Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
The dawn slowly filled the small, dark room, and Chloe lay very still, watching it come.
To her surprise, she’d slept heavily, and she knew why.
She’d felt safe in Bastien’s arms, her senses overwhelming her sense.
He was still wrapped around her, and she closed her eyes, breathing him in, breathing in the new day.
What would it bring? Death and destruction?
Whatever Bastien was doing involved the gun he’d practiced with so determinedly. And she was going to be a witness.
She lay perfectly still, keeping all her muscles relaxed as he moved behind her, sitting up on his side of the bed. She kept her eyes closed—there was no way he would know she was already awake. This way she wouldn’t have to face him over the narrow bed they had shared—
A sharp slap on her rump was her answer. “I know you’re awake, chérie. Time to get up and get going.”
She had no choice but to sit up, to face him, and then she quickly turned away, embarrassed. The bulge in his boxer briefs was unmistakable, and she tried to avert her gaze.
He laughed, and it was probably the first real amusement she’d heard from him. “You’re married, aren’t you? What do you Americans call it—morning wood? It’s nothing personal.”
“I didn’t think it was,” she said icily.
“Though if you feel like doing something about it…”
“I don’t,” she snapped. She was blushing—she could feel the heat in her cheeks. Blushing over her own husband’s erection, which was absurd.
Except he wasn’t her husband, not really, not at the moment.
She hadn’t the slightest doubt—he didn’t know her, didn’t remember her.
And then something hit her. “Why don’t you ever call me by my name?
” she asked abruptly. “It’s always chérie or bébé or something like that.
My name is Chloe.” His refusal to use her real name must mean something, maybe a subconscious memory…
He’d put his jeans on, but he was still shirtless, and he leaned back against the wall, surveying her. His temporary good humor had vanished. “I don’t name women I might have to kill,” he said.
She froze. “Why would you have to kill me?” she asked in a very small voice.
“If you don’t do what I tell you to do. Remember that, chérie,” his voice accented the endearment, “and follow my orders.”
She shouldn’t have pushed it, but she couldn’t help it. “Why did you bother saving me from Flambeau? Why kill him?”
“Did you think I killed him for your sake? I’m hardly that sentimental.
He disobeyed orders, and I couldn’t have that.
You’d best keep that in mind.” He reached for his shirt and pulled it over his head.
“Now stop asking me questions you don’t want to hear the answers to and move that lazy ass or you’ll get no breakfast. We’re leaving early.
” A moment later, he was gone, leaving her alone in the room.
She wrapped her arms around herself and shivered. She had seen him kill. She had seen him kill when they were running for their lives, and she had no idea if his threats were empty or not. She suspected not.
Luc and Bastien were in a small room off the reception area, eating eggs, and she looked at the gelatinous mess with displeasure.
They hadn’t eaten much the day before, but as usual her appetite was gone, and had been since she’d been with them.
At this rate, she’d be at her goal weight in a few days—her jeans were already looser.
Though Bastien always insisted he liked a bit of flesh on her.
She slid into the seat opposite him, aware that Luc was looking at her, probably wondering how they’d spent the night. Or maybe she was being too sensitive, and he really didn’t care.
“Sleep well?” he asked with a sly smile, and mentally she cursed. He cared.
“Very well,” she said stiffly, and Luc’s smile turned into a grin.
“You were remarkably silent,” he said. “Usually Jean-Marc’s women are screaming their pleasure.”
“Enough, Luc,” Bastien said repressively. “And you, chérie, if you want coffee, it’s over on the bar. Get it now or you’re going to miss it. We’re leaving in fifteen minutes.”
She gave him a stony expression, then went and made herself an espresso.
The breakfast room came equipped with the same fancy machine that had been in the farmhouse, and she wondered how those two dumbasses had managed to get themselves coffee without her to wait on them.
She grabbed a croissant-like pastry and looked around her, hoping for a table.
The few that existed were full of tourists, and she moved back to Bastien and Luc with ill grace.
Luc and Bastien were speaking French, and she slid back in her seat, plastering a blank expression on her face. “Was she any good?” Luc was asking, the little shit. “Did she go down on you?”
