Page 32 of Icebound

“You are,” Luc said.

“Then you’re going to have to trust me to do what’s necessary when the time comes.”

“And you’ll let her go?”

Jean-Marc didn’t answer.

Chloe woke up, aching all over, and peered into the night-black bedroom. She was shaking, she realized, and her heart was hammering against her chest. She’d dreamt about Flambeau, about his fists, pounding her, about his cruel hands pawing at her, the rip in her clothes, the knowledge that she wouldn’t escape.

Her breath was coming too fast and she tried to slow it down. He’d saved her. He would always save her, no matter how bad things got. It wasn’t the first time he’d killed for her. It wouldn’t be the last. Whether he knew her or not, deep inside, there was still a connection, she was sure of it. She was foolish to be afraid of him.

But then, she was a fool. Bastien was now the man she first met, the dangerous killer who didn’t let sentiment get in the way of his actions. So why had he killed Flambeau? Wouldn’t a stern talking-to suffice?

Her small, bitter laugh turned into a hiccup of pain. She was so cold, so alone. She needed her husband.

She rose from the bed, shivering slightly in the cool night air. She didn’t stop to think about it, she simply walked through the bedroom door, over to the big bed where Bastien lay sleeping.

His eyes were open, and he was looking at her from where he lay sprawled in the middle of the bed. And then he moved over, making space for her.

She didn’t want sex, she wanted comfort, and she hesitated, but he turned his back on her, leaving her to make up her mind. Pushing her hair away from her face, she realized her cheeks was wet with tears. No more hesitation. She climbed up onto the bed and waited, rigid, for him to turn back to her.

He didn’t. “Go to sleep, chérie,” he said with that damnable, lying endearment.

She put her head down, surreptitiously wiping the tears from her face. His back was naked, broad and strong, the back that had reassured her that he really was her husband. She could see the scars she knew so well, a roadmap to his terrible life. Without hesitation, she moved up against him, leaning against his smooth, familiar back, and froze, waiting for him to turn back. She would pay the price for that comfort, but that wasn’t what she wanted. She wanted the feel of his skin against her, the warmth of him.

He relaxed against her, not moving, and she knew she was safe, if that was safety. She closed her eyes, her cheek pressed against his familiar scars and fell asleep.

“The woman is getting to be a problem,” the old man’s voice crackled over the telephone. “Flambeau was an idiot, but he had his uses. I don’t like the fact that Jean-Marc killed him.”

“Flambeau disobeyed orders,” Luc said. ‘That made him untrustworthy.”

“It’s that woman. You should have put an end to her long ago. I don’t like that Jean-Marc wants to take her to the gala. It’s just one more thing that can go wrong.”

“Jean-Marc knows what he’s doing. He’s never failed before, and he won’t this time.”

“And what about the woman?”

“She’ll be dealt with. Jean-Marc might have a soft spot for her, but that won’t stop him from taking care of business. He’s far from sentimental.”

“Hmph!” The voice at the other end of the line sounded dubious. “I can count on you to take care of things if he doesn’t?”

“Do you need to ask?”

“Of course not. Le Fauçon always gets what he wants.” The old man’s plummy voice sounded smug. “But I don’t like this.”

“It will all work out,” Luc said soothingly. “Trust in the process.”

“Humph.”

Chapter

Twelve

When Chloe woke, she was alone. She had the vague memory of him turning during the night, of holding her in his arms, but she knew that had to be a dream. This wasn’t her tender Bastien, this was a cold-blooded killer. If he turned to her, it would have been for one thing, and she couldn’t bear to think of it. Not after Flambeau.

Light was spearing in the shuttered windows, the bright light of day, and she knew she should move. But the bed felt safe, a respite from the chaos her life had become, and she hesitated too long. Bastien strode in, glancing at her dispassionately.

“Pack your bags,” he said. “We’re leaving in an hour.”