Chapter 23 #2
It seemed as if they bounced along forever, with Chloe clutching the handle on the dashboard while Bastien drove in grim-faced silence, until they finally met up with the semblance of a road. The bouncing decreased only marginally, and she allowed herself a glance at Bastien.
He had the same dead expression on his face as he’d had when he shot the guards, and she wondered what was going on in his mind. He’d severed all connection with Le Faucon, with Luc, with his…wife, and he’d done it for her. He certainly didn’t look happy about it.
At first, she didn’t recognize the shapes in the desert, but as they drew closer, she realized they were cars in a parking lot, with people wandering around.
Innocent people, and she wondered what she would do if it looked like Bastien was going to shoot them.
She had no idea where he’d put his gun—probably behind his back—and she knew that the danger wasn’t over yet.
They came to an abrupt stop by a pale gray Fiat, and it took all her strength to keep from slamming forward against the windshield.
Without a word, he climbed out of the ATV, then turned to look at her impatiently.
He had untucked his denim shirt, and she knew the gun was at his back, where he could grab it as he needed it.
He was a very dangerous man, and just because he’d saved her life didn’t mean he wouldn’t hurt her.
She scrambled out of the vehicle, standing on shaky legs.
He jerked his head toward the Fiat. “Get in.”
She hurried to comply, anything to get him away from the innocent tourists, and fastened her seatbelt.
He tossed the keys of the ATV on the seat of the vehicle, then climbed into the Fiat beside her, and he seemed to fill the space.
He smelled like dust and sweat and ruthlessness, and she prepared to hold on tightly as he tore down the road.
Instead, he pulled out of the parking lot with almost comical precision, moving along at a sedate pace that felt bizarre after their desperate race through the desert.
She sat in utter silence, staring straight ahead of her as they slowly drove into civilization, but it wasn’t until they got on a major highway that she got up enough nerve to speak.
“Where are we going?”
“Malaga Airport,” he said.
“Are we flying somewhere?”
“You are. You’re going home.”
A moment of hope filled her, followed by an immediate let-down. “Where are you going?”
“To England. I have a job to finish.” His voice was terse, each word dragged out of him.
“You don’t have to do it!” she cried. “Le Faucon would hardly expect you to, since you went against his orders. What have you got to gain?”
“That’s none of your business.” He didn’t even glance at her, all his attention on the busy road.
“I’m not going anywhere without you.” Her voice was flat.
“You’re going to do exactly as I say. You’ve had your little adventure, fucked an assassin, run for your life. Time to get back to being a boring housewife in South Carolina.”
“North Carolina,” she corrected. So, he hadn’t remembered.
“I don’t care. You’ll fly from Malaga to Barcelona and then on to New York. I’ll give you enough money to make it back to wherever you come from.”
“Le Faucon is going to kill you for disobeying him.”
“Probably,” he said, unconcerned.
“Then come with me.”
He finally turned to look at her. “What do you think this is? Love’s young dream? I don’t care about you—you’re just someone I fucked a few times.”
“Then why didn’t you kill me?” she said after a moment.
“I don’t kill the women I fuck. I’m sentimental that way.”
“Don’t call it that! It was more than a fuck and you know it.”
His laugh was without humor. “Did you think we were making love? Bébé, I don’t make love, I fuck, and I fucked you. No choirs of angels, the earth didn’t move. A small death, I’ll grant you, but nothing more. But you American women, you always have to think love has something to do with it.”
“Then why did you save my life?”
“Because I’m a fool,” he said flatly. “Now shut up and let me drive.”
One thing was sure—she wasn’t going to be getting on any airplane back to North Carolina, and there was no way he could force her. They drove in silence, through the gathering darkness, while Chloe tried to figure out what to do.
It took her a long while before she started to relax. The danger was over, at least for now, and despite Bastien’s terse demeanor, he wasn’t about to hurt her. He just wanted her out of his life.
But if she left him, she would never see him again, she knew it deep in her heart.
He would die or he would disappear. Either way, he’d be gone.
She could imagine all sorts of horrific possibilities, like him showing up at Peter’s Hampshire home and being shot dead in front of his children. She shivered at the thought.
“Are you cold?” he asked in a grim voice. Clearly, he was paying more attention to her than he was pretending, and she shook her head.
