Black Ice - Anne Stuart [109]
He couldn’t afford to waste time with gentleness. He pushed her into the tiny crawl space—there was just enough room for her, none for him, but he could touch her, put his hand on her cold, damp forehead, run his thumb against her temple in a useless, soothing gesture. “It’s the best I could come up with, Chloe,” he whispered. “Close your eyes and don’t think about the darkness. Think about how you’re going to kick my ass when you get out of here.”
She was trembling, and he doubted she even heard his words. He could see just enough to know her eyes were wide with panic, and there was nothing he could do about it.
Instead he leaned down and put his lips against the silver tape that covered her mouth, a strange, muffled kiss that he couldn’t resist. And for a moment her shaking stilled, and she leaned toward him, into the kiss.
“I’m sorry,” he said. And moving back, he put the solid door back in place, closing her in there, in the coffinlike space with no light, closing her into her worst fear.
He half expected to hear her kicking at the panel, struggling. The silence was deep and cold as death. He kissed the wood, a soundless goodbye, and went out into the predawn air, ready to kill once more.
She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. She didn’t dare move, terrified that she would do something that might endanger Bastien. She sat huddled, trussed and gagged in the dark, tiny space and tried to keep from screaming. Knowing that no scream would be heard.
She moved, and through her panic she heard something hit the floor, something metallic against the cold, hard concrete. If her hands had been bound behind her she wouldn’t have been able to find anything, but with them in front she could hunt around, trying to concentrate on that rather than the inky darkness. It had sounded hollow and metallic, like a bullet, but she knew that was ridiculous. It had to be something else.
Her bound hands curled around the slender metallic cylinder, and for a moment she had no idea what it could be. She could feel the bubble of hysteria at the back of her throat. Was he French enough and crazy enough to give her lipstick? And then she knew.
Such a bright light, flooding the cramped space, all from a tiny little flashlight. She felt the clawing panic begin to recede, slowly, and she leaned back against the hard wall, trying to control her breathing. It took her a moment to realize she could also pull the duct tape from across her mouth, and she did so, not even wincing in pain as she yanked it from her skin. He would have known she’d figure it out sooner or later. But by then she’d be calm enough to know that any sound she might make would only endanger them both.
She jerked at her wrists, but that was the limit of his concessions. The rope held firmly, and she could do nothing about her ankles. She was trapped there, but not in the darkness. She could survive anything if she had even a tiny beacon of light. And if enough time passed, and he didn’t come back for her, if her parents returned she could call out, and someone would come and rescue her.
The very notion seemed bizarre, but Bastien had been prepared for all contingencies. Now all she had to do was stay calm and wait. Wait for him to come back to her.
Because he would. Though hell should bar the way, hadn’t they both said? She had to believe that, or even the security of the tiny flashlight wouldn’t be enough to keep her from crying out.
It must be sometime after four. She had no idea how long they’d been in bed together—time had lost all meaning. He’d told her he would kiss every part of her body. He had. He’d made love to her with such exquisite tenderness, such fierce possessiveness, such mind-shaking intensity that even now she felt shaken, shocked. Aroused.
The light was strong and bright, but the battery wouldn’t last forever. She had no idea whether any stray light would filter through the solid covering to the crawl space, but she didn’t want to risk it. Because if they found