Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
Bastien ignored her the rest of the day.
She’d been afraid he wouldn’t, but she might have been an automaton, serving them food, invisible the rest of the time.
It was as if last night hadn’t happened.
He disappeared for most of the day, and she could hear the distant sound of gunfire once more.
She was washing the dishes, resentfully, as a thousand questions danced in her head.
Who was he planning to shoot? It seemed clear, the constant planning, the gun practice.
Someone in Lake Como, where she was supposed to come along as arm candy and distraction, but she had no idea who.
How was she going to manage to stop him if she didn’t know who he was planning to murder?
Because stop him she would, even at the risk of her own life.
By the time she was finished in the kitchen, the three men were deep in a game of what she assumed was poker, ignoring her.
She only spared a thought for the days when she cooked and watched Bastien clean up after dinner—apparently when he lost his memory, he lost all of his feminist leanings.
She’d make him wash dishes for a year once they got back, a fitting punishment.
Assuming they did get back. She could only go with hope in the midst of this disaster.
If she lost hope, she’d lose everything.
Her plan was simple—share his bed and remind him through touch and taste who she was.
His body would know hers, even if his brain was stubbornly blank.
Not that she was particularly pleased with the notion.
Sleeping with her husband when he thought she was simply an easy hostage went against the grain, but at the same time, she craved his touch, his mouth, his beautiful, strong body.
“I’m going to bed now,” she announced. Bastien didn’t even look up, but Luc smiled at her.
“Sleep well, Chloe,” he murmured.
Flambeau let out a coarse laugh, but he said nothing. He probably spent last night listening at the bedroom door, touching himself. She shuddered.
She was tempted to lock the door, just to express her displeasure, but that would only piss Bastien off. Anway, sex with her husband was its own particular delight, but not under these circumstances. She needed tenderness, caring. Those seemed unlikely as well.
She took a second shower. Someone had left expensive soaps and shampoos on the shelf, and she used them, feeling like a concubine preparing herself for her lord and master. But something made her want to primp and primp she did.
But this wasn’t one of her romance novels, this was life or death, and she needed to remember that. There was always the possibility that he would just take her brutally, with no finesse or care.
No, that wasn’t going to happen. He had too much pride to leave a woman unsatisfied. And in doing so, he’d remember, she was sure of it.
She looked at the big bed. It was a shame she had nothing seductive to wear, but then Jean-Marc, as he was now, didn’t need seduction. He needed release.
But she couldn’t bring herself to climb into that bed. He was going to have to come and get her—she demanded that much. Instead, she lay down on her own narrow bed, pulling the covers up around her naked body. He could come to her.
The only problem with this plan was that she was more nervous than aroused.
She thought back to the night before and heat flushed her body, but as she listened for his arrival, that erotic haze began to fade, and her stomach clenched in nerves, not desire.
She could hear laughter from the living room and it speared her temper.
What was he doing, playing cards, when he had a warm, willing woman waiting for him?
Of course, he didn’t know that she was necessarily willing. And she wasn’t about to go back out to the living room and order him to bed. She would have to be patient, but she was so nervous, patience was in short supply.
To her surprise, she fell into an uneasy sleep, filled with dangerous dreams that meant nothing. She woke when she heard the door open and she held her breath, waiting.
He went into the bathroom first, and she decided she’d pretend to be asleep. She didn’t want him to think she was waiting for him. He moved quietly, like a cat burglar, and she held her breath. A moment later, the light went out and she heard the telltale creak of the big bed.
She lay very still for a long moment, listening to the barely audible sound of his breathing. He’d rejected her. Apparently he didn’t like women who fucked like nuns.
She was going to kill him.
She was wide awake; Jean-Marc could sense it in the tension emanating from her tiny room.
The thought amused him. She didn’t want to have sex with a stranger, and yet she was angry that he’d left her in her bed.
He’d been so tempted not to. She’d been so hot up against the door, furious in her need and response. She’d been so deadly the next morning.
