Black Ice - Anne Stuart [47]
11
Chloe stared up at him. She was lying flat on her back on his bed, wearing her underwear and a sheet, and she’d had sex with him less than twenty-four hours before. Hell, maybe less than twelve—she had no idea what time it was right then.
She also couldn’t bring herself to move, to reach up and shove him away. His dark, unreadable eyes were half-closed as he leaned over her, and for an insane moment she thought he was going to kiss her again.
But he didn’t. He levered himself up, away from her, seemingly finished with her. “I’m going to take a shower, then I’ll see what I can do about a passport for you.”
“I don’t need a new passport.”
He shook his head. “If you travel under your own name you’ll never make it home. I know what I’m doing, Chloe. Just do as I say and you might come out of this mess alive.”
She stared at him. “Who the hell are you?” she said. “What the hell are you?”
His faint smile revealed nothing. “I don’t think you need to know. Just try to sleep. You’re going to need your strength to heal properly.”
Doing what he said didn’t exactly appeal to her, but she was too worn out to fight him. The pain had subsided to a dull throb, encompassing every inch of her body, and at that moment sleep sounded much more important than the truth.
“All right,” she said grudgingly.
“What? You’re actually agreeing to something? I don’t believe it.”
“Go to hell,” she said, her voice barely audible.
“That’s more like it,” he murmured. “Try to sleep. You can insult me all over again when you wake up.”
She would have thought sleep would come immediately, but it was frustratingly resistant. It was cloudy outside—if she tried to reconstruct the last few hours she might be able to guess what time it was, but going back in time was the last thing she wanted to do. She didn’t want to think about anything that had happened yesterday, from the moment she’d gotten in the car with him. She didn’t want to remember those rough, powerful moments in her room, she didn’t want to relive the pain and terror and, most of all, she didn’t want to remember Gilles Hakim on top of her, his body a deadweight. Literally.
He’d been hurting her, planning to kill her, and she’d wanted him dead. She’d thought she was a pacifist, willing to die rather than hurt someone else, but when it came to a matter of her own life or death, all her noble sentiments were shot to shit. If she’d had a gun she would have killed Hakim herself, and enjoyed doing it.
Maybe. At this point she didn’t know what was true and what wasn’t. She could hear the sound of the shower running, smell the soap and shaving cream and the faint, teasing scent of the cologne he wore. She hadn’t been able to identify the components—they were subtle, nagging, almost…erotic. She didn’t like men who wore scent.
The shower stopped, and a moment later the door opened. She looked up to see Bastien walk into the room without any clothes, not even a towel wrapped around his waist. She jerked her head to the side, closing her eyes, and heard him laugh.
“Do men’s bodies make you uncomfortable, Chloe?” he said. She ignored him, keeping her eyes tightly shut as she listened to the rustle of clothing, the sound of drawers and doors being opened. She was almost asleep, miraculously enough, when she felt the bed sag beside her, and despite herself her eyes shot open.
He wasn’t wearing much, but at least he was decent. He’d put on a pair of trousers, and his shirt was open around his chest. Odd. She’d had sex with him before she even knew whether he had hair on his chest.
He didn’t—his skin was smooth, golden, and she closed her eyes again, trying to shut him out.
He tucked the sheet around her. “Sleep, Chloe. You need to keep that stuff on for another four hours and then you can wash it off, but in the meantime you need to just lie there and