Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Chloe lay on the narrow cot, wide awake.
She was still dressed in jeans and a sweater, her sneakers on the floor beside her.
She was going to have to escape, whether she wanted to or not.
Because she’d heard him say, very clearly, that he would probably kill her after the mysterious event in Como, and she wasn’t about to stand by and let that happen.
If she managed to escape, and that was a big if, she knew she would never see her husband again. If she did, he’d probably try to kill her. The mysterious Jean-Marc wouldn’t have to try too hard.
She kept hoping he would wake up in the morning and suddenly recognize her, but that hope was fading.
And what if he killed her and then remembered?
Chloe shuddered at the thought. She was in too deep, and she had to get the hell out of there, not keep waiting for a deus ex machina.
Maybe if she got away, then Peter Madsen would be able to find him.
It was the middle of the night. Her Apple watch had stopped working days ago, but she could tell it was somewhere between two and five a.m. The man in the room next door would be sound asleep, and all she had to do was creep out silently and lose herself in the woods that surrounded the old farmhouse.
It was a slim chance—there were three of them to search and only one of her, but she couldn’t just stay here like Cinderella facing the guillotine without making an effort to survive.
She wasn’t going to think about what would happen if they found her, if Flambeau was the one who found her.
It did her no good to dwell on the danger she was in, on the unlikelihood of a successful escape.
She would be paralyzed with fear if she did, and no one was going to come riding to her rescue.
In the past, it had been Bastien who’d rescued her. Now she had to save herself from him.
The cot creaked as she slowly rose from it, and she froze, listening for a sound from the adjoining bedroom. It would have been helpful if he snored, but that was one of the things he had in common with the real Bastien. More proof that he was her husband.
She made absolutely no noise as she moved through her tiny alcove into the main bedroom.
It was pitch-dark, but her eyes had adjusted to it, and she looked at the man on the bed.
He was sound asleep, lying on his stomach, and he wore no shirt.
She could see the contours of his back, both familiar and yet foreign, and she reminded herself she had to keep moving.
He was a heavy sleeper—she knew that much already.
When she’d gotten up to pee, he hadn’t heard a sound, and she’d been deliberately noisy. At least something was going her way.
She skirted the bed silently, holding her breath, but he slept on. She let out a tiny sigh of relief as she reached the door, reached for the doorknob, when his lazy voice speared the darkness.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
All her fear and tension exploded and she yanked at the door, desperate, but it didn’t budge, and suddenly he was there, reaching for her and she exploded in rage and fear, hitting him.
It was a waste of time. Pushing her up against the door, he subdued her quickly, catching her flailing arms in one hand as he held her there with his body. He was so damned big—she couldn’t break free, and she kicked at him, panting.
“You can’t escape,” he said in a dark, cold voice. “Why would you want to leave your husband that you love so much?”
The hope was only for a second, and then it went crashing down. “You’re not my husband,” she said bitterly.
“I’m glad you realize that.”
She fought against him, but the hand holding her wrists was inexorable, and she bucked against his imprisoning body. Until she realized with a shock that he was hard, the solid ridge of flesh unmistakable.
He caught her reaction—how could he miss it, as close as he was. “Yes, I’m hard,” he said in his tense, low voice. “Don’t you think it’s time we ended this little dance?” And before she could stop him, he dropped his head down, setting his hungry mouth against hers.
She bucked again, and he growled, a purely sexual sound that somehow set her own response into overdrive.
This wasn’t Bastien, she told herself. Even though he felt like him, tasted like him.
She tried to pull her mouth away from him, but his other hand came up and caught her chin in a hard grip and he continued to kiss her, deep and carnal, a question with only one answer, a promise that needed to be fulfilled. And she kissed him back.
She was pressing her body closer to his imprisoning strength, and he released her wrists to put his hands on her hips, his fingers splayed, holding her still as he pushed against her.
Sliding her arms around his neck, all conscious thought left her.
She needed him, needed Bastien, and this was the closest she was going to get.
