Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
When Chloe woke, she was alone. Of course she was—she’d yet to wake up with Bastien’s beautiful body wrapped around hers.
She lay very still, letting her hand trail across the crumpled sheet.
Last night had been different. There’d been none of the feverish quality of their previous couplings—he’d taken time to seduce her, when he must know she wouldn’t deny him.
Even if she did, he was still the one in charge—if he’d wanted to, he could have raped her nightly.
At the thought of rape, she shuddered. Where had they buried Flambeau, or had they just left him to rot? That house had been spotless inside, stocked with everything they could need. Whoever was in charge of it was probably adept at disposing of bodies.
At least she wasn’t one of the bodies to be disposed of. But what about now? She’d saved Bastien’s life, but she’d interfered with his murder contract. He’d hardly have made love to her if he was planning to kill her. Would he?
She sat up, looking around her. There was no sign of Bastien anywhere—he was simply gone, and she wondered what she would do if he didn’t come back.
First things first. She climbed out of bed, wincing slightly at the pain in her feet.
Last night’s dash had been hard on them, though she’d been so caught up in following Bastien that she’d barely noticed.
She noticed now. She went straight into the bathroom and turned on the shower, remembering how he’d held her beneath the water while she sobbed.
She had broken last night, when she’d tried so hard to be strong, to fight back, and in return, he’d been gentle with her.
Until the end, when the conflagration had overcome them both, and he’d thrust into her so hard it shook the bed.
She wanted him again. She wanted to wake up in his arms and have him roll her beneath him in lazy morning sex, something they’d had a hard time indulging with the children getting older and more observant.
Bastien hadn’t cared, but Chloe had been unable to let go completely when there was a chance of a teenager strolling in on them.
But he’d gone, and who knew if he was ever coming back. She’d outlived her usefulness—he no longer needed her for cover. Maybe he’d just abandon her.
There was no question whether Peter Madsen had recognized them—of course he had, and he’d been willing to put a bullet in Bastien’s brain anyway.
What would he think of her, who’d gotten in his way?
At least LaDonna was safe. Unless he’d gone after her this morning, to finish what he’d started.
And there was no way she could stop him.
Wrapping a towel around her wet body, she went back into the bedroom to pick up the remnants of her discarded dress.
It was split in half—there was no possible way she could wear it.
She was left in a hotel with no clothing, no identification, no shoes, no money.
What the hell was she going to do if Bastien didn’t come back?
As the hours passed, that seemed more and more likely.
She’d discarded the towel and wrapped herself in a sheet, but she couldn’t imagine facing that gimlet-eyed concierge while she was dressed in a toga.
She was hungry—she hadn’t eaten a thing last night and sex always gave her an appetite.
Where was Bastien, and what the hell was she going to do?
It was early afternoon when she heard the knock at the door and she considered ignoring it rather than risk facing the wrathful proprietress. And then she heard Luc’s voice.
“Chloe, let me in.”
She started toward the door, then halted, remembering the conversation she’d overheard.
Luc had offered to kill her once the mission was accomplished.
It wasn’t, but her part in it was done, and now she was a liability.
She was only surprised Bastien hadn’t decided to do it himself.
Just because they’d had sex wasn’t enough to stop him. He was far from sentimental.
“Chloe!” Luc called, more insistent though he didn’t raise his voice, and she looked at the window, wondering if she could climb out and escape over the rooftops like someone from a James Bond movie.
Not stark naked, she couldn’t, and besides, there was no place to jump to, just the ground far below. She was well and truly trapped.
She could keep ignoring him, but sooner or later, he’d get in there, and she decided not to anger him further. He didn’t want to kill her—she knew that much, just as she knew he’d do it if he had to. Maybe she could reason with him.
She moved to the door, keeping the sheet wrapped tightly around her body, and took a deep breath before she opened it. Luc stood there, looking annoyed.
“It’s about time,” he said, pushing inside, ignoring her appearance. “I’ve brought you some clothes.” He tossed a paper bag on the bed.
“Where’s…Jean-Marc?” she said, making no move to take them.
“He’s gone.”
The pit in the hollow of her stomach yawned wider. “What do you mean? Where has he gone?”
“None of your business,” he said repressively.
She didn’t move. “Are you here to kill me?”
