Black Ice Read online

  “I know you’re only distracted when you want to be, and so do the others. There’s too much at stake to waste time with this kind of thing. This is too important.”

  Ducks and pigs and chickens were too important? Fortunately Chloe simply blinked. It was only natural that an importer would think that whatever he imported would affect the fate of the world. The people at the table seemed totally devoid of any sense of humor, but then, financial matters had a tendency to make people deadly serious. She would have to control her own random frivolity.

  Hakim rose. “We’ll break for lunch. There’s nothing more we can do at this point.”

  “Good,” Bastien said. “I overslept, and I’m hungry.”

  “You’re not going to be eating.” The other people were filing out of the room, and Chloe was doing her best to go with them, but she was essentially trapped between the two men. “I need you to do me a favor,” Hakim said.

  Too close. “Excuse me,” Chloe interrupted, trying to sidle past him.

  “You’re part of the favor, Miss Underwood,” Hakim said, putting a hand on her arm to stop her.

  Men in France liked to touch women. For that matter, men in North Carolina did as well, and friendly touches were a matter of course.

  But she didn’t like the feel of Hakim’s hand on her arm. Not one bit.

  “Of course,” Bastien said immediately, glancing at her stubborn face with palpable amusement. “What would you like us to do?”

  “I have an errand for Miss Underwood, and I’d appreciate it if you’d drive her. I need some books.”

  “Books?” Chloe echoed.

  “For my guests. They won’t be working all the time, and they must have something to occupy them in their off-time. You would know what’s needed, I’m sure, given your experience in the publishing business. Just get a handful in the most common languages. French, English, Italian and German. Something light and escapist—use your judgment.”

  “But what about the limousine?” she stammered. “It seems a shame that Monsieur Toussaint has to waste his time on an errand like this instead of continuing with the work.”

  “Monsieur Toussaint is more than happy to have a chance to escape for a bit, aren’t you, Bastien? Particularly in the company of such a lovely young lady. And the limousine is being serviced—it’s unavailable.”

  Now why on earth would he lie to her? He wouldn’t—there was no reason for him to trump up an excuse to get rid of her. He could simply fire her ass and have done with it.

  “And the work this afternoon?” Bastien sounded completely unconcerned. “We wouldn’t want to miss anything.”

  “Don’t worry, Bastien. I’ll be looking out for your best interests, you know that. We all rise and fall together. And we’re far from coming to any kind of conclusion as to who will take over as head, not with Mr. Christopolous still absent. This afternoon will be simply jockeying for position. You can safely take the afternoon off and enjoy yourself. Take Mademoiselle Underwood for a nice long lunch in St. André. There’s no hurry.”

  Chloe racked her brain for a good excuse, even a lousy one, to get out of it, but for the moment she could think of nothing. “If you’re certain, Monsieur Hakim.”

  Gilles Hakim’s smile was benevolent, and it was only her imagination that the shadows in the brightly lit room made it look faintly sinister. “I am certain, mademoiselle. Tomorrow morning will be time to get back to work. In the meantime, enjoy yourself.”

  “I’ll see that she does,” Bastien said. Taking the arm that Hakim had clamped down on, his pressure was only slight, but she moved with him anyway.

  Not that the touch of his hand on her skin was less unsettling, she thought, letting him steer her out of the room. The feel of his skin next to hers was a different kind of threat, one that was dangerously enticing.

  It was easy enough to pull free once they left the room. “If you’d lend me your car I’m sure I can find the bookstore myself,” she said evenly.

  “But then I wouldn’t have the chance to spend some time with you,” he said. “And no one drives my car but me. I’m particular that way. Why don’t you go up and change into some more comfortable shoes? I’m certain you have some.”

  She would have given ten years off her life to have more comfortable shoes, but Sylvia hadn’t thought it was necessary, any more than she’d considered the difference in their sizes to be important. It was all Chloe could do not to hobble, but she summoned her best smile.

