Chapter 13 #3
“I put your suitcase in the biggest of the bedrooms,” Luc said cheerfully, emerging from that wide hallway that led to the back of the villa. “It’s got an en suite and it should be big enough for the two of you.”
She felt a moment’s gratification. Whether she liked it or not, she’d still be sleeping with her husband, but a moment later Bastien spoke.
“Let her have it. I’ll be sleeping alone.”
It felt like a slap in the face. But then, though he’d slept with her the last two nights, he hadn’t done anything else, and this Bastien seemed totally uninterested in her sexually.
She could use the time to herself to try to figure out how to circumvent him from whatever terrible thing he was planning.
Ignoring him, she moved into the musty corridor in search of the bedroom, only to find her suitcase in the one at the end, with French doors leading onto the terrace and the beautiful lake.
It was as shabby as the rest of the house, but there was a certain serene beauty to the place, with its fading colors and tattered silk walls.
The bed was on a dais, piled with pillows, almost like the set from a movie.
She didn’t want to be alone, she wanted Bastien with her.
She sat down on the edge of the bed, looking around her.
He didn’t want her, and there was nothing she could do about it.
She lay back on the mattress, staring at the painted ceiling, at the water mark in the shape of a panther, and closed her eyes.
She was getting to be a problem, Jean-Marc thought as he watched her fine ass disappear down the hallway.
The smartest thing he could do would be to get rid of her, but what little she knew was already too much.
He could kill her—it was the sensible thing to do, but he was beginning to accept that he had very little sense when it came to their hostage.
She wasn’t much of a hostage—it would help if she played her part. She’d cooked for them, cleaned up after them, and made no attempt to flee when he’d given her ample time and opportunity. She was stuck to them like a burr, and there was no getting rid of her. No way he wanted to get rid of her.
Last night had been hell, feeling her curled up against him in the tiny bed, trying to keep from having an erection and failing.
Too bad. If she noticed, he’d blame something else—a dream about his wife, an erotic memory.
She didn’t need to know that he was becoming acutely aware of her whenever she was in the room.
The falling-down villa provided more space—he wouldn’t always be with her.
He could have Luc deal with her, but then, Luc had his own tasks to accomplish.
He glanced down the now-empty hallway. He was a man with few weaknesses, and women had never been one of them.
Especially not someone as mundane as an American housewife.
It was probably as simple as tension about the upcoming operation.
He’d been planning it for so long it was hard to believe it was almost in sight.
Not that he was anxious—it was a job, just like any other, and he’d made certain his aim was as good as ever.
He wasn’t used to a rifle, most of his work was up close and personal, with a knife or a handgun.
But the week out in the countryside had satisfied him, and all they had to do now was wait.
Not quite all. “You’ve got the job,” Luc announced, coming in from the car with the last of their luggage. They both travelled light, and the rifle broke down into manageable sections. How else would they smuggle it into the gala?
“I expected so,” Bastien said, unimpressed. “You would have told me otherwise.”
“I didn’t want to mention it in front of jeune fille in case she got curious.”
“She’s not a young girl, she’s a woman. And she already is curious—sooner or later, I’m going to have to satisfy that curiosity.”
“You’ll tell her you’re going to…?”
“Of course not,” he interrupted Luc. “If I know her, she’d try to stop me.”
“If you knew her,” he echoed. “Do you? You’ve kept your distance except for the nights. Then again, pillow talk can be dangerous.”
“There’s been no pillow talk. We fuck in silence.”
Luc nodded with a grin. “I wondered why there were no shrieks of pleasure the last few days.”
“She’s not someone who shrieks.”
“No? I bet she cries. I hate it when they cry.”
Bastien remembered her tears. He’d given her a good enough orgasm to make her scream, but she’d been silent, weeping, and for some reason, he’d felt guilty, no matter how responsive she’d been.
He wanted to make her scream with pleasure, not get those fucking tears. He hadn’t known whether she was crying from her release or thinking about the idiot who’d left her. The idiot who looked like him.
Le Faucon hadn’t found any trace of the man, which was suspicious in itself. He still didn’t trust her story, but no one knew what his mission was; Le Faucon had seen to it. There’d be no reason for a mole to sneak in.
No, she was who she said she was. A lovelorn, abandoned American wife. That he desperately wanted to fuck.