Chapter 6 #2
He simply laughed. “Give her one of those tiny blue pills, Luc. We need her compliant for the trip.”
Fear spiked through her. The last thing she wanted was to be drugged and in Flambeau’s care. “You don’t need to give me anything,” she said quickly. “I promise I’ll behave.”
“When we drive past gendarmes?” Bastien said. “I wonder why you’re being so amenable. You’ve been taken by dangerous men and yet you’re willing to stay with us. Why is that?”
She took a deep breath. This was taking a risk, but the situation was already bleak. “Because I’m not convinced you aren’t my husband.”
Luc rolled his eyes. “You told me you knew he wasn’t.”
“I told you what you wanted to hear. If he really is my husband, I don’t want to leave him.”
Luc turned to Bastien, who was watching her with no expression on his face. “She’s not safe, Jean-Marc.”
“Oh, I disagree. If she thinks I’m her missing husband, then she’d hardly turn me over to the gendarmes. I think she’ll behave herself quite well if she thinks it will bring her husband back to her.”
“But you’re not her husband.”
The man who insisted he wasn’t Bastien smiled then, a cold, dangerous smile. “Sooner or later she’ll realize that, and then it will be too late.” He glanced at his thin gold watch. “Take care of the hotel—we’re running late.”
Bastien never wore a watch, or anything ornamental, nothing to identify him, and new doubts assailed her. She had to stop second-guessing herself. This was Bastien, whether he knew it or not, and she wasn’t going to leave him. Not if she could help it.
Two hours later, Chloe saw her first trace of sunshine in two days, and she breathed it in deeply, then wished she hadn’t.
Flambeau had a death grip on her arm, and he clearly hadn’t been able to bathe in days, perhaps weeks.
Neither had Bastien nor Luc, but they didn’t have Flambeau’s particular aromatic charm.
He shoved her in the back seat of an older Renault and then clambered in after her, much to her distress.
He was huge, and the car was small, and she tried to shrink away from him as much as possible.
He simply spread further, his heavy thigh up against hers.
Bastien drove, and she knew a moment of fear. Driving in Paris was always tempestuous, and Bastien drove like a madman, whether he was in a city or on a country road. There was a good chance they were going to die.
But this Bastien pulled out into traffic with surprising care and moved through the congested streets like a driving instructor, all smooth calm.
Someone cut him off, barely missing the front of the Renault, and he didn’t even curse.
He merely drove onward with Zen-like calm, and new doubts assailed her.
“Jesus! Traffic’s bad,” Luc swore. “Can’t you drive a little faster?”
“It always is,” Bastien said smoothly. “We can’t afford to get in an accident or stopped by the gendarmes. Wait till we get to the countryside.”
Luc sat back, grumbling, as they continued their way through what might have been rush hour but might have been simply the usual traffic.
Chloe lean back in her little corner of the car, looking out the window.
They were moving in a stop and start fashion through the congested streets—at any one of the stops, she could open the door and jump out, lose herself in the crowds of businessmen and tourists.
She was a runner—she ran two miles every morning back in North Carolina—and she could outrun Flambeau’s lumbering form.
But what if Bastien came after her? Would he hurt her?
So far, he’d only stood by while Flambeau had hit her, but that was crime enough.
She had no doubt he would hurt her if he wanted to.
She let the idea play in her mind. She could run into the Metro like Audrey Hepburn in Charade, one of her favorite movies. She watched it when she was homesick for Paris. But Audrey had been running from Cary Grant, the foolish girl, and Cary Grant wasn’t who he said he was. Neither was Bastien.
But if she got away, he would disappear, and she wouldn’t find him again. As long as she was with him, she was content, whether he knew her or not. She would stay where she was and take her chances.
They finally made it out of Paris, and the tension that had filled the car relaxed slightly. None of them were prone to chatter, and they continued on in silence, but Chloe could feel the palpable relaxation in the car, and she decided to take a chance.
“Where are we going?”
“You shut up,” said Flambeau, punching her painfully in the arm. “It’s none of your business.”