It wasn’t anything he couldn’t circumvent with a little inventiveness, but instead, he left her alone.
He didn’t want those warm brown eyes looking at him in reproach, he didn’t want her crying rape.
In order to get her to do what he wanted, he’d have to be more charming.
She hated him now—a slow seduction was in order so that she was willing to die for him.
Not that he was planning for her to die.
He’d kill LaDonna and then escape, leaving Chloe behind and hopefully in one piece.
She wouldn’t know enough to tell the police anything that would lead to them—they’d been very careful, using aliases.
Jean-Marc wasn’t even his real name, though he couldn’t remember what name he actually started out with.
Too many aliases over too many years. The only name he was sure he’d never used was Bastien.
He could smell shampoo and soap on the night air. He’d heard the shower going earlier—she’d washed for him, and now she was lying in her lonely bed pissed as hell because he wasn’t going to force himself on her? Women were strange creatures.
He was a strange man. He had a hard dick just thinking about her so close by, and he knew perfectly well he could make her come quite easily.
It was what she expected. But he was better off keeping her on her toes, not knowing what to expect.
By the time he took her to his bed for good, she’d be desperate for him.
In the meantime, he’d leave his rebellious body alone and sleep with a hard-on—it wasn’t as if he hadn’t done so plenty of times before.
He just wished she didn’t smell so good.
The narrow bed was hard beneath her, and Chloe’s covers had slipped off her naked body. She was cold, and she quickly yanked the blanket up around her shoulders. All she needed was Bastien to look into the alcove bedroom and see that she was sleeping naked and he’d know she’d waited for him.
She listened carefully, but there was no sound from the room beyond, nor from the entire farmhouse.
It was late, and she’d overslept—she was surprised no one had turfed her out of bed and ordered Cinderella to make breakfast. Fuck it.
Fuck them all. She threw back the covers and climbed out of bed, not giving a damn if Bastien saw her.
She was pissed, and she had no intention of hiding it.
She dressed quickly, using the bathroom and then moving through Bastien’s deserted bedroom. His bed was a tangle of covers—he hadn’t slept well the night before. Good.
The living room was deserted. There were empty coffee cups scattered around, but no sign of her captors.
It was late—had they let her sleep out of kindness?
Unlikely. Kindness was in short supply among the three men, with the possible exception of Luc.
She was about to scoop up the coffee cups when something made her go to the front door.
She opened it and looked out. The car was gone.
There was no sound of gunfire in the woods—in fact, birds were singing quite cheerfully. She’d been abandoned.
She closed the door again. One of the men may have been left behind to guard her, but she didn’t think so. For the first time in days, she was entirely alone, which meant one thing. She could run.
She considered it carefully. Bastien was showing no signs of regaining even the slightest bit of memory, and he was a very dangerous man.
If she pissed him off, endangered his mission, whatever that was, he could kill her, at least this new Bastien could.
She was expendable, in the way. If she had any sense, she would run, as fast and as far as she could.
They were deep in the countryside—there hadn’t been a single vehicle on the road outside the abandoned farmhouse, and she’d been foolishly unobservant when they first arrived here.
The nearest village could be five miles away or twenty-five, and it could be so small she wouldn’t be able to find any help. She ought to at least try.
She was a runner—she’d run marathons as recently as last fall. She was out of shape, and ill-equipped, but she could do it, and chances were she’d succeed. In fact, maybe they’d left her on purpose with no intention of coming back. Left her to simply walk back out to civilization and safety.
Their clothes were still there, which was no proof either way.
As far as she could remember, they hadn’t brought extra clothes with them—there’d been clothes waiting for them.
She began a methodical search—Bastien’s papers and diagrams were gone.
No sign that he’d ever been there, except for his rumpled sheets.
She looked down at the bed, ignoring the strong temptation to climb onto it and wrap herself in the covers.
She missed her husband. Jean-Marc was no substitute, and now it seemed as if he’d left her as well.