Black Ice - Anne Stuart [38]
“Kind of you to worry about me, monsieur, but I have everything under control. If I accidentally mark her too badly than we can always set the car on fire, have her body burned just to the point of recognition and no further.”
“Very practical,” Bastien said.
“And you’re certain you don’t want to join me in this? I’m more than happy to share.”
“I already enjoyed what I wanted from Miss Underwood,” he said without emotion. “The rest is up to you.”
He joined the others for coffee and liqueurs in the drawing room, flirting lightly with Monique. The baron gave him a disgruntled glare or two, but beyond that his earlier absence wasn’t even noted. No one seemed to notice that Hakim was gone as well, Bastien thought as he lit Monique’s cigarette for her. But then, as Hakim had said, curiosity killed the cat. And the members of their elite little trade organization were experts at self-preservation, and knowing only what they had to know. They knew they could count on Hakim to keep things discreet, as he always had. That was all that mattered.
He glanced at his watch. He’d left Hakim about an hour ago—would Chloe be dead yet? He supposed he ought to hope so. Hakim was an inventive sadist, and he could make it last for hours, even days if he so chose. He didn’t have that kind of luxury, but he suspected that mercy and brevity were unknown to him.
Monique would come to his room tonight—she made it more than clear, ignoring his previous dismissal. The baron would insist on it, having been deprived of his vicarious entertainment. And Bastien would service her, letting technique fill in where interest waned. If he were Hakim the thought of Chloe’s suffering would excite him. But he wasn’t Hakim, and all he could hope was that she died quickly.
He lingered in the drawing room as long as he could, not wanting to head back upstairs. He just wanted it over with—there had been nothing he could do to protect her, not without compromising his own position. And in the end, what was one innocent life compared to the thousands, hundreds of thousands that might be saved if this arms ring was shut down? Assuming that would ever happen—Thomason and his ilk seemed more interested in simply keeping tabs on it. But then, life was full of ugly equations, he’d accepted that long ago, and he wasn’t going to waste his time bemoaning it.
It didn’t help that his room was next to hers, the only two inhabitants in that wing. The maids were cleaning it out when he went back to his room, and he strolled over to the open door with the properly casual air. No signs of violence—he must have done her elsewhere.
The maids were stripping the bed. “Where’s Miss Underwood?” he asked, curious to see what kind of excuse Hakim had come up with.
“She had to leave early, Monsieur Toussaint,” one maid replied. “A death in the family, Monsieur Hakim said. She left so quickly she didn’t take her luggage. We’ll have to send it after her.”
A death in the family, all right. Her own. The suitcase was still by the door, and he considered warning the maid that she’d be better off not noticing discrepancies like that one. Not if she wanted to live.
But he wasn’t in the business of saving innocents, so he said nothing, simply nodded, and went back to his room.
He was in the shower when he thought he heard her scream. He shut off the water immediately, but there was nothing. No noise, no cries. If by some cruel twist of fate she was still alive she would hardly be within hearing distance. Hakim would have taken her into the old part of the building, the wing that looked as if it had yet to be remodeled, yet was fitted up with state-of-the-art electronics and soundproofing. He wouldn’t hear her if she screamed. Besides, knowing Hakim, it would be long past the time when she could make any kind of noise at all, even a whimper. He simply had to put it out of his mind—it wasn’t in his nature to have regrets, or second thoughts, or even compassion.
He dressed quickly, in black. Comfortable pants and a shirt