Chapter 10 #2
She ought to go. Her children were safe with Peter Madsen, but she missed them. She had no one and nothing to ground her, and if she had any sense at all, she’d get the hell out of there as fast as she could, just in case they ended up coming back.
But she wasn’t going anywhere. If they didn’t come back, she could always walk out tomorrow, make her way to England and her children.
But for now, she was staying right where she was.
Bastien needed her, whether he knew it or not, and if she left him, she might never see him again. She couldn’t live with that.
The house was pitch-dark when they arrived back, and he stared at it with mixed feelings. He knew she’d run, and he was going to have to take care of that little problem. He’d left her on purpose, to see whether she’d stay or go, and now he had his answer.
“Your little bitch ran,” Flambeau said from the backseat with a hearty guffaw. “You should have known she would.”
“Shut up, Flambeau,” Luc said sharply. “You know what this means?”
“It means we have to find and kill the bitch. We should have killed her days ago. I want to be the one to do her. I’m owed.”
“Whoever gets to her first will take care of her,” Jean-Marc said heavily. “And you’ll do it fast and painless.”
“But that means we’ll never find out where she came from,” Luc protested. “Don’t tell me you believe her cock-and-bull story about a missing husband?”
“It doesn’t matter,” he said heavily. “She’s no good to us if we can’t trust her. We’ll head out at first light—she can’t have gotten far.”
“What if someone came by and picked her up?” Luc said.
“No one ever comes out here—that’s why we chose the place. When we find her, we do her quickly. That’s an order.”
There was an outraged grumble from the back seat, but he chose to ignore it. Flambeau was a pig, but a useful one. He just had to keep him under control.
They were quiet when they entered the old farmhouse and turned on the lights. They were all thinking of Madame Chloe, Jean-Marc thought. Some of them with dread, Flambeau with anticipation. This would simplify matters—he ought to be feeling relieved. He wasn’t.
There was no friendly card game tonight, no camaraderie. The two men went to their rooms, leaving Jean-Marc alone in the living room, which suited him just fine. He found the bottle of whiskey and brought it into the room, sitting down and spreading his papers out before him.
He couldn’t concentrate. Ridiculous that an inconvenient female should disrupt his train of thought, though maybe it was the whiskey he was putting away.
Killing their hostage was far from the worst thing he’d ever have to do, and it would be quick and clean.
He could even make it that she never knew what was coming. So what was his problem?
His problem was simple—he didn’t want to kill her. He’d had plans for her, if she’d proven amenable, though it only made sense to get rid of her once the task was accomplished. But for some unfathomable reason, he didn’t want her dead. And there was nothing he could do about it.
He was getting nowhere, drinking too much, and tomorrow was going to be a difficult day.
He rose, storing the papers, and put the half-empty bottle back in the kitchen.
Her domain, and she’d left it spotless. Such a good little housewife to the missing Bastien.
He still couldn’t figure out why any sane man would leave her.
He didn’t bother turning on the bedroom light. Stripping off his clothes, he headed straight for his neatly made bed, and he shook his head. He’d left the covers in disarray—she must have tidied it before she ran off.
He lay on his back in the bed, waiting for the whiskey to take over and send him into a deep sleep. Tomorrow he was going to have to…
He sat up abruptly, staring into the darkness, then slid out of bed. Padding toward her tiny alcove, he stopped in the doorway. Moonlight was coming in the shuttered window, illuminating her creamy skin. She was still there.
Ignoring the wash of relief that spread over him, he stood there for a long moment.
She wasn’t asleep, though she was trying like mad to pretend she was, and he was tempted to yank her out of bed and demand to know why she’d scared him.
But touching her was a bad idea, getting closer to her even worse.
He turned and walked away, back to his own solitary bed.
It made no sense, the relief he was feeling, but he was too fucking tired to try to sort it out.
There’d be no hunt tomorrow. He could trust her. And that was everything.
There was a curious détente the next few days, and their twisted family operated smoothly, Chloe thought as she washed the morning dishes.
Cinderella kept away from the ugly stepbrothers and they were busy with their own tasks.
Apart from Flambeau’s increasingly incensed looks, things were deceptively peaceful, the late summer air only marred by the insistent sound of Bastien’s gun.
Bastien was going to shoot someone. That much was obvious, and for some reason, he thought she would help.
Not even for Bastien would she participate in murder, and she would stop him if it meant her life.
There was no change in him, no sign of returning memory, and her fierce determination was beginning to falter.
She missed her children. The only way she could survive was not to think about them.
They needed their mother. But they needed their father too, and she would bring him back to them.
Or die trying? That was no solution. She was fighting for her family and yet torn apart by them. All she could do was follow her instincts, and her instincts told her to stay with Bastien.
She could even—
“’Allo, lady,” came Flambeau’s rough voice, and she froze where she was. He was at the bottom of the stairs, filling the entryway, and there was no place she could go.
She considered ignoring him but thought better of it. He was the most dangerous of the three men, at least as far as she was concerned, and she didn’t want to do anything to set him off. She put the freshly washed dish in the drainer and reached for another one.
“Hello,” she said politely enough.
“The boss is deep in the woods, shooting at trees,” he said contemptuously, “and Luc has gone into town.”
She scrubbed the next dish but said nothing, concentrating on the soapy water and the sharp knife beneath the bubbles.
Flambeau took the first step. “I thought it was time you and I got better acquainted,” he said.
“Go away,” she said coldly, clasping the handle of the paring knife. “Jean-Marc won’t like it if you bother me.”
“Jean-Marc fucked you; why not me?” He took the next step, reaching her level and blacking out the light from the living room.
“Because he’s the boss,” she said, but her voice shook slightly despite her calm words, and Flambeau heard that quiver. And grinned.
“He has to learn to share.” He lunged for her, but she had the knife out now, between them, and he halted. “You think you can stop me with that little pig sticker?”
“I can slow you down.”