Page 72 of Icebound

“Is that to keep Jean-Marc out, or me in?”

“Take your pick,” he said cheerfully. He looked like the old Luc—the shaggy hair, the wire-rimmed glasses, the warm brown eyes. He was too old to be a student, but he still looked innocently helpful. Not like the back-stabbing, cold-blooded killer that he was.

He took her hand and brought it to his mouth, kissing it lightly. What am I supposed to do, swoon? she thought cynically, giving him a warm smile. He believed her, believed he’d fooled her, and she could count on one small win in a night of complications. She went into the room and closed the door quietly behind her.

Who the hell was Peter Madsen? He knew the name from somewhere, lost in the depths of his tangled mind, but nothing came forward. The more he tried to force it, the more elusive it became, until he wondered if he knew the name at all.

The logical thing was to ask Le Fauçon if he’d ever had any dealings with him, but something stopped him. He’d lost his trust in his associates, and he suspected Le Fauçon would simply lie to him. They were hiding something from him, he was sure of it, but he had no earthly idea what it was.

That wasn’t true. It had something to do with the now-constant fog in his brain, the quiet little half-memories that kept plaguing him when he least expected them. A word here or there, a scent in the air, and his stomach would knot as he tried to capture the fleeting sense of recognition, but it always eluded him. And he suspected Le Fauçon liked it that way.

Maybe he’d ask this Peter Madsen before he killed him. He preferred killing from a distance, without conversation, but this uncertainty was driving him mad.

He was pacing the bedroom he’d been allotted. It was smaller than the one Chloe was in. The bed was smaller. He closed his eyes and he could see her, smell her skin, feel her reaction to him. It seemed that the only time things made sense was when he was inside her. Then everything settled into rightness. Was that why Le Fauçon didn’t want him sleeping with her? He didn’t give a damn about Maddelena’s tantrums—that was just an excuse. Was Chloe part of the equation that scrambled his brain?

His need for her was certainly singular. One woman was as good as another in his life, and he’d never let his dick determine his actions. But Chloe was different, dangerously so, forcing him to question everything he thought was true.

One thing was certain: Le Fauçon would never let her go. If he didn’t get her out of here, and soon, he was going to come back and find her mysteriously disappeared, and not safely back to America. The moment Le Fauçon ordered her brought to him had sealed her fate, and the man was a fool if he thought he would believe his promises. There was a time when he would have. He wouldn’t have questioned Le Fauçon, because he simply didn’t care.

He cared now. When he went to take care of Madsen, he wasn’t leaving Chloe behind, and Le Fauçon would just have to put up with it.

Throwing himself down on the bed, he stretched out, looking at the ceiling. Its white expanse told him nothing, as blank as his mind. There was one person who might have some answers, who would talk to him. Chloe’s insistence that he was her husband was ridiculous—he was married to that she-wolf, Maddelena. Chloe’s acquiescence had been a little too rapid, her help suspect. She’d been a hostage, and she’d done nothing to escape. She’d welcomed him into her bed, into her body, and he knew Luc was right—she was in love with him.

Was that the simple reason for her cooperation? Some women, like Maddelena, liked dangerous men. Chloe was very different from her. She deserved someone who adored her, a man without demons haunting him. Demons and the lives of so many he could hardly remember. But then, he couldn’t remember a goddamn thing nowadays.

One thing was absolutely certain—he wasn’t going to let Le Fauçon dictate who and when he could fuck. If he wanted Chloe, he would have her, and to hell with the old man.

But for now, his head hurt and his brain was screaming. He needed to shut down the voices, shut down everything. He could deal with things tomorrow—Chloe, Le Fauçon, Luc. He had the feeling they all knew more about his life than he did. And before he killed this Peter Madsen, he was going to find some answers.

They were keeping her away from him, Chloe decided two days later. The only time she would see him was at Le Fauçon’s stilted dinners, and then he remained silent beside her as Le Fauçon treated her like a charming child. It was bad enough keeping a friendly attitude toward Luc and trying to ignore Maddelena’s poisonous glances. With Bastien so close to her, her longing for him was intense, and she could do nothing about it. Nothing, if he didn’t seem to care one way or another.

She would have gone mad with boredom if it weren’t for the collection of romances in Spanish, which she figured belonged to Maddelena. Most of them were big on discipline and anal sex, never her particular turn-on, but they were better than nothing. She was curled up in the living room, the wide windows overlooking the semi-desert landscape, reading one of them, when Maddelena wandered in, looking elegant in her designer clothes with a smug smile on her face. Chloe wanted to wipe it off.

Don’t let it get to you, she admonished herself. Be quiet and she’ll go away.

But Maddelena sat down opposite her, stretching out her long, perfect legs. “You like my books?” she said. “How can you read them? Americans are too stupid to learn a second language.”

Chloe resisted the temptation to answer her in perfect, idiomatic Spanish. Maddelena was just trying to rile her. “I speak Spanish,” she said quietly.

“Do you? You’re a woman of hidden talents. Perhaps that’s why Jean-Marc was taken in by you.”

Chloe turned back to the book, determined to ignore her unwanted companion. “I don’t think my linguistic abilities have anything to do with why he wants me. And not you,” she added, unable to help herself.

Maddelena’s magnificent eyes flashed, but she didn’t move. “It might interest you to know that Jean-Marc has spent the last two nights in my bed,” she cooed. “It seems that you are very forgettable.”

Chloe looked up for a moment, just a brief, warning glance before returning to the book. She found her hands were shaking, and it surprised her. She was usually even-tempered except when it came to Bastien, and their fights were more a question of foreplay.

At the thought of foreplay, she snapped the book closed. “I think I’ll go back to my room,” she said.

“I think you won’t. I need to make a few things clear. I am his wife, not you. I’ve been married to him for seventeen years, and I’m not about to give him up over a little fling.”

Chloe was momentarily silenced. “You can’t have been married to him for that long!”

“I assure you, I have been. I was nineteen when we married. So, you see, he’s not your long-lost husband or whoever you think he is.”

“I don’t believe you,” Chloe said, her voice flat.

“Oh, he’s easily distracted, I grant you that. Seventeen years is a long time with one woman and we’ve both had our discreet alliances. We’ve even shared a few. Jean-Marc is very liberal in his sexual proclivities. But I imagine you’ve discovered that. In fact, it surprises me that such a weak woman would put up with some of Jean-Marc’s particular kinks.”