Luc looked disgusted. “If you don’t get a move on, I’ll be tempted,” he said, clearly not in a good mood, but Chloe’s tension began to ease.
“You told Jean-Marc that you would kill me,” she pointed out.
“And you shouldn’t have been eavesdropping. Why would I bring you clothes if I planned to kill you? It wouldn’t matter one way or another if you were dead. Get dressed—I’m tired of waiting.”
“Waiting for what?”
“We need to be on the road. The town is crawling with police and reporters and the sooner we get out of here, the better.”
A sick feeling hit her stomach. “Why?”
“Why, what?”
“Why is the town crawling with reporters and police?”
He gave her an almost pitying look. “Because LaDonna was killed by a sniper this morning, and all hell has broken loose.”
She froze. “Did he do it?” Her voice was raw.
“Jean-Marc? What do you think?”
Chloe thought back to the woman with the kind eyes, and she wanted to howl, to scream at Luc, to weep. Bastien had finished his contract while she was lying in bed dreaming about him, and she hadn’t been there to stop him. Neither had Peter Madsen. She wanted to throw up.
“Get dressed,” he said again. “I want to be out of here in the next fifteen minutes. I think they’re planning on putting roadblocks up and I’m not in the mood to deal with the carabinieri.”
“Why don’t you just leave me here?” she said urgently. “I’m no longer any use to you, and I promise I won’t say anything…”
“Put on your damned clothes!” Luc said, losing all patience.
She took the bag and went into the bathroom without another word. She looked in the mirror and almost did a double take. She was heartsick, frightened, furious. Yet all she looked was well-fucked, with slumbrous eyes and a mouth swollen from his kisses. Right then, she hated him.
There was a pair of jeans, a top, and a pair of sneakers, with the appropriate underwear. Panties, but no bra. She dressed quickly, cursing him, and came back out into the room. Luc had gathered up her ripped dress and even her discarded underwear and was shoving it in another bag.
“Where are your shoes?” he said.
“I left them at the gala.”
“You did what?”
“Didn’t he tell you what happened?” she said, determinedly not looking at the rumpled bed.
“We didn’t have time to talk. All I know is that there was another shooter.”
She nodded. “I was running to warn him, and I took off my shoes. No one can run in four-inch heels.”
“Merde. We need to get out of here.”
“I’m ready,” she said. She didn’t really want to be left behind, but Bastien was the last person she wanted to see. How could he come back from murdering a beloved icon? Normally, Peter Madsen would make things go away when Bastien had to kill. Not this time.
It was a bright sunny day, the lake sparkling down below them as they went back down the broad pedestrian steps of the town.
The Renault was waiting at the bottom, illegally parked, and Luc threw the sack containing her ruined clothes into the back while she dutifully got in.
She could have run, she knew it, and Luc would have no choice but to let her go.
He could hardly shoot her in the middle of town.
It was almost midday, and the throngs of tourists were already jamming the streets. She could get lost in those crowds, find Peter, and together they could…what? Rescue Bastien? He didn’t need rescuing. And she couldn’t be sure Peter wouldn’t finish what he’d started the night before.
She climbed into the car, fastening her seatbelt. “Where are we going?”
Luc pulled into the traffic, his earlier annoyance fading. “Spain.”
Peter Madsen cursed, a litany of profanity that only began to reflect his mood. He’d ballsed it up completely, and a woman was dead because of it. Not just any woman—a modern-day saint who’d never harmed a soul in her life.
He still couldn’t believe what he’d seen last night.
Bastien Toussaint, with a sniper rifle trained on her, and Chloe getting in Peter’s way as he tried to take Bastien out.
He couldn’t deny the relief he’d felt—he would kill his oldest friend if he had to, but there had to be a reason why Bastien would be aiming a rifle at LaDonna.
And why Chloe was with him, dressed to the nines.
It had been sheer luck that he’d discovered Bastien was at Lake Como. Without Anderson filtering his information, finding Bastien in Milan had been surprisingly quick, but after that, the trail had ended.
He’d been a damned fool. There’d been rumors of a threat to LaDonna for the last few weeks, and it was a good guess that Bastien was going to be at the gala honoring her.
Maybe he’d gone to protect her, though from his secluded home in the North Carolina mountains, how could he have known she was in danger?