Black Ice - Anne Stuart [19]
Bastien stepped into her room, closing the door quietly behind him. He didn’t have to be particularly discreet—he knew where the cameras were located, and he could manage his way around them without giving anything away. Besides, he was known as a dedicated womanizer, and it wouldn’t be surprising if he’d managed to do every beautiful female in the area.
Except that the girl wasn’t particularly beautiful. He stood over her, staring down at her curled-up body for a moment. She was pretty. Not a word he tended to use. She had good bone structure, even features, a sweet, full mouth.
Sweet? Pretty? Maybe she was better than he thought. She certainly managed to exude an essentially harmless persona.
He slid his arms under her and laid her out on the bed. She’d washed her makeup off—maybe that was why she was looking so innocent. The nightgown she was wearing was very expensive, with tiny little satin ties down the front. He undid them, one by one, until the gown fell open around her.
A good body as well. A little more butt than many young Frenchwomen, a little more breast as well, but basically young and strong and nicely formed. No sign of the rigorous training she should have gone through. Just enough softness through the arms and belly to tell him she would be warm and welcoming in bed.
Who was he kidding? She’d cut his throat in bed, if he happened to get distracted. And fucking was marginally distracting.
There were marks on her body, beneath her breasts. Red lines, and he ran a finger along them, wondering what kind of torture she’d endured in the distant past.
And then he smiled. Not so distant past—she’d simply been wearing a bra that was too tight.
No woman he’d ever known would wear a constricting bra unless she had no choice. He glanced down her long legs to her feet. The lines were even more pronounced—she’d been wearing the wrong shoes as well.
The drug he put in her cognac was good stuff—she’d sleep for six to eight hours and wake without a hangover, even though she deserved one after all the wine she’d drunk at dinner. His little gift to her.
He searched the room methodically, from top to bottom. She had three more pairs of shoes, all the same size, all slender high heels. She was going to be hobbling in a couple days. If she was still here.
There were no black ops clothing. Not in the room, at least, and she couldn’t have hidden them anywhere on the grounds without someone finding them. No weapons, no papers of any interest. Her passport was an excellent fake—the picture inside looked like a plainer, younger version of the woman who’d walked in today. She supposedly came from North Carolina. She was almost twenty-four years old, five seven, one hundred and twenty-one pounds, and she’d entered France two years ago on a student visa. She had a work permit, a surprise in itself. He never trusted anyone with too clean an identity.
Nothing else in terms of papers, either forged or otherwise. Not much money. No prescription drugs, nothing personal.
There were a bunch of pictures in her wallet—fakes with the young woman posing with various genial family types. Easy enough to doctor.
He put the purse back, moving around to the side of the bed. The glass had broken in large pieces, the drugged brandy seeping into the carpet. Not a bad mess for him to clean up—he’d done far worse. This time there was no blood to get rid of, no body to dispose of. Yet.
He poured the drugged brandy down the bathroom sink, then refilled it from the flask he’d brought with him. He’d brought an extra glass, just in case, and he poured a splash in it before replacing it beside the bed.
He stared down at her again. She was a real professional after all—if he couldn’t find anything in his search then she’d figured something out that even he hadn’t thought of.
Unless, of course, she was telling the