She felt his hand between then, fumbling with her pants, unzipping them and shoving them down her legs.
She kicked out of them, no longer rational, and she heard the telltale rasp of his own zipper, and then he was lifting her, his hands strong on her thighs, pinning her against the door.
She wanted to cry out, to beg him to stop, but if he stopped, she couldn’t bear it.
She could feel him hard against her, a maddening temptation, and she thought she would explode with frustration.
He pulled her legs around him and pushed inside her, hard and deep.
She cried out. This was wrong, this was too good, and he started to move—slow, steady thrusts that were destroying her, filling her, drawing her toward a fast oblivion that terrified her.
She couldn’t do this, but she was doing it, clinging to him as he held her up against the door, fucking her with a demand so elemental she wanted to cry out, to curse him.
His mouth caught hers again, his kiss erasing her doubts, her fears, until all that remained was the all-consuming fire between them.
She couldn’t think, couldn’t doubt—she moved with him as he pushed inside her, with slow, deliberate thrusts that destroyed her.
There was nothing left but pure reaction and she wanted to beg him to release her, beg him to stop, beg him for more.
He was moving faster now, slamming into her and she cried out in pain and pleasure. More, she thought, desperate, but she said nothing, until her entire body caught fire, a burning conflagration that wiped out everything but the overpowering, terrifying completion.
He wasn’t done. His thrusts were slower now, more deliberate, and she wanted to fight against him. He’d buried his face in her shoulder, taking her with slow deliberation, supporting her body against the doorway that squeaked with his thrusts.
It hit her again, stealing her breath, her heart, her soul, as she felt him push deep inside her, finding his own release.
He held her there for moments, and then he pulled out abruptly, letting her feet down to touch the floor. Her legs couldn’t hold her up, and she collapsed, falling back against the door, and she could feel the damning tears flowing down her face.
She had made love with her husband for fifteen years and she knew everything about him. This was not her husband.
He stepped away from her, going into the bathroom and leaving her alone there, a pathetic puddle of broken humanity. She should pull herself together, get to her feet and hide in her room, but she was too shattered, too broken to move.
She didn’t want him to see her tears. They were a weakness, a sign of his triumph over her, and she wouldn’t let him win.
She didn’t know how long he was in the bathroom, but he was suddenly back in front of her, picking her up in his arms and carrying her over to the bed.
She didn’t want to sleep with him, but her muscles refused to pay attention. Setting her down carefully, he pulled the cover over her and then joined her on the far side of the big bed, and if she thought he’d pull her into his arms she was mistaken.
“Don’t cry, chérie. It’s just a simple fuck, long overdue.” His voice came out, low and sensual and satisfied. And a moment later, he was asleep.
She wanted to wake him up, beating on him. She wanted to cry out and wail and berate him, call him a rapist. But she’d been numbly willing, and her body still shook from the aftermath of her pleasure.
There was no more intimate way to know a man, and the truth was hard and nauseating. The man beside her in bed wasn’t her husband. She’d just betrayed Bastien in the most elemental way she could, and her guilt and shame were overwhelming.
She closed her eyes. Tomorrow, she could put things in perspective.
She hadn’t been given much of a choice, and no one needed to know that she climaxed in the doppelganger’s arms. She would double her efforts to get away from these men who were, in fact, all strangers.
She would escape, and somehow she would find the real Bastien.
She would tell him everything, because she always did, and he would forgive her, and eventually, eventually everything would be all right again.
If only she could believe it.
Jean-Marc’s body hummed with satisfaction.
He hadn’t realized how much he needed that, and her presence in the small room beyond his had been more temptation than he was willing to put up with.
He’d been planning to seduce her eventually, this just sped things up a bit.
Now he would have to deal with her stupid tears and her guilt, but they were of no interest to him.
She must know by now he wasn’t her missing husband, and he wondered if he could get her to switch allegiance to him.
He could always tell her he knew where this Bastien was and he would reunite them if she did what she wanted.