seen that look on his face for too long—the dark, soulless expression that shut out everything and everyone.

She’d stormed at him, throwing things, anything to provoke a reaction, to shake him out of the cold stasis.

She expected to see the shattered dishes on the slate floor of the kitchen, but they were gone, swept away with no sign that a raging row had occurred.

No note on the counter, no empty coffee cup.

No sign that the husband she adored with every bit of her being had disappeared into the ether, taking his gun and his secrets.

It wasn’t as if she thought he’d gone off to another woman—she knew better than that. He loved her completely, they belonged together and always would. But all he’d said was that something had come up, and he was leaving, and he would tell her nothing more.

So be it. She would wait for him—he couldn’t stay away that long. Whatever mysterious business had called him away would be over quickly, and she’d make him grovel when he dragged his sorry ass back to North Carolina.

It wasn’t as if he hadn’t gone away before, and he hadn’t always told her where he was going.

That was just something she’d learned to accept when she married a man with a past he refused to talk about.

After all these years he was as much a mystery as he’d always been, albeit a mystery who was hers in every sense of the word.

She would calm down, accept his absence, and wait for him.

But there’d been something different about this time.

Something had seemed stripped away from him, his elemental humanity, and deep inside, the thought terrified her.

She had long ago accepted the fact that there was an integral darkness to Bastien Toussaint, one that remained no matter how much she loved him.

Love was not the answer to everything, even though she wished to God that it was.

She would wait. What else could she do? She would make herself a cup of Italian roast coffee, then she would Facetime the children in England and not mention that their father had gone missing.

She would move on with her life since she had no other choice.

After all, she wasn’t pathetically dependent—she had a life, things to do.

He’d be back in a matter of days, a week at the most. She could wait.

Bastien moved through crowds at Charles de Gaulle airport, blending in as he knew he could.

It was one of his talents that never faded, his ability to disappear in a crowd, just as he could command every eye if he so desired.

He was taller than most Frenchmen, thanks to his British grandfather’s blood, but he could draw a cloak of anonymity around him with no effort. He needed it this time.

The message had come innocuously enough, a simple name on his cell phone, the phone no one knew he had.

Le Faucon. It was a name few had known, a man no one had ever been able to track down.

The Hawk, a confederate of Christos Christopolous, had been the one man who’d survived the bloodbath so long ago that had ended the small but powerful cartel of arms dealers.

And now he was back, looking for payback after all these years.

The name was bad enough. The accompanying photo was bone-chilling. It was a photograph of Chloe, a haunted look on her face. And Bastien had known he must go.

He couldn’t tell her. It wasn’t often that he had to return to the life he’d known, and it had been over five years since he’d last walked away from her, but this left him no choice. It was a direct threat, and he was going to destroy Le Faucon before Chloe even knew he existed.

Paris was the obvious place to start, and the second message that had appeared on his phone, the one he took with him, verified that.

Notre Dame. It was, without doubt, a trap, but then, a determined assassin could have tried to take him out at any time.

Why lure him to Paris if someone simply wanted him dead? Why threaten his wife?

His enemies might think his talents had become rusty over the years, if they didn’t know him.

Le Faucon did. He wouldn’t underestimate him.

The picture of Chloe had been taken at their hidden fortress in North Carolina, and he’d been forced to leave her alone there.

He had no guarantee that Le Faucon wouldn’t send someone there, or go himself after luring Bastien away, but he had no choice but to follow his instinct.

The only way he could truly protect Chloe or his children was to keep far away from them, much as it gutted him.

She would be safe in their house with its security systems so advanced the American government wouldn’t be able to get past them.

She would be safe, and pissed as hell at him, but he could talk her out of it.

He just had to find and finish Le Faucon.

The grand old lady was swathed in scaffolds and enormous sheets of plastic, the sidewalks blocked off to the curious and the faithful.

He’d never been either one, and if he’d been a sentimental man, the change in the skyline would have caused him a pang or two.

He wasn’t a sentimental man. Whoever had called him to this dusty sidewalk hadn’t been interested in sightseeing.

It remained to be seen if he was interested in murder, or something else.

He knew him the moment he saw him, either a testament to his still-sharp skills or the man’s less than stellar ones.

He was a man in his late thirties, casually dressed with wire-rimmed glasses, seemingly interested in the restoration of the cathedral and nothing else.

He didn’t look like a killer, he looked like a student, but Bastien knew that anyone could kill, given the right motivation.

The man was biding his time, seemingly engrossed in the posted drawings of the progress, and Bastien strolled up to stand beside him, his eyes taking in the 3D drawings with seeming interest.

“I’m that obvious, am I?” The man said in French, his eyes never leaving the poster.

“You weren’t trying to hide,” Bastien said, his voice cold. “What do you want from me?”

“Believe it or not, I want to help you.”

Bastien didn’t waste time with derision. “And just how would you help me? By threatening my wife?”

“That wasn’t me. In fact, it was your old friend…” the words stopped. “But we should go someplace where I can tell you everything.”

“My old friend…?”

The man glanced around him, at the throngs of tourists, and shrugged.

“We need a bit of privacy. Follow me.” He started off through the crowds, heading toward the river, clearly expecting Bastien to be fool enough to come with him.

Bastien stayed where he was. This was feeling all wrong.

Amateurish, for one thing, when his enemies were some of the most highly trained in the world.

And business was not conducted at one of the busiest tourist sites in France, even given Notre Dame’s condition.

The last thing he intended to do was follow a harmless-looking stranger away from…

It was a sting on the side of his neck, and he slapped at it, wondering if he was dead.

But it was no bullet, something smaller, infinitely tiny, and he felt his knees give way.

He was going to be face down on the crowded sidewalk, and whoever had shot at him would have no problem in finishing him off with quick efficiency.

He thought of Chloe, looking adorable in her fury with him, and he wondered if she’d ever hear what happened to him. He’d always known he lived on borrowed time, and the bill had come due. But he wasn’t ready to leave her.

“Chloe,” he whispered, as he fell to the ground, and everything went black.