  “These are perfectly comfortable,” she said. “I’m ready if you are. The sooner we go, the sooner we can get back.”

  “True enough,” he murmured. “Though I find I don’t believe you’ve been quite as honest about the shoes.” There was a faint emphasis, as if he thought she hadn’t been honest about other things. Or maybe her crazy imagination was going at it again.

  He drove a Porsche. Of course he did, Chloe thought, sliding into the front seat. He’d waited long enough for her to get her purse, and she’d tried on every pair of shoes Sylvia had sent, but the other ones were even worse. In the end she grabbed a coat and went out, finding her way downstairs without mishap this time, only to find him waiting by his tiny little car.

  It was a cloudy day, so at least the top was up. Despite the lack of brilliant sunlight he was wearing dark glasses, and he was leaning against the side of the car, arms folded across his chest, calmly waiting for her. Another custom silk suit, probably Armani, with a pale silk shirt and no tie. His black hair curled behind his neck, and his face was unreadable. He opened the door for her, and the interior looked very small and cozy. Too cozy.

  And she could think of absolutely no excuse not to go with him. She pulled Sylvia’s Hermès bag to her shoulder, stiffened her back, and climbed into the low-slung car, avoiding his helping hand. She heard him laugh before he closed the door behind her.

  The interior of a Porsche was as tiny as she’d feared. And he seemed bigger. In the château he’d seemed average size—elegant, clean lines, not too tall, not too bulky. In the car his presence was overwhelming, and his legs were a lot longer than she’d realized. He had the seat all the way back, and he peered up at the sky before putting the car into gear.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to bring an umbrella?” he asked. “The weather looks uncertain.”

  Sylvia hadn’t packed an umbrella. “We’ll just have to hope the rain holds off until we get back. We shouldn’t have to be gone too long. I just need to choose a few novels for Monsieur Hakim’s guests and then we can come back.”

  “What about lunch?” He started down the long, curving drive away from the château.

  “I’m not hungry,” she lied. “I can get something when we get back if I change my mind.”

  “Whatever pleases you, Chloe,” he said, his voice as silken as his charcoal-gray suit, as silken as the tanned skin at his narrow wrists. His hands on the steering wheel were lean, beautiful, and he wore a wedding ring. Of course he did. Those hands looked very strong as well. “Better use your seat belt. I drive fast.”

  She opened her mouth to protest, then shut it again. By now she should have gotten used to the crazed speeds used in Europe, and the faster he drove, the faster this would be over with. She pulled the seat belt across her and fastened it, leaning back in the leather seat.

  “I presume you don’t wish to talk to me?” he asked. They were speaking in English, she realized, and had been for the last few minutes. She hadn’t even noticed.

  She certainly wasn’t in the mood for light conversation in either French or English, since his light conversation included flirtation, and his wedding ring was plainly visible. “I’m very tired,” she said, closing her eyes.

  “Then I’ll put on some music.” The sound of Charles Aznavour filled the car, and Chloe stifled a little moan. Aznavour had always been her great weakness, and listening to the sadness of Venice made her bones melt.

  She could always lose herself in the sound of his voice, forget who she was
with. Except that Bastien wasn’t easily ignored. Without speaking he still filled her senses—the subtlety of his very expensive cologne teased at her, the gentle sounds of his breathing serenaded her.

  The cologne was insidiously appealing. She ought to ask him what the name was, so she could buy some for her brothers. On second thought that might not be so good an idea. She would never smell that particular scent without thinking of Bastien Toussaint, and the sooner his presence—his very married, womanizing, undeniably seductive presence—was out of her life, the better.

  It was her own damned fault, Chloe thought, as Aznavour’s voice surrounded her like a swathe of rough silk. She’d been longing for adventure, a little vicarious sex and violence to shake things up. She’d had the vicarious sex, and that was already more than she’d bargained for. And it had been nothing more than a kiss. She could only hope that fate hadn’t decided to toss a little violence her way as well.

