Black Ice - Anne Stuart [20]
But then, why would she be wearing the wrong shoes, the wrong bra. Why would she lie about her knowledge of languages?
No, given the circumstances, there was no way she could be an innocent bystander. She was there to do damage, and he needed to find out what, and to whom.
He began retying the ribbons that held the silken gown together, then stopped, leaving it open below the waist. She would wonder why, but she wouldn’t remember. He could really do anything he liked to her, and she wouldn’t remember.
There were any number of things he would have enjoyed doing to her, but most of them would be much better if she were awake and participating. She might be inexperienced enough not to take advantage of the blatant pass he’d made at her earlier today, but he wasn’t so sanguine. She’d already betrayed too much already. Get her naked beneath him, move inside her, and he’d know her better than she knew herself.
But not if she was comatose.
He sat down on the bed beside her, watching her as she slept. It would simplify matters if he killed her now. He could do it fast, neatly, and simply tell Hakim he didn’t trust her. Hakim would accept that.
He put his hand on her neck. Her skin was warm, soft beneath his skin, paler against his tanned hand. He could feel the pulse beat steadily, watch the rise and fall of her chest. He tightened his fingers for just a moment, then took them away.
Afterward he wasn’t sure why he did it. Uncharacteristic of him, but then, he’d been playing by different rules recently. Or ignoring the rules he’d been taught.
He stretched his body out alongside hers, his head on the pillow next to her. She smelled like soap and Chanel and cognac, an enticing combination.
“Who are you, bébé?” he whispered. “And why are you here?”
She wouldn’t be answering for another six hours at least. He laughed, at himself, and sat up. There was time. With no weapons, her clear mission was to gather information, and he could ensure that anything she discovered didn’t make it past the walls of the château.
There was time.
5
Chloe had never been one to wake up slowly. She tended to be alert immediately, and she was nauseatingly cheerful, while her sleep-fuddled siblings and parents threatened her with death or dismemberment if she didn’t stop the damned humming.
That morning was no different, except when her eyes popped open she had no idea where she was.
She decided not to panic, since panic tended to be a waste of time. She lay still, unmoving, and let memory sink back in. The château, and her sucker agreement to take Sylvia’s place. Too much wine last night, and Bastien Toussaint’s practiced mouth.
She hadn’t been kissed in months, so it was no wonder she could still feel the pressure of his lips against hers. Too bad she couldn’t have just let herself go with it. So what if it had been a performance on his part? He probably performed very well indeed.
But she’d always been too picky and too stubborn, and as her friends would tell her too American to really enjoy the pleasures of casual sex. And while a roll in the hay with someone like Bastien would be memorable, she didn’t really like having nothing but memories to hold on to.
She sat up slowly, putting her hand to her head in anticipation of the searing pain she absolutely deserved for drinking all that red wine, but it didn’t come. She gave her head a tentative shake, preparing for the delayed blast of pain, but felt nothing.
She glanced at the bedside table. She’d had a final cognac before she’d fallen asleep—she thought she could remember that much. She hadn’t been more than tipsy; it was odd that she couldn’t remember more. She’d had some cognac, and she thought she remembered dropping it. Falling.
But she was lying in the big, comfortable bed, the brandy snifter was sitting on the tray with just a trace left in the bottom, and she must have drunk even more than she realized.
She pushed back the cover and swung her legs