“It’s been a rough day,” she said mildly.
“It’s not over yet,” he said grimly. “You’re not safe until you’re flying over the Atlantic.”
“Why do you care?” she said, trying to keep the misery out of her voice.
“I told you.”
“That’s right, you don’t kill women you fuck,” she repeated bitterly.
“So, stop asking me questions.”
The drive was endless, and far too short.
They’d been on the road for less than three hours when she saw the road signs directing them to Malaga Airport, and her stomach knotted in dread.
She said nothing as he navigated the heavy traffic and bewildering roundabouts, and the brightness of the lights was dazzling against the darkened sky.
To her amazement, he pulled into a parking garage and turned off the car before turning to her.
He reached across her, his arm brushing her, and she wanted to cry as he pulled paperwork out of the glove compartment. She recognized the blue booklet that had to be her passport among the sheaf of papers, and she sat there numbly as he handed it to her.
“Your name is Mary Bishop and you live outside of Boston. Once you land there, you can get a plane down to North Carolina and this will all be over with.”
“Why can’t I use my own passport?” She opened it and saw her face above the wrong name.
“Because Luc will be looking for you. I didn’t go to all this trouble for you to get shot before you get home.”
“They can find me. They know my name…”
“Not your last name. It’s barely been mentioned. You could be Chloe Bishop for all anyone cares.”
“I’m Chloe Toussaint,” she said, hoping it would spark some tiny bit of recognition. It didn’t.
“You’re Mary Bishop. The passport was done by one of the best forgers—it’s absolutely flawless. There’s your printed ticked to Barcelona, your ticket to Boston, a credit card belonging to Mary Bishop and a thousand dollars. That should be enough to keep you safe until you get back to the States.”
“I don’t want your money.”
“Tough. Consider it compensation.”
“I don’t want to leave you.”
He made an exasperated snort. “Next thing you’ll be telling me that you love me.”
“I do. It’s Stockholm Syndrome.” She said it deliberately, to see if it would spark a reaction.
“Bébé, Stockholm Syndrome is a myth.”
He’d said those very same words to her when he’d sent her away the first time, so many years ago, and she couldn’t believe he didn’t remember. Didn’t want to believe it.
He opened the car door. “I’ve got a small suitcase packed for you—going without luggage would attract too much attention.” He pulled it out of the back seat, and she recognized her own battered carry-on. He stood there, waiting impatiently, and she finally undid her seatbelt.
“I should say goodbye,” she said numbly.
“What kind of fool do you think I am? If I let you go into the airport on your own, you’d walk right back out again. I’m seeing you on the plane.”
“What’s to keep me from walking out in Barcelona?” she shot back.
“You’ll be over me by then, bébé. Trust me, you’ll be glad you’re safely away from me.”
No, he definitely didn’t know her, she thought, staring up at him. “You’re not that forgettable.”
“Make an effort.” He took her arm in a seemingly solicitous gesture, but she knew it for the restraint it was. He walked her through to the terminal, but at the last minute she held back.
“What about your gun?” she asked.
“They only check for weapons if you’re boarding a plane. I’ll be perfectly fine. Come along.”
It would be a waste of time to try to hold back. She let him bring her along, not bothering to argue with him. She was going to Barcelona whether she liked it or not. And then she was going to London to warn Peter Madsen and see her children. And there was nothing he could do about it.
But would she be leading Le Faucon to her children? He struck her as the kind of man who held a grudge, and he wouldn’t like the fact that she’d managed to escape her execution. Would he come after her?
She’d talk to Peter first, see what he said.
Assuming she could find him. She had the emergency number memorized—she could always call once she made it through security.
But she knew what he’d say—he’d tell her to get on the plane back to the States and let him handle it. And Bastien could wind up dead.
They crossed the passageway to the terminal, blending in with all the other passengers, and wondered if she could get away from him, go hide in the ladies’ room until he left, but his hand was painfully tight on her arm.
He was going to personally deliver her to the security lines.
At least he couldn’t go with her, not with his gun tucked in his waistband.
But she knew he’d be watching. The security line was relatively short at that hour, and he stayed with her, and if he looked like death, people could attribute it to watching his woman leave him.
She looked up at him, but he was concentrating on the Spanish version of TSA officers, and she shuffled forward dutifully enough.