Page 21 of Icebound

Coffee was first, and the lazy bastards hadn’t even run the new-age coffee machine that adorned one counter. After looking at it, she understood why—it looked more like a rocket launcher than a kitchen appliance. Ignoring it, she found an old-fashioned glass carafe and filters and set the water on to boil.

Omelets were fast and easy, and she whipped them up with some French cheese and herbs, plating them and dumping them on a tray. She added three generous mugs of coffee and carried the tray into the living room, setting it down with a thump that just managed not to spill the coffee.

“She can cook!” Flambeau said, first at the trough like the pig he was. The others followed suit, and all was silent as they ate.

Not the slightest bit gratified, Chloe went back into the kitchen. She hadn’t even had her own coffee yet—the carafe had only been large enough for three cups, and she made another pot before making her own omelet. Leaning against the counter, she ate it, keeping an eye on the two stairs that led down to the living room, wary of Flambeau’s return. He would probably demand second or thirds and⁠—

Bastien filled the doorway, and she almost dropped her plate. “More coffee,” he said.

“Over there.” She nodded in the direction of the carafe. Unfortunately, she was between him and the carafe, and the kitchen was small. He brushed past her, his body barely touching hers, and a sudden frisson of reaction spread through her.

Not my husband, she reminded herself. At least, not the man she knew. And yet her skin tingled from his almost touch, and she realized he hadn’t touched her since she’d been taken hostage. Flambeau had mauled her, Luc had escorted her, but Bastien had kept his distance. Would she recognize his touch? Would he?

He poured himself coffee and added the silvery white sugar from the bowl, and she waited for him to go. Instead, he turned and leaned against the counter, watching her out of wary eyes. “You will cook for us, chérie,” he said in a voice that brooked no opposition. “You will do our laundry and whatever cleaning needs to be done.”

“I’m not your maid.”

“No, you’re my hostage, and I need a reason to keep you alive,” he said calmly, taking a drink of his coffee.

“I thought I was part of your plan.”

“What plan?” he shot back.

“I don’t know. Whatever you’ve been working on. I’m supposed to have a pretty dress and go to a party.”

“If I trust you, which is a big ‘if,’” he said. “Somehow I don’t think you’re that excited about a party.”

“If it gets me away from you, I’ll be very enthusiastic indeed.”

He smiled. “You don’t like me, mon ange? I thought I reminded you of your missing husband.”

She hated hearing the false endearments on his lips. She was no more his angel than she was his wife, and she wanted to cross the kitchen, grab him and shake him, saying “it’s me, Bastien! Chloe!” It would get her nowhere except another clout across her face.

She said nothing. She’d set her half-finished omelet down on the counter, her appetite long gone. “I don’t know who you are,” she said sulkily.

“That’s a step in the right direction.” To her sudden panic, he moved closer, so close he was almost touching her. “I’m not your husband, but I could be your lover.”

She heard the words but they made no sense. She looked up at him, into his dark, cold eyes, and she thanked God her weeping was over, or she would have burst into foolish tears again.

But she was made of sterner stuff than that. She swallowed, straightening her back, but she still had to look up. She was tall for a woman, but he was taller. “No, thank you,” she said politely.

His smile was slow, sexual and predatory. “You’ll come to my bed when I’m ready.”

“Never.”

Before she realized what he was doing he’d caught her chin in one strong hand and put his mouth on hers, hard, bruising. She tried to shove him away, but he caught her wrists in his other hand, holding her still while he kissed her thoroughly, and she could do nothing to fight back.

She closed her eyes to shut out the sight of him, a big mistake, because she knew that mouth, that kiss, that taste. She tried to hold still, unresponsive, but he was having none of it, and his tongue caught hers in a caress of such intimacy that she wanted to weep.

And then just as suddenly, he released her. “Americans don’t know how to kiss,” he said. “I don’t know that you’ll be worth the trouble.”

It took her a moment to catch her breath. “I wouldn’t be,” she said.

“Then again, you have une chatte, and that’s all I really care about.”

She hated that word. It was the same in French as in English—pussy—and she glared at him, some of her vulnerability vanishing. “Fuck you,” she said.

“Non, chérie. Fuck you.” And he released her, poured himself the last cup of coffee, and strolled back into the living room.