Black Ice - Anne Stuart [111]
She didn’t say she’d already delivered that salvation. Surely she would have changed tenses if, in fact, he was already dead.
But then, English wasn’t her first language, and Chloe couldn’t place her hopes on the grammatical nuances of a crazy woman.
“So if you’ve done what you came for, why are you still here? Bastien is dead—what else do you want?”
“Chérie!” Monique said, mocking. “Haven’t you been listening to me? Killing Bastien, while enjoyable, wasn’t what I came for. Besides, my men found him first, trying to escape. He would have abandoned you to my tender mercies, but Dmitri was too fast for him. If we hadn’t killed him now I would have found him in Europe sooner or later. No, I came here for you.”
“Why?”
Monique shrugged. “Because you annoy me. Because Bastien seemed willing to risk everything, including me, for some ridiculous notion of honor.”
“Honor? You think that’s why he saved me?”
“Of course. What other reason could he possibly have?”
“He loves me.”
Monique hit her so hard she fell back on the rough floor of the basement. She’d been holding a gun, a fact that had managed to escape Chloe’s attention, and the solid metal had connected with her face, her mouth. She could taste her own blood, but she was well past the point of caring. If Bastien was dead then she would be as well, but she’d make her last few minutes as painful for Monique as she could. She was willing to pay the price.
“Jealous?” she asked sweetly. “I’m sorry he preferred you to me, but I think he was tired of older women.”
Monique kicked her in the ribs, so hard that the breath was knocked out of her. The pain in her side was excruciating, and Chloe thought her rib might have snapped. In a while it wouldn’t matter. “Or maybe he just tired of you,” she managed to choke out.
Monique squatted down beside her, catching Chloe’s shirt in her fist and jerking her upright. The pain in her side was agonizing, but she managed to meet Monique’s furious gaze with stony unconcern, even when she felt the cold steel of the gun barrel against her forehead. “Would you like to see what it’s like to have part of your face blown away, little girl? I know exactly what to do—where to shoot you so that you won’t die right away. You’ll lie there writhing in misery, praying for it all to end….”
“I don’t really care,” Chloe said, wishing she could manage a convincing yawn. “If you’ve already killed Bastien then why would anything matter?”
“Oh, Christ, you’re in love with him!” Monique cried in disgust. “Of course you are. How absolutely pathetic! I will admit he’s very good in bed—one of the best I’ve ever had, even if he had a faint aversion to some of the games I like. But he’s hardly a romantic hero. He died begging for his life. As you will.”
“Don’t count on it.” She didn’t see the second blow coming. A flash of blinding pain, pure white, and Chloe wondered if Monique had shot her. And then the darkness followed, and there was nothing left.
The spring storm had finally stopped, leaving the landscape blanketed with white. Bastien had hoped the explosion of the burning guest house had taken more than one of them, but only one charred body lay in the melting snow. There might be another inside, but he couldn’t count on it. He’d already circled around to check on the security system, and the second man was down there, electrocuted.
He broke the third one’s neck behind the garage, but not before he’d been stabbed. The knife had missed anything vital—he’d moved fast enough before his attacker could turn and pull the knife up, cutting through major organs. He recognized the shape and the style of the attack even before he turned the body over. It appeared that Fernand had gotten tired of running that little bar in the Marais and decided to pick up a little outside work. He was good, but no match for Bastien.
Still, he’d managed to prick him. He’d also been well briefed—the knife went in close to the recent bullet wound. Obviously he was hoping his target would be more vulnerable, but he’d grown enough scar tissue