Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Chloe could hear their voices in the other room, low and calm, and she struggled to decipher their words.
It was pitch-dark outside, the shuttered windows letting in no light, and she sat up with a quiet moan.
Everything hurt. Her face felt as if it had been pounded...
and then she remember that was exactly what had happened.
Her shoulder ached, her back throbbed, and Flambeau was dead. It hurt to smile.
She was bloodthirsty, she thought, lying still and waiting for the pain to lessen.
But anger was a healthier reaction to an almost-rape, and she didn’t give a fuck that Flambeau was dead.
Bastien must have killed him—she couldn’t imagine Luc with a gun.
It was exactly what her husband would have done.
He’d killed for her before, long ago, and somewhere deep in his forgotten memories, the instinct still remained.
And then she realized she was lying naked in his bed. She tried to scramble out of it, but her body was too stiff for fast movement. He’d washed the blood from her—she vaguely remembered that. She needed a shower to wash the rest of Flambeau off her.
The warm water hurt her skin, but she endured it, scrubbing her bruised body with fierce determination until the feel of Flambeau’s hands left her flesh, and then she brushed her teeth, staring at her face in the mirror.
She looked surprisingly normal, considering what she’d been through. There was a bruise on her left cheekbone, and the beginnings of a black eye, but all in all, she didn’t look as if she’d almost been raped and killed by a hulking giant of a man.
She headed back to her alcove, finding a t-shirt and boxers to sleep in, and carefully crawled into her own bed. She was safe—Bastien would keep guard. Bastien would save her, as he had so many times, as he’d saved her today. But could he save her from himself?
She could still hear their faint voices from the alcove, and she closed her eyes, shutting them out. Shutting everything out, as she willed herself to forget. And to sleep.
“He’s not going to like it about Flambeau,” Luc said quietly as he scraped the plate. They’d eaten leftovers that night, but even the leftovers from Chloe’s cooking were good. “Le Faucon had a use for him.”
“Flambeau could kill efficiently. So can I,” Jean-Marc said.
“You think she’ll be any use to us now? He beat the hell out of her.”
“Bruises will heal. One thing I’ve discovered about the woman—she has a fierce heart. She’s not going to let this stop her from what she wants to do.”
“What she wants to do is get away from us,” Luc said.
“Does she? She had her chance yesterday and she stayed put, though I’m not sure why. My guess is she still thinks I’m her missing husband, and as long as she believes that, she’ll do what I tell her.”
“You’re taking a big chance by taking her to the gala. There are other women who’d be willing to take her place. Le Faucon could come up with half a dozen more suited.”
He shook his head. “I’ve decided on her. She has a certain innocence about her that will serve me well. Now she has something to be grateful for. I saved her. If she wasn’t already tied to me, this should do it.”
Luc shook his head. “I hope you know what you’re doing,” he said. “This is too important to fuck up, and Le Faucon isn’t known for forgiveness.”
“Le Faucon can go fuck himself. He picked me for this job and I intend to see it through.”
“With Madame Chloe by your side?”
“Exactly.”
“What about afterward? Are you planning to kill her too?” Luc demanded.
“Have you got a soft spot for her as well? Maybe I should kill her now,” Bastien suggested.
“It would be the smart thing to do.”
Jean-Marc leaned back to look at him. “So it would,” he said. “To a man of little imagination.”
“My imagination is fine. I just think you’re taking an unnecessary risk when it comes to her.”
“Maybe. But that’s for me to decide, is it not?”
Luc bowed his head. “It is. Don’t forget, I’m on your side. I’m here to help you, not to get in your way. I want to make sure you know what you’re doing.”
“Always. What would you have me do with her? Go in and put a bullet in her brain?”
“You could always let her go. What does she know, after all? She doesn’t know your target, she doesn’t know our names, she doesn’t even know where we are. Anything she told the police would just send them on a wild-goose chase.”
Jean-Marc was silent for a long moment. “So, she’s bewitched you too?”
“No. I just feel sorry for her.”
“You’re too soft-hearted for your own good. I’ll let her go when the job is done; content yourself with that.”
“Is that the smart thing to do? Wouldn’t it make more sense to leave her body somewhere to complicate things for the gendarmes?”
“I thought you were the one who wanted to let her go,” Jean-Marc said, irritation in his voice.
“I told you, I feel sorry for her. That doesn’t mean I think we should risk the entire operation on the hope that she’ll cooperate.”
“Who’s in charge of this?”
“You are,” Luc said.
“Then you’re going to have to trust me to do what’s necessary when the time comes.”
“And you’ll let her go?”
Jean-Marc didn’t answer.
Chloe woke up, aching all over, and peered into the night-black bedroom.
She was shaking, she realized, and her heart was hammering against her chest. She’d dreamt about Flambeau, about his fists, pounding her, about his cruel hands pawing at her, the rip in her clothes, the knowledge that she wouldn’t escape.
Her breath was coming too fast and she tried to slow it down.
He’d saved her. He would always save her, no matter how bad things got.
It wasn’t the first time he’d killed for her.
It wouldn’t be the last. Whether he knew her or not, deep inside, there was still a connection, she was sure of it. She was foolish to be afraid of him.
But then, she was a fool. Bastien was now the man she first met, the dangerous killer who didn’t let sentiment get in the way of his actions. So why had he killed Flambeau? Wouldn’t a stern talking-to suffice?
Her small, bitter laugh turned into a hiccup of pain. She was so cold, so alone. She needed her husband.
She rose from the bed, shivering slightly in the cool night air. She didn’t stop to think about it, she simply walked through the bedroom door, over to the big bed where Bastien lay sleeping.
His eyes were open, and he was looking at her from where he lay sprawled in the middle of the bed. And then he moved over, making space for her.
She didn’t want sex, she wanted comfort, and she hesitated, but he turned his back on her, leaving her to make up her mind.
Pushing her hair away from her face, she realized her cheeks was wet with tears.
No more hesitation. She climbed up onto the bed and waited, rigid, for him to turn back to her.
He didn’t. “Go to sleep, chérie,” he said with that damnable, lying endearment.
She put her head down, surreptitiously wiping the tears from her face.
His back was naked, broad and strong, the back that had reassured her that he really was her husband.
She could see the scars she knew so well, a roadmap to his terrible life.
Without hesitation, she moved up against him, leaning against his smooth, familiar back, and froze, waiting for him to turn back.
She would pay the price for that comfort, but that wasn’t what she wanted.
She wanted the feel of his skin against her, the warmth of him.
He relaxed against her, not moving, and she knew she was safe, if that was safety. She closed her eyes, her cheek pressed against his familiar scars and fell asleep.
“The woman is getting to be a problem,” the old man’s voice crackled over the telephone. “Flambeau was an idiot, but he had his uses. I don’t like the fact that Jean-Marc killed him.”
“Flambeau disobeyed orders,” Luc said. ‘That made him untrustworthy.”
“It’s that woman. You should have put an end to her long ago. I don’t like that Jean-Marc wants to take her to the gala. It’s just one more thing that can go wrong.”
“Jean-Marc knows what he’s doing. He’s never failed before, and he won’t this time.”
“And what about the woman?”
“She’ll be dealt with. Jean-Marc might have a soft spot for her, but that won’t stop him from taking care of business. He’s far from sentimental.”
“Hmph!” The voice at the other end of the line sounded dubious. “I can count on you to take care of things if he doesn’t?”
“Do you need to ask?”
“Of course not. Le Faucon always gets what he wants.” The old man’s plummy voice sounded smug. “But I don’t like this.”
“It will all work out,” Luc said soothingly. “Trust in the process.”
“Humph.”