Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
A moment later, Bastien had Chloe’s arm in an iron grip.
He moved fast, pulling her along, and they raced past her discarded shoes without a second glance.
They were about to descend the stairs when they heard the sound of heavy footsteps, and Bastien swore, but he didn’t turn back.
Down the first, narrow flight of stairs, and then out onto the balcony.
Pushing her back against the wall, he lifted her skirts to her waist and proceeded to kiss her.
It was a performance, meant to fool the people looking for them. She didn’t care. She rose into the kiss, knowing only his mouth on hers, and then she felt his hand between her legs, and she jerked, startled.
It didn’t matter. He put his knee between her legs, pressing against her, and desire swept through her, erasing the danger and the opportunity of escape.
The footsteps were coming closer, and still he kissed her, reaching up to the skimpy top of the dress and pulling it down, baring her breasts in the cool night air.
“You there!” Came a voice in Italian. “What are you doing up here? This is off-limits to the guests.”
He broke the kiss and pulled up the bodice of the gown to cover her as his eyes met hers for a long, pregnant moment. And then he turned. “You can see what we were doing,” he said in perfect Italian. “We needed privacy.”
“You need to get back to the other guests. You’re lucky I don’t arrest you for trespassing. What about you, miss? Did you see anyone?
Here was her chance. All she had to do was say something and this nightmare would be over. Peter Madsen was nearby, and he could help…
But Bastien wouldn’t let himself be caught. He would try to run, and they would shoot him.
She gave the men a woozy smile. She could feel Bastien’s tension as he stood in front of her, shielding her from their eyes.
Her skirt was still pulled to her waist, and he’d made no attempt to restore it.
“I’m sorry,” she said in a slumbrous, desire-filled voice, while her inner tension made her want to shake.
“The two of you, go down to the main floor and join the others.”
“Of course,” Bastien said smoothly. “Just give us a moment.”
“Now!”
Bastien pulled her skirts down, setting her to rights, and took her arm in a deceptively gentle hold. They were about to move forward when one of the men demanded, “Where are your shoes?”
If they found them, they’d know they were on the third-floor balcony and that they’d been lying. Chloe answered quickly. “I left them down in the cloak room. They hurt my feet.”
There was real doubt in the flinty gaze of the first man, but Chloe met his stare with a simple look of her own, and a moment later, he lowered the gun. “No Italian woman would take off her shoes at an event like this one, no matter how much they hurt.”
She hadn’t even seen the weapon. A shiver ran across her mostly exposed skin. “I’m American,” she said, and the man nodded, as if that explained everything.
“The two of you, go and join the others. We’ll have more questions for you later.”
“Of course,” Bastien said politely. “And I’ll make her put on her shoes.”
“You do that,” said the second man. They moved on past them, and Bastien took her arm again, his grip painful. She would end up with bruises, she thought. Or a bullet in her brain.
The first balcony was crowded, people milling around, chattering in a babble of languages.
He led her through them, moving at a leisurely pace, until they reached the far end, and she realized there was a door hidden in the wall.
He pushed it, and it popped open. A second later, they were through it, and he closed it behind him.
“Come,” he said, and pulled her through the back hallways, down a flight of stairs, out a service door onto a side street.
Rain had fallen while they’d been inside, and the narrow, twisting streets were wet and shiny with it.
The streets were paved with cobblestones and medieval tile, and her bare feet slid as she tried to keep up with him.
She held back as he headed for the steep, wide stairs that led up away from the villa, into the heart of the city.
The stone tiles were easier on her feet, but the tight dress held her back.
“Move faster,” he said in a dangerous voice.
“I can’t,” she said. “The dress is too tight.”
He swore, releasing his iron grip and turning her around. To her horror, he took the skirt in his hands and ripped it upward, so that it was now split to her waist. “No more excuses.”
“I can’t walk like this!” she said, scandalized.
“You can if you want to survive.”
She shut her mouth, following him up the wide pedestrian stairs, past the shuttered shops.
She didn’t know how long he dragged her through those steep passageways—he always seemed to find a corner to turn, and another street would branch off, leading them farther and farther away from the villa. And their boat ride home.