“Don’t break her arm, Flambeau. That would be a real inconvenience. And it doesn’t matter where we’re going—you won’t be able to get away,” Luc announced from the front seat. Bastien said nothing, concentrating on his still-sedate driving.
But she’d aroused Flambeau’s interest and he put one heavy hand on her knee, squeezing it hard. “I wouldn’t even think about it if I were you, madame. I have been kind to you so far—you wouldn’t want me to lose my temper.”
Chloe’s face still ached from his blows, and she probably looked like holy hell. They’d had no such thing as a mirror in the place, not that she could be bothered with vanity in these circumstances.
She said nothing, and he punched her again, making her arm go numb. “You hear what I say, hein?”
“Leave her alone,” Luc said, turning to them. “She’s smart enough—she knows better than to try to escape, don’t you, Madame Chloe?”
She glanced at Bastien, but he had no reaction to the sound of her name, or to Flambeau’s hurting her. Of course not.
“Yes,” she said in a dull voice. If she sounded completely defeated, they were less likely to worry about her, and she knew she looked totally cowed.
“That’s good. Flambeau here is a bully, but you wouldn’t want our friend Jean-Marc to lose his temper with you. Then you would really know what fear is.”
It took her a moment to realize he was talking about Bastien. The longer she was with him, the more foreign he seemed, and once again, she wondered if she were completely wrong and somehow gotten mixed up with Bastien’s doppelganger. No, that was impossible.
“I will do what you tell me to do,” she said.
“There,” Luc said triumphantly. “I told you she would behave. And you’ll have a good time, chérie. You’ll get to wear a pretty dress and go to a big party with Jean-Marc by your side. That will be fun, yes?”
He was waiting for an answer. “Fun,” she agreed gloomily, and to her absolute shock, Bastien laughed.
At least Flambeau seemed to have lost interest in her—he was staring out the window into the gathering dusk on the highway, ignoring her presence.
Luc and Bastien were talking in low voices, and Chloe could barely catch a word of it.
It had been too long since she’d been in France, and their conversation was full of terms she didn’t know but assumed were criminal patois.
She looked at the back of Bastien’s head, so familiar, so different, and wondered how everything could have gone so wrong.
This was the time they were supposed to enjoy themselves while the children were visiting in England.
Instead of leisurely afternoon sex and quiet morning coffee, she was a prisoner and he was a cold-blooded killer.
And getting back to their real life looked impossible.
She wouldn’t have thought she could relax enough to sleep, but she’d underestimated the stress she was under.
No sooner had they left the main highway for a lesser road, the night closing in around them, than she leaned her head against the window and closed her eyes, falling into a deep, mindless sleep.
She could hear them talking, but the words made no sense, and she drifted deeper and deeper.
She would wake up and fight later. For now, all she wanted to do was sleep.
Le Faucon was pleased. He’d taken a huge chance on this, and everything was working to his benefit. Seven times his people had tried to kill the woman, and each time they’d failed. If he were a superstitious man, he’d think LaDonna was protected by God.
But there was no such thing as God, unless you counted Jean-Marc Clement, the god of death.
He would succeed where everyone else had failed.
He might even get away with it. Le Faucon had no idea what he’d do with him next—possibly give him back to his wife.
Maddelena was growing restive, and she wanted her husband after all these years. Le Faucon could see to it.
The American woman had thrown a wrench into the works, but Jean-Marc was the kind of man who could take unexpected complications and turn them into gold. And Le Faucon had no doubt he would kill her when he was finished his mission. What was one more dead woman?
In the meantime, he seemed to want her, and Le Faucon had decreed that Jean-Marc should have everything he wanted.
He was gifted when it came to the delivery of death, and if he wanted a pet rabbit, Le Faucon would see that he got that too.
No, things were moving along quite perfectly, and if Jean-Marc caused any problems after he finished his job, then there were men who could see to him.
Probably. The man had nine lives, and the ones who had failed to kill LaDonna could have an even harder time putting an end to the god of death.
In the end, someone would succeed. But Jean-Marc was a good man to have in his stable, and there were always specialized jobs he was uniquely suited for. He would let him live. For now.