  I was only kidding, God. She cast her thoughts skyward, still trying to feign a nice, deep sleep. A nice, comfortable, boring life in Paris is all the adventure I want.

  Be careful what you wish for. She opened her eyes just a crack, to take a surreptitious look at Bastien. His attention was focused on the narrow road ahead of them, his hands draped loosely, confidently on the small steering wheel as he sped through the countryside. For some silly reason she thought spying on him when he didn’t realize she was looking might tell her something about him. He looked the same, the high, strong nose, beautiful mouth, the calm, slightly amused demeanor. As if he found the world to be nothing more than a joke of the blackest humor.

  “Change your mind about lunch?” he asked, not turning. So much for spying—he’d known she was watching him and as usual he’d given nothing away.

  She closed her own eyes again, closing him out. “No,” she said. And beneath the sound of Charles Aznavour her stomach growled.

  He knew the minute she actually fell asleep. Her hands had been in her lap, clutching the leather handle of her bag, and they’d relaxed. Her breathing had slowed, too, and her pretty mouth was no longer a narrow, nervous line. He should have told her to take off her shoes, at least until they got there. But then, she would refuse to admit they hurt her.

  What other lies would she tell? It would be interesting to see, and if all went well he’d have time enough to find out. First he had to get to a pay phone and call Harry Thomason, see if the Committee knew anything about exactly who Chloe was. As well as see what they were going to do about the shipment of Legolas sheep to Turkey. Because they weren’t sheep, they were very powerful weapons with infrared sites and smart bullets capable of doing a very great deal of damage by even the most inept of marksmen. He had little doubt what the Committee wanted him to do. Let them deliver the weapons, let innocent people die while the Committee went in search of bigger fish to fry. Collateral damage was their mantra, and Bastien had long ago stopped caring.

  He glanced at his sleeping companion. She wasn’t going to last long, not with her ineptitude. But in her case it wouldn’t be collateral damage, it would be the fortunes of war.

  He just hoped, for some odd reason, that he wouldn’t have to be the one who killed her.

  6

  Chloe woke with a start, just as the car pulled up outside a small sidewalk café. She had no idea how long she’d slept, and she still couldn’t believe she’d been able to do so when trapped inside such a tiny space with Bastien Toussaint. Maybe it had been self-preservation.

  “Here you go,” he said, making no effort to turn off the car. “This is the remarkably boring little town of St. André. There’s a small bookstore around the corner, and if you change your mind you can get yourself some lunch at the café. I’ll be back in a couple hours.”

  “You’ll be back? Where are you going?”

  “I have some business to attend to. If you were counting on my company I’m sorry to disappoint you, but there are certain things that demand my attention….”

  “I’m not disappointed,” she said, feeling oddly grumpy. She glanced through the windscreen. The sky was dark, overcast, and the town looked small and depressed. “Are you sure the bookstore will have what I need? The town is very small.”

  “It doesn’t matter. Hakim doesn’t care about the books—he just wanted to get rid of you for a few hours. Me as well. I doubt he’ll even look at what you bring back.”

  She stared at him. “I don’t understand.”

  “What’s to understand? This way he kills two birds with one stone.” His hands were draped loosely over the steering wheel. Beautiful hands. Even with the plain gold band.

  She opened the door and slid out of the low-slung car. The temperature had dropped, and the wind was picking up, sending leaves scudding across the narrow roadway. “Two hours?” she asked, looking at her watch.

  “Probably.” And he pulled away the moment she’d closed the door, disappearing down the narrow road as fast as he could.

  It was after one—given the speed he was driving they could be halfway to Marseilles by now. She should have brought an umbrella—the weather was looking more threatening by the moment.

