Black Ice - Anne Stuart [29]
“You’re very good at this, Monsieur Toussaint,” she said in an admirably cool voice after they’d driven for a few minutes. “I don’t know why you bother. I imagine it’s simply a matter of male pride or too much testosterone. It must be unbearable to think that a woman doesn’t want you.”
She could see his profile from the lights on the dashboard, but he was giving nothing away. “Are you wanting to convince me that you aren’t attracted to me? I know women, chérie, and I know when they’re interested and when they’re not. I don’t understand your hesitation, but I am always one to accept my dismissal gracefully. There are other women. There are always other women.”
This wasn’t going the way she had planned. But then, nothing with this strange man had gone the way she wanted it to.
“And I’m sure they’ll be a lot easier to seduce.” Her voice was scathing.
“Oh, I imagine I could seduce you fairly easily if I set my mind to it.”
For some reason she found that insulting. He couldn’t be bothered to make a real effort? Why? Was she that unattractive?
She didn’t show her reaction. “You can believe anything you want,” she said. “But next time you want to seduce someone you ought to pick a better place than the front seat of a Porsche. It’s hardly the right venue for sex.”
He smiled at her. “Let me assure you, Chloe, that I could have fucked you very well indeed in the front seat of this car. I’ve done it before.”
So why would such an insulting statement be erotic? She must be suffering hypothermia. “Just take me back to the château,” she said in a low voice, giving up. He was better at this than she was, and the truth was, she probably did want him as much as he thought she did. Probably more than he wanted her—she wasn’t even sure she believed him on that score. He was the type of man to go for an exotic butterfly like Monique Von Rutter or a ruthlessly chic Englishwoman like Madame Lambert. Gauche little American girls were hardly his type.
But whether he really wanted her or whether it was just an automatic response, as long as she kept her distance she would be fine. She’d seen it happen last night—it had taken him less than five minutes to disappear with Monique von Rutter. He’d find someone else to distract him once they got there.
He drove too fast, in complete silence the rest of the way. He pulled around to the back of the sprawling building, and she glanced at her expensive little watch, half expecting it to have stopped working.
It was only half past six, and a long night lay ahead of them. And all Chloe wanted to do was take a long, hot bath and crawl into bed.
Somehow she didn’t think that was going to happen. He stopped the car, leaned over and unfastened her seat belt. “I thought you’d prefer a different entrance. This is the door closest to your rooms, and you can take a shower and change before anyone sees you and asks questions.”
“What’s wrong with questions? I wasn’t anywhere I shouldn’t have been, I didn’t do anything I shouldn’t have done.” The moment the words were out of her mouth she regretted them. Kissing Bastien had been a very unwise move, and she would have done a lot worse if something hadn’t stopped them.
“Really?” he murmured. “In that case I can come up with you and finish what we started.”
She almost called his bluff. Fortunately she still had an ounce of sanity left. “No, thank you. I think we’ve already finished.”
“Do you indeed?” When he smiled that slow, annoying smile she wanted to hit him. He leaned toward her, and she was terrified he was going to kiss her again. But instead he simply opened the door for her. “I’ll see you at dinner.”
She grabbed the ruined shoes, the drenched leather purse and her dignity, and stepped out into the courtyard. The rain had changed to a fine mist, but the air was turning colder, and her clothes felt clammy. She looked back at the Porsche, but she couldn’t see Bastien in the dark interior. Just as well.
“Thanks for the ride,” she said, and slammed the door with a little too much force.