Page 33 of Icebound

She sat up in the bed, his bed. “Where are we going?”

“If I wanted you to know, I would tell you.” His voice was short, irritated, and he left the room before she could respond, before she could make the foolish mistake of thanking him for his comfort last night. He would just mock her, she knew it. She scrambled out of bed and went straight for her alcove. She didn’t have to be told twice.

An hour later, she’d showered, dressed, and packed, joining the two men in the living room. They were drinking coffee, and she headed straight for the kitchen when Bastien stopped her. “There’s no time for that,” he snapped. “Get in the car.”

“Should I strip the bed?” she said, controlling her irritation. She needed coffee like she needed air to breathe.

“We leave this place as it is,” Luc offered. “Someone will come and clean it.”

“Someone?” she echoed. “You mean there are more people working with you?”

“Shut up, Luc,” Bastien snapped. He continued in the French she wasn’t supposed to understand. “The less she knows, the better. Once we get to Como, we can decide what to tell her.”.

She could feel her stomach tighten at the thought of their destination. He was going to kill someone at Lake Como. All this planning, all this practice, was leading to one thing the supposed Jean-Marc was good at. Killing.

“Get in the car, chérie.” Bastien’s voice was icy. “If I have to tell you a third time, you won’t be happy.”

“And you’re so determined to make me happy?” she shot back before she could stop herself.

Luc jumped up quickly before Bastien could respond with the anger simmering in his dark eyes. “Come along, Chloe. At least this time, you get the whole back seat to yourself.”

She looked at him in horror at the reminder. She took a calming breath. Luc was right, now that Flambeau was dead, she’d no longer have to endure his pawing in the back seat of the old Renault. “Lucky me,” she said dully, reaching for her small suitcase.

But Luc grabbed it before she could, leading her out the door. “Don’t be too sensitive. Flambeau was a pig. We’re better off without him.”

It was a bright, sunny day, far too cheerful for their unhappy trio. She climbed into the back seat and Luc closed the door after her. “I’ll bring you some coffee, chérie,” he said. “Don’t let Jean-Marc’s bad mood bother you. He said he didn’t sleep well, but depriving someone of coffee in the morning is too cruel, even for him.”

She managed a weak smile. “I would kill for a cup of coffee,” she said without thinking, then cursed herself. These were men who really might kill over something so slight.

“You won’t have to go that far,” Luc said cheerfully, and headed back into the decrepit old farmhouse.

It was another fifteen minutes before they came out, and sure enough, Luc had a large mug in his hand, passing it through the window to Chloe’s grateful fingers. It was as black and strong as midnight and she didn’t care. She took a deep drink, burning her tongue. Bastien said nothing, radiating disapproval, and she wanted to stick her tongue out at him. She was feeling rebellious, angry, determined not to let them cow her any longer. She was no docile female to be ordered about. They wanted her for something, she wasn’t quite sure what, but as long as she had a value to them, they wouldn’t kill her. Bastien wouldn’t kill her. Whether he remembered her or not, his body knew her, and something would stop him from hurting her, she was sure of it.

He drove in a brooding silence, and she was at a loss to guess what was going on in his mind. Was he angry because he let her into his bed last night? Angry about the loss of Flambeau? She supposed she ought to be intimidated, but in truth, she didn’t give a flying fuck what was bothering him. Living with Bastien had made her strong, no longer the docile innocent who first met him. She wasn’t going to let his doppelganger terrorize her with something as simple as a bad mood.

To her relief, they stopped at what she assumed was the European version of a truck stop—the coffee had gone through her like water—and Luc came back out to the car with baguettes and cheese and fruit—just perfect for an idyllic picnic lunch. Once they were back on the road, Luc unpacked the food, handing a chunk of bread back to Chloe.

“I’m not hungry,” she said, not taking it.

“Chloe, you should eat something,” Luc insisted.

“Leave her alone,” Bastien said. “If she’s weak from lack of food, she’ll be easier to control.”

Chloe took the bread. She bit into it and almost laughed. Even at a truck stop, you could get a great baguette. The cheese was strong and salty, and she washed it down with the water they’d bought, apparently just for her while they drank wine as they drove.

At any other time, she would have loved the trip through the Alps—the views were breathtaking from the mountain roads, and if Bastien drove too fast, she was used to it. That was one thing that hadn’t changed—the man had a lead foot, and after fifteen years, she still hadn’t gotten comfortable with it. His sedate drive through the streets of Paris had been an anomaly.

They stopped for lunch, eaten at a small restaurant along the way that was packed with tourists—European, Japanese, and American tourists. Bastien didn’t bother to warn her—he simply gave her a look as they sat down, and she let go of any plans to get help. What kind of help could she expect? At best, Bastien and Luc would be arrested, out of her life. At worst, she couldn’t see Bastien peacefully submitting to arrest.

He must have read her mind. “If you don’t want a bloodbath in this nice little restaurant, then you will keep your mouth shut and eat.”

“How am I supposed to manage that?” she replied in a snarky tone, and Luc looked at her with respect.

“Luc will tell you not to push me, bébé. There are a lot of mountain gorges around here, and you could be made to disappear quite easily.”

“There are too many tourists on the road,” she shot back fearlessly, and Luc winced.

“It would be a tragic accident. We stopped and got out of the car to admire the view, and you slipped. I know just the spot on the A40—they lose tourists there every year.”