  It was just as well that he’d left. He made her unaccountably nervous, and she wasn’t used to that. Men were basically predictable creatures—what you saw was what you got. But Bastien was a different matter altogether. She wasn’t sure of one thing about him—his nationality, his business, even his on-again, off-again interest in her. The only thing she was sure of was that he drove too fast. And smelled too good.

  She headed for the bookstore first. Among other things, she certainly couldn’t count on Hakim’s errand being spurious, and she was a conscientious employee, no matter what the circumstances. The place was hard to find—she had to ask directions from a sour-faced old woman who probably wouldn’t have answered her in English even if she understood it. Fortunately Chloe knew her accent was very good, the result of starting French in kindergarten at the private girls’ school her parents had sent her to. She sounded more like a Belgian than a Frenchwoman, but that was much more acceptable than a lowly American.

  The bookstore was just the disaster she’d expected. It was filled with the discards from some professor’s old library, and some of the titles were so esoteric even she couldn’t translate them. All in French, of course, and not a dust jacket in sight. They’d probably all been published before the war.

  She found a couple of novels and bought them anyway. If they wouldn’t do for Hakim’s French-speaking guests then she’d read them herself. And then she headed back toward the café. Maybe there’d be a newsstand around—glossy magazines would probably serve just as well for bored grocers in their off-hours.

  But there was no newsstand, not even a newspaper to be had at the dingy little café. But at least there was food, and by that point Chloe was ravenous.

  She had a baguette and brie for lunch, washed down with strong coffee instead of the wine she usually would have ordered. At that point she didn’t plan to go anywhere near alcohol for the duration of this peculiar little job Sylvia had conned her into. And the sooner she was done, and back in her tiny apartment with a fistful of euros, the happier she’d be.

  She lingered as long as she could over her meal, checking her watch every now and then. It was almost two hours—surely Bastien would appear at any moment. Hopefully before the rain.

  She paid her bill and went outside, peering down the street for some sign of the Porsche. The streets were empty, the wind was whipping her skirts against her legs, and when she turned back to the café the door was firmly closed, with Fermé displayed on a sign in the window.

  At that moment the first fat raindrop hit her, followed by another. She considered going back to the café, banging on the door, but they’d probably ignore her. They hadn’t seemed too happy to have a customer in the first place, and they were probably long out of hearing range by now. Or they’d pretend to be.

  She headed back toward the bookstore as quickly as
she could, but that, too, was closed and locked. She ducked under the portico, shivering slightly, pulling her coat around her as the drops of rain began to turn into a light mist. The town was so small there were no other public buildings that she could see. The post office would close midday as well, and if there were other shops they were nowhere in sight.

  What was in sight was the old church. Chloe stifled a pang of guilt—getting in out of the icy rain was a poor reason for finally setting foot in a church, but she had little choice. The church was on the corner of the main square—she could keep an eye out for Bastien more easily, and it would be warmer than standing outside.

  She was halfway to the church when the rain let loose its full fury, soaking her to the skin. The too-tight high heels were making it slow going, and she paused long enough to pull them off before sprinting the rest of the way to the carved wooden doors of the old church.

  They were locked as well. What the hell kind of town was this, where they locked the church? What if she were some poor sinner in need of absolution or a moment of meditation?

  Well, she was a poor sinner by the church’s standards, though she hadn’t had the chance to sin nearly enough over the past few months. But clearly this small town didn’t have much call for daytime sanctity. She plastered herself against the door, trying to keep as much of her body out of the rain as she could, and watched the water beat down on the street, running in rivulets through the cobblestones that should have been charming but had nearly broken her ankle. The temperature was dropping, and she wrapped her arms around her body, shivering. And then she realized that somewhere along the way she’d lost the books she’d purchased.

  “Son of a bitch,” she muttered, then stopped herself when she remembered where she was. It only needed this to make the day complete. Bastien had been gone for hours, and with her luck he wouldn’t return. She’d be stuck in this unfriendly, nameless town, die of pneumonia, and Sylvia would have to find a new roommate.