Black Ice - Anne Stuart [2]
And she could probably do without violence, which was usually accompanied by blood, which tended to make her puke. Not that she’d encountered much real violence in her life. Her family had kept her sheltered, and she had a healthy respect for her own safety. She didn’t go wandering into dangerous parts of the city at night, she locked her doors and windows and looked both ways and prayed diligently before she crossed the homicidal Parisian traffic.
No, she could look forward to another peaceful winter in the underheated apartment, eating pasta, translating Flora the Plucky Ferret and Bruce the Tangerine, though how a tangerine could have a life of its own had so far escaped her. Maybe that was why she was stalling on Flora, knowing her next task was citrus.
She’d find another lover, sooner or later. Maybe Sylvia would finally hit the mother lode, move out, and Chloe would find some nice, gentle Frenchman with wire-rimmed glasses and a skinny body and a taste for experimental cooking.
In the meantime, the doughty little ferret awaited her, as did the daunting task of coming up with the French equivalent of “doughty.”
She heard Sylvia before she arrived—there was no mistaking the noisy clatter of her expensive shoes on the two flights of stairs, the muttered cursing from her perfectly rouged mouth. The only question was, why was Sylvia showing up at work three hours before she usually dragged herself in?
The door slammed open with a bang and Sylvia stood there, panting, not a hair out of place, not a speck of her makeup smudged. “There you are!” she cried.
“Here I am,” Chloe said. “Want some coffee?”
“We don’t have time for coffee, dammit! Chloe, sweetie, you have to help me. It’s a matter of life and death.”
Chloe blinked. Fortunately she was used to Sylvia’s dramatics. “What now?”
Sylvia stopped cold, momentarily affronted. “I’m serious, Chloe! If you don’t help me out I…I don’t know what I’ll do.”
She’d dragged a huge suitcase all the way up the flights of stairs—no wonder she’d been making such a racket. “Where do you want to go and what do you need me to do to cover for you?” she asked, resigned. The huge suitcase that would suit most people on a two-week trip would keep Sylvia decently clothed for three or four days. Three or four days with the flat to herself and no one to pick up after. She could open the windows and let the air blow in and no one would complain about the cold. She was prepared to be helpful.
“I’m not going anywhere. You are.”
Chloe blinked again. “The suitcase?”
“I packed for you. Your clothes are awful and you know it—I put in everything I thought looked good on you. Except my fur coat, but you can’t expect me to part with that,” she added, momentarily practical.
“I don’t expect you to part with anything. And I can’t go anywhere. What would the Laurents say?”
“Leave them to me. I’ll cover for you,” Sylvia said, looking her over. “At least you’re decently dressed for a change, though I’d lose the scarf if I were you. You’ll manage to fit in just fine.”
A deep foreboding filled Chloe. “Fit in where? Just take a deep breath and tell me what you need and I’ll see whether I can help you.”
“You have to,” Sylvia said flatly. “I told you, it’s a…”
“Matter of life and death,” Chloe filled in. “What do you want me to do?”
Some of Sylvia’s anxiety vanished. “Nothing so onerous. Spend a few days at a beautiful estate in the country, translating for a group of importers, making scads of money and being waited on by an army of servants. Wonderful food, wonderful surroundings and the only drawback is having to deal with boring businessmen. You get to dress for dinner and make tons of money and flirt with anyone who takes your fancy. You should be thanking me for giving you such a golden opportunity.”
Typical of Sylvia to turn things around in her own mind. “And exactly why are you giving me