Black Ice - Anne Stuart [24]
She certainly wasn’t in the mood for light conversation in either French or English, since his light conversation included flirtation, and his wedding ring was plainly visible. “I’m very tired,” she said, closing her eyes.
“Then I’ll put on some music.” The sound of Charles Aznavour filled the car, and Chloe stifled a little moan. Aznavour had always been her great weakness, and listening to the sadness of Venice made her bones melt.
She could always lose herself in the sound of his voice, forget who she was with. Except that Bastien wasn’t easily ignored. Without speaking he still filled her senses—the subtlety of his very expensive cologne teased at her, the gentle sounds of his breathing serenaded her.
The cologne was insidiously appealing. She ought to ask him what the name was, so she could buy some for her brothers. On second thought that might not be so good an idea. She would never smell that particular scent without thinking of Bastien Toussaint, and the sooner his presence—his very married, womanizing, undeniably seductive presence—was out of her life, the better.
It was her own damned fault, Chloe thought, as Aznavour’s voice surrounded her like a swathe of rough silk. She’d been longing for adventure, a little vicarious sex and violence to shake things up. She’d had the vicarious sex, and that was already more than she’d bargained for. And it had been nothing more than a kiss. She could only hope that fate hadn’t decided to toss a little violence her way as well.
I was only kidding, God. She cast her thoughts skyward, still trying to feign a nice, deep sleep. A nice, comfortable, boring life in Paris is all the adventure I want.
Be careful what you wish for. She opened her eyes just a crack, to take a surreptitious look at Bastien. His attention was focused on the narrow road ahead of them, his hands draped loosely, confidently on the small steering wheel as he sped through the countryside. For some silly reason she thought spying on him when he didn’t realize she was looking might tell her something about him. He looked the same, the high, strong nose, beautiful mouth, the calm, slightly amused demeanor. As if he found the world to be nothing more than a joke of the blackest humor.
“Change your mind about lunch?” he asked, not turning. So much for spying—he’d known she was watching him and as usual he’d given nothing away.
She closed her own eyes again, closing him out. “No,” she said. And beneath the sound of Charles Aznavour her stomach growled.
He knew the minute she actually fell asleep. Her hands had been in her lap, clutching the leather handle of her bag, and they’d relaxed. Her breathing had slowed, too, and her pretty mouth was no longer a narrow, nervous line. He should have told her to take off her shoes, at least until they got there. But then, she would refuse to admit they hurt her.
What other lies would she tell? It would be interesting to see, and if all went well he’d have time enough to find out. First he had to get to a pay phone and call Harry Thomason, see if the Committee knew anything about exactly who Chloe was. As well as see what they were going to do about the shipment of Legolas sheep to Turkey. Because they weren’t sheep, they were very powerful weapons with infrared sites and smart bullets capable of doing a very great deal of damage by even the most inept of marksmen. He had little doubt what the Committee wanted him to do. Let them deliver the weapons, let innocent people die while the Committee went in search of bigger fish to fry. Collateral damage was their mantra, and Bastien had long ago stopped caring.
He glanced at his sleeping companion. She wasn’t going to last long, not with her ineptitude. But in her case it wouldn’t be collateral damage, it would be the fortunes of war.
He just hoped, for some odd reason, that he wouldn’t have to be the one who killed her.
6
Chloe woke with a start, just as the car pulled up