Chapter 10 #3
“It will you do you no good.” And before she realized what he was doing his hand shot out and caught her wrist, turning it viciously. She continued to hold on to the knife, terrified, but the pressure he put on her bones was agonizing, and in the end the knife clattered to the floor.
He hit her across the face, hard, and then dragged her down the steps as she struggled, reaching for something, anything to fight back with.
Dishes smashed on the floor, followed by the expensive coffee maker, and then they were in the deserted living room.
He was trying to throw her down on the floor, but she fought him, wildly, hitting at him, kicking him as she tried to escape.
He was fat, and she was a runner—if she could just get away from him, he wouldn’t be able to catch her.
But his hands and fists were everywhere, and she fell back onto the floor, slamming her back against the hard wooden frame of the sofa on the way down, knocking the wind from her.
It was all Flambeau needed. He pawed at her, ripping at her khaki pants, and she heard them tear beneath his rough hands, twisting painfully against her body, and she kicked out, fighting him.
He slapped her again, then landed on top of her like a beached whale, yanking at her torn pants.
She could feel his erection against her, and she kicked at him, trying to make contact, but he jerked out of the way.
She wanted to vomit, wanted to scream. And then she did, even though no one would hear her.
“Help!” she shrieked, and he hit her hard across the face with his fist, and she could feel herself losing consciousness.
At least she wouldn’t be aware of what he was doing, she thought dazedly, scratching at his face.
He caught her wrist and she felt the pain throughout her body.
And then his hands were on her neck, choking her, closing off her air.
She opened her mouth to scream again, and he hit her once more, and everything went black.
Jean-Marc was almost at the house when he heard her screams. He paused for a moment, considering.
If Flambeau raped her, she’d be more amenable, even docile after such brutish treatment.
It might make sense to let him have his fun.
But she screamed again, and his irritation grew.
He’d given Flambeau orders to keep away from her, and he was willfully breaking those orders.
He couldn’t afford to have someone working for him who didn’t do what he was told.
He took out the Glock from his belt, when he realized the screaming had stopped.
So had his calm good sense. He ran the last little bit toward the house, slamming open the door.
She was lying on the floor of the living room as Flambeau knelt above her, trying to undo his pants.
He acted on pure instinct and put two bullets in the back on Flambeau’s head.
He fell on top of her, probably crushing her, and Jean-Marc set the gun down on the table before stepping forward, yanking the big body off her, onto the floor in a welter of blood.
She looked pathetic, lying there, her clothes half torn off, her eyes closed.
He scooped her up, almost tenderly, and lifted her high against him.
She was limp but breathing, and he carried her into the bedroom, into his big bed, and set her down on it, ignoring Flambeau’s blood staining the sheets.
Putting two fingers on the side of her neck, he listened to her pulse.
Sluggish but strong—Flambeau had done no permanent damage.
She would recover in time for Como. And that was what mattered, wasn’t it?
He stripped her torn and bloody clothing off her, tossing them on the floor, and went into the bathroom to get some wet cloths to wash the blood from her. She was starting to come ’round, and with consciousness came fight, and she lashed out at him, getting him at the side of the head.
“Lie still,” he ordered, and she must have recognized his voice. Her eyes opened, and she looked up at him with pitiful relief.
“You came,” she said in a hoarse voice.
Was he supposed to feel gratified by her trust? It was only a fluke that sent him back to the house early—normally, he would have been out there for hours longer.
“You’ve cost me a good man, chérie,” he said coldly. “I’m not sure I can forgive you for that.”
“Forgive me?” she echoed in that damaged rasp. She was in shock, he thought. She didn’t even sound outraged, as he’d planned her to be.
“I had to kill him. No one disobeys my orders and continues to work for me.”
“He’s dead?”
“Very.”
“Good.” He could hear the satisfaction in her damaged voice, and he was tempted to smile. She was a bloodthirsty little creature.
“Sleep.” Chances were they had something for wounds and bruising in the house—he vaguely remembered some green goop that did wonders. Luc would find it for him, now that they were down one man. In the meantime, the only thing that would help Madame Chloe was sleep.
And indeed, she’d closed her eyes, shutting him out, shutting out everything. He stared down at her pale face for a long moment. And then he rose and went to get rid of Flambeau’s body before he started to stink.