“What are you, Flambeau?” Bastien said irritably. “Why this sudden interest?”
“I’ve been without a woman for six weeks now. A man gets restless.”
“Well, get restless in another direction. The bitch is mine.”
Chloe almost choked on her coffee, but she managed to get by with a small cough, her murderous impulses building.
She had no appetite for the croissant, which turned out to be rich with a sweet, creamy filling, but she dutifully ate it, as she’d been eating everything.
She couldn’t afford to weaken—she might have to escape…
She considered that idea. Would she leave him?
He might disappear for good if she did, and she didn’t know if she could bear that.
But he was probably planning to commit murder, and possibly kill her as well, and she couldn’t let that happen either.
Maybe she ought to give up, escape the first chance she got.
She had the strong suspicion they wouldn’t look too hard.
She glanced at him across the table, and to her dismay his eyes met hers, dark and enigmatic, as if he knew what she was thinking. She quickly ducked her head. No, she couldn’t leave him, not yet. Not until she was sure there was no hope of bringing him back.
Her first sight of the lake left her breathless. It was a beautiful day, and Lake Como glistened in the sunlight, set between the deep teal mountains, and Chloe felt a peculiar feeling in her heart, what might almost be called hope. Nothing bad could happen in such a beautiful place, could it?
She glanced at the back of her husband’s head as he drove, and her hope rapidly vanished. She knew the man Bastien had been. It could be a bloodbath, one that she was going to have to stop.
She had thought the roads leading to and from that fucking tunnel were twisty and dangerous.
They were nothing compared to the narrow roads that ran around the edge of the lake.
She knew almost nothing about Como, but they clearly weren’t staying in the main town, and she hunched forward in her seat, as if paying attention would somehow keep them safe on these treacherous roads.
“Where are we going?” she asked, wincing as they dodged a small delivery van.
“Bellagio,” said Luc.
At the same time Bastien said, “You don’t need to know,” and he turned to glare at Luc, taking his eyes off the deadly road.
“Watch where you’re going,” she cried, as a small sports car came zooming around the corner, almost clipping the Renault.
“Why keep her in the dark?” Luc said in French to Bastien. “She’ll figure it out soon enough.”
“The less she knows, the better. I’ll tell her what she needs to know when the time comes.”
“And what if you decide you can’t trust her?”
“Then we kill her.”
“I’d really rather not,” Luc said. “I’ve grown fond of her over the past week. She’s a good cook, and she doesn’t make trouble…”
“Doesn’t make trouble? What about Flambeau?”
“That wasn’t her fault. Flambeau was the weak link.”
Bastien looked at Luc again, and Chloe wanted to moan. By the way he was driving, it would be a moot point. They were all going to die, and soon.
“If she needs killing, I’ll do it,” Bastien said finally. “I’m not so squeamish.”
“You can kill a woman you’re fucking?” Luc asked incredulously.
“I can kill anyone who needs killing.”
“But after it’s over? Assuming she does what she’s told, what are you going to do about her then?”
Bastien made an explosive sound of annoyance. “I haven’t decided yet. We’ll see how things go.”
“You mean you might let her live?”
“I told you we’d see how things go. Now shut up and let me concentrate on the driving.”
Yes, please, Chloe thought from the back seat, listening to the discussion of her final disposition calmly enough.
She’d learned not to panic over the last few days, particularly when she wasn’t supposed to understand the conversation and the threat, and she wasn’t about to do a thing to let on she understood every word.
It was her one advantage in this fucked-up situation, and she was clinging to it.
She leaned back, deciding if they were going to die on this twisty lakeside road, then she preferred not to watch it, and she closed her eyes.
For a moment, it made things worse, like closing your eyes on an amusement park ride, but she did the therapeutic breathing that she’d learned long ago when she was dealing with her PTSD.
Not that that was a current problem. There was nothing “post” about her stress right now.
In for four counts, hold for four counts, out for four counts, hold for four counts.
The steady rhythm of her breathing calmed her as the Renault raced along the narrow roads, and she tuned out the men in the front seat.
Whatever was happening, she wasn’t going to die today, and that would have to do.