Chapter 16 #2
“Of course you do, chérie,” he said, turning back to her, his face expressionless. “When you find your husband, he’ll buy you a new one. Assuming he has any plans to come back to you.”
The easily spoken words rattled her, and her heart ached.
Was he telling her something that only he would know?
She’d assumed that once he remembered who he was, everything would be all right.
But maybe this time had changed him. Maybe he really had married Maddalena.
She could hardly hold her own against the Italian version of a Kardashian.
“My husband will kill you,” she said, not caring if it was totally nonsensical concept.
“I am very hard to kill.”
She believed him.
If she expected to be driven to a gala of world-famous celebrities in the Renault, she was mistaken.
Waiting outside by the rickety dock was a sleek mahogany boat that looked like the old Chris-Craft her parents had owned.
She picked her way carefully across the embankment, then looked at the boat for a moment.
“I can’t climb in—the skirt is too tight,” she said, wobbling slightly on her high heels on the uneven ground.
He came up behind her, caught the fabric of the dress and pulled it up to her waist, freeing her legs.
She considered slapping him, but he was a different man tonight, on a fine edge of danger, and she thought better about pushing him.
She scrambled over the side of the boat, nearly collapsing when she got to the mahogany planks beneath her feet, but quickly righted herself before he could touch her.
Tonight, he was a suave, brutal stranger, and she wasn’t going to make the mistake of goading him, or she could end up a dead body on this fancy boat.
He leapt down after her, untying the ropes and heading to the steering wheel, barely noticing her. “I’d sit down if I were you,” he said over his shoulder. “You don’t want to end up in the lake.”
“Wouldn’t that make things simpler for you?” she snapped.
“My invitation is for Baron Von Hess and his companion. It would look odd if I attended alone. Couples don’t attract as much attention from security as single men.”
“So, I’m your cover?”
“Exactly. An affectionate cover. You can carry that off, can’t you? Just look at me and pretend I’m your husband.”
Chloe made a derisive noise as they pulled out into the lake.
It was relatively still—she wondered what would happen if she jumped overboard?
She was a strong swimmer, but the dress was tight around her long legs and she wouldn’t have the freedom of movement that she needed.
If she swam back to the villa, she’d be no better off, and if she jumped, there was every chance that Bastien would shoot her there and then.
No, she could only play her hand the way it was dealt and hope for the best.
“Are we in love?” she asked abruptly in German.
He turned to look at her in sudden surprise, then nodded.
“Desperately. I adore you. You, of course, are dazzled by my spectacular sexuality. We have eyes for no one but each other. So don’t look for help from any quarter.
Just know I could break your neck in a moment, and no one would notice, and I’d tell everyone you’d had too much to drink as I carried you someplace to dispose of you.
You’ll do everything I say and you may get out of this alive. ”
“I thought you didn’t want to kill me?”
“I don’t. But I do what’s necessary without hesitation, and I’ve been planning this job for the last two months. Get in my way and…” He left the threat unspoken. She didn’t need to hear the words.
She arranged her face into simpering adoration. “You’re my hero, Baron von Hess,” she cooed.
“My name is Wolf,” he corrected. ”Call me that.”
“Of course,” she muttered. “You couldn’t be something as ordinary as Humboldt, could you?” She shivered slightly as the evening wind swept over the boat.
He saw the shiver - he saw everything. “I should have brought you a wrap,” he said, and to her shock, he stripped off his jacket, tossing it to her. “Put this on.”
“You’ll be cold.”
“A devoted lover would see to his woman’s comfort first.”
She draped it around her shoulders. She could feel his body warmth still in the jacket, and it felt like an embrace. From Jack the Ripper, she reminded herself. “Thanks.” The word was brief, unappreciative. “Where are we going?”
“Does it matter?” he said.
“No, I suppose not.” She could see the lights surrounding the head of the lake, the huge villas like beacons in the night.
One of them was going to be the setting for a tragedy, either international or personal, or perhaps both.