The rain started again, a soft mist, but the evening had turned cool, and by the time he finally stopped, she was shivering. He looked down at her with annoyance and stripped off his jacket again, placing it around her. At least it would partly cover her butt.
“Don’t say anything,” he said, and she looked around her with belated interest. They’d stopped at a small hotel, the lamps sending glittering pools of light onto the street outside the front entrance. “I’ll handle things.”
It seemed to her as if all small Italian hostelries were the same. The woman behind the counter looked just like the one outside of Milan, and just as suspicious. That suspicion vanished the moment Bastien opened his mouth.
He was suave and charming, such a marked contrast to his grimness as he flirted with the old lady, and she flirted back, as giggly as a schoolgirl. Within moments, he had the key to a room and the innkeeper’s blessing as he followed her up the stairs.
“Go left at the top of the hallway,” he said in English, and she wanted to kick him.
He came close behind her up the stairs, and she climbed higher, following his instructions until they stopped outside a polished mahogany door with a brass number seven on it.
He reached past her with the key, and she stood very still, a wave of longing washing over her.
She was just beginning to come down from the tension from their close call, and she felt weak, almost weepy in reaction. He had come so close to dying tonight.
She preceded him into the room, not watching as he closed the door and locked it, tossing the key onto a small table.
The room was lush and old-fashioned, with a large bed with velvet hangings in the center of the room.
There would be no separate place for her to sleep, and she knew tonight would not be a platonic snuggle.
He unfastened his tie and pulled it off, then crossed the room to her side, moving with lethal grace. He was stalking her, and she knew it, and she began to tremble.
Coming up behind her, he slipped the jacket off her shoulders and sent it flying toward a chair.
He caught the skirt of her dress in his strong hands and ripped it to her neckline, and the gown parted company, falling down around her before she caught it and held it to her breasts.
She was wearing nothing but a pair of black lace panties, and she was hardly going to go prancing around in that.
“There’s an en-suite,” he said, gesturing toward the bathroom. “Take a hot bath.”
She wanted to object, just to be difficult, but she was cold and shaky and her feet were filthy, so she simply nodded.
A moment later, she was alone in the bathroom, the door shut behind her, and she let the ruined dress drop on the floor.
She moved like an automaton, stripping off her panties and heading toward the shower.
She waited until the water was hot enough, then stepped in. And began to cry.
Once she started, she couldn’t stop. She let the water pour down over her, washing away her tears, but they kept coming. It had been so close. Peter Madsen was a crack shot—if she hadn’t barreled into Bastien he’d be dead now, a bullet in his brain. And she’d be lost.
But she was lost. There was no escape when she wasn’t sure she wanted to get away, and there was no help from the one man who could help them. She’d counted on reaching Peter, but her fantasies had never included Peter with a gun aimed at her husband. She was on her own.
And she was so tired. Tired of being threatened, tired of missing her husband, tired of life. If he said one more word to her…
The shower curtain moved, and Bastien slipped into the shower behind her.
She froze beneath the hot water. The tears were still pouring down her face, but he would simply think it was the shower. And then he pulled her into his arms, against his hard, strong body, and the last of her self-control vanished.
He held her as she cried. He was naked and hard, but none of that seemed to matter as his arms went around her and held her against his chest, and once more, Bastien was a place of safety and comfort, not a threat. She tried to stop crying but she couldn’t, and she shook in his arms.
He said nothing. She could feel the slow, steady beat of his heart against her, skin to skin, and finally, the tears began to slow, leaving her hiccupping in the aftermath.
She pressed her wet face against his shoulder and breathed him in, the familiar scent of him, and she wanted to stay like that forever.
No, she didn’t. She wanted more.
She lifted her head. “Take me to bed.”
To her horror and shame, she felt real hesitation in his body, and she tried to pull away, but he simply picked her up in his arms, turning off the water as he stepped out of the shower.
He took her at her words, not stopping for a towel to dry their bodies, heading straight back to the bedroom and the big bed, where he set her down carefully, then stood back to look at her.
“What do you want from me, chérie?”