Black Ice - Anne Stuart [46]
“What’s that?”
“It hurts like hell.” And he wiped the cream against the first cut.
She jerked, and he half expected her to scream. He’d chosen this hotel for a number of reasons, one of them being its exquisite soundproofing, and he had no fears that anyone would hear her cry out, but apart from a strangled little sound at the back of her throat she said nothing, holding herself rigid to fight the pain.
He knew from experience that this was probably going to hurt worse than Hakim’s ministrations. With Hakim she’d been partially numb from shock and fear, and the full effect of his handiwork wouldn’t take effect until later. If she lived that long.
She was biting her lips to keep from making any sound, and her mouth was bleeding again. He kept going, trying to ignore the vibrations in her body as she fought it.
“There are better ways to deal with pain,” he said calmly as he continued to paint the stripes on her arm. “The more you fight it, the more it fights back. If you let go, relax into it, you’ll find it becomes almost an altered state, as if someone else is hurting. It’s much better that way.”
“You have that much experience with pain?” She barely managed to spit out the words.
“Enough,” he said. “Breathe. You know, like they do in childbirth. Deep, regular breathing, and try to relax.”
“I can’t,” she said in a strangled voice. He could feel her heart racing against the pain.
“I could always distract you.”
That got her attention. “Don’t—”
“I know, don’t touch you.” He put one arm down and picked up the other. “Then talk to me. Tell me what you were doing at Hakim’s.”
“I told you! I was taking my roommate’s place while she went off with her new boyfriend. I had no idea what kind of place it was, or what kind of sick creatures I was working for.”
“And now you know. Which is what makes you a liability. How do you happen to understand so many languages? Most American girls can barely manage to speak English.”
She shot him an angry look. She was so predictable, so easy to play. All he had to do was make a sweeping, disparaging remark about American women and she forgot all about her misery. He tended to like sophisticated, unpredictable women. But for some reason he liked her.
For a moment he thought she wouldn’t answer. “I have a natural talent for it,” she said, her voice strained as she tried to deal with the pain. “My parents sent me to a series of expensive private schools, and I started learning French in kindergarten.”
“That explains why your accent is so good. Where did the others come in?”
“School. I majored in modern languages at Mount Holyoke, and my parents traveled a lot. I can even converse in Latin.”
“Not a modern language. Lie back so I can work on your legs.”
She was putting too much energy into dealing with the pain—there was none left over to fight him. She lay back, pulling the sheet up over her. The legs weren’t as bad as the arms—Hakim had been working himself up to a proper climax and he hadn’t gotten there yet.
Bastien had been between her thighs not that long ago. She had long, beautifully shaped legs—he’d been too busy to appreciate them in her suite.
“I told you, I’m good at languages. I like all of them.”
“Then why do you have a shit job at a small-time publisher? Talents like yours could come in useful at any number of organizations.”
“I like my life. I’d rather translate children’s books than covert arms deals.”
He’d finished his ministrations, and he set the bottle and swab down on the floor, then moved onto the bed beside her, crouching over her. “And that’s exactly the thing you’re not supposed to say, my angel. You need to forget everything you saw during the past two days. These are dangerous people we’re dealing with, and you could identify most of them. You’re a smart woman, despite your stupid behavior, and if you set your mind to it you could probably decipher just what we were talking about in the meetings, now that you realize it’s not chickens and grain.”
She