They had guards at these things, didn’t they?
Careful security for an event of this size and importance.
Bastien wasn’t going to have an easy time of it.
And if they didn’t stop him, she would. Even if it meant her life.
They reached the brightly lit dock, Chloe handing the jacket back to Bastien.
He put it on, and she wondered how she was going to get out of the boat with her tight dress when he simply picked her up in his arms like a bridegroom and carried her onto the dock.
He set her down, and before she had time to recover, he’d wrapped his arm around her affectionately, guiding her toward the overflowing villa, his hand on her waist a warning.
She looked up at him with a falsely besotted expression, but he was so beautiful in the lamplight that all pretense faded away.
If she was going to die tonight, she would remember what he looked like, so distant and yet so devoted.
It wasn’t the same expression her husband gave her.
There was a shadow of wariness in Bastien’s eyes tonight, the utter stillness of his expression that would have told someone he wasn’t there for socializing.
But he smiled down at her affectionately, and she realized anyone would have been fooled.
This was a man in love with his woman, and he had no interest in anything else.
There was security at the door, and dozens of men milling around the marble-columned entrance to the massive villa, most of them with earpieces and dark suits and dark expressions.
There would be more inside, she knew. Maybe he’d give up his plans when he saw how well protected the place was.
She glanced up at his face as he handed his invitation to the guard at the door, but it was unreadable. Of course.
Once inside, it was a glittering spectacle of noise and music, people milling around in their glorious clothes and glistening gems. The ballroom was huge, with several levels of balconies surrounding it, reaching to the high ceiling.
Almost everyone there was in black and white, and Bastien swore under his breath.
“I should have put you in colors,” he said.
“It would be easier to keep an eye on you.”
“Why would you need to keep an eye on me? I’m not your target.”
The hand bit hard into her waist. He pressed his mouth against her ear. “Watch what you say,” he whispered, and she wanted to kick him.
People were already dancing, and to her consternation, he swung her into his arms, moving out on the floor.
Bastien could dance, so could his lost self.
It was a slow, sensual song, sung in Italian, all about a lover’s golden skin, and he held her close, too close, his body warm against hers.
Pressing her head to his shoulder, he moved smoothly through the room, and out of the corner of her eye, she could see Hollywood celebrities and political bigwigs.
No wonder they had such overwhelming security—this was an assassin’s wet dream.
Surely, he would think twice about his mission. There was no way he could get away with it in these crowded rooms. He hadn’t brought a gun in with him—they wouldn’t have let him—but he’d said the gun was already here.
“You can’t still be planning to do this?” she murmured in his ear. “There are more security guards than guests.”
“Have a little faith in me, chérie,” he murmured, “I’m very good at what I do. I won’t have any problem.” He swept her around as the music swelled, and her body moved with his, an instinctive partner, matching him.
The song was growing even more provocative, and he tucked her closer, and she realized with sudden shock that he was growing hard against her. Had their dance aroused him? Or was he excited by the prospect of murder? She truly didn’t know.
The dance ended, moving into something faster, and he led her off the dance floor, into the crowds of people.
So many well-known faces surrounded her, and from a distance, she could see Marie LeMieux, better known as LaDonna, the lady who could boast a Nobel Peace Prize, a woman of the year Time Magazine cover, and hundreds of accolades, an international symbol of charity and honor who’d almost given her life in her fight against the repressive Moscow regime.
She’d spent twelve years in a Gulag-like jail as a guest of Putin, and she’d somehow managed to survive and escape to the western hemisphere, where she was lauded as another Mother Teresa.
And Bastien was going to kill her. He’d said it was simply a job, and she could easily guess who ordered it. It was only a surprise that he wasn’t using Putin’s favorite weapon, poison.
But had she survived the gulag, only to end up dead of a gunshot in a glamorous party, the sort of thing she usually eschewed? But this was a gala honoring her and her work with the displaced political refugees, and money from the accompanying fundraiser would go a long way.