Black Ice - Anne Stuart [49]
But now was not the time for dramatic gestures. She ran a hand through her hair, feeling the uneven lengths, the scorched ends. There was nothing she could do about it now, but when she made it back to her apartment she could get Sylvia to fix it.
He’d told her it was too dangerous to go back to her apartment, but then he’d told her a great many lies, and he was the only recognizably dangerous thing in her life. Besides, no one knew where she lived. Sylvia sublet the tiny apartment from one of her former lovers, and neither of them were on record as tenants. Chloe’s mail arrived at the Frères Laurent, her cell phone was billed to the United States and there was really no way they could find her without trying very hard indeed. And she didn’t think they’d consider her worth the effort.
That didn’t mean she wasn’t going home to America. She didn’t trust Bastien for one moment, but she’d seen enough in the past twenty-four hours to know that she’d inadvertently gotten mixed up with some very dangerous people, and if he was one of the good guys she really didn’t want to see the bad ones. The safest place for her was back in the mountains of North Carolina, surrounded by her overprotective family. For some reason Paris and the surrounding countryside had lost its allure.
Slogging through the cold, wet street, head down, with Bastien’s coat wrapped around her, didn’t do much to improve her mood. Her feet were numb from the cold, but at least the shoes fit. Funny that he’d stop long enough to buy her a pair of shoes on their escape back to Paris. She couldn’t even begin to understand what went through his mind, and she didn’t want to try. All she wanted to do was get far enough away from him and the others that no one could find her.
She was hungry—starving, in fact, and even remembering Hakim wasn’t enough to distract her. She couldn’t remember how long it had been since she’d eaten, and there was only so long she could go on nervous energy. There’d be food at her apartment, food and a warm bed. Tomorrow she’d fly home, on the first plane she could get. And maybe next time she’d listen to her family when they told her to stay put.
She was right—the rain was turning to snow. She stopped for a moment, leaning against a building to catch her breath. No one paid any attention to her as they moved quickly through the streets, their own heads down, intent on their own business. After a moment she pushed away and started forward again. It was growing dark, and even on the well-lit streets of Paris she didn’t want to be out alone any later than she had to be. Yanking the coat closer to her body, she strode forward again, trying to ignore the faint scent of his cologne.
It took him longer than he’d expected. Franc had been agreeable, particularly when Bastien had demonstrated how generous he was prepared to be, and promised to have the papers ready by 6:00 p.m. They could stop on the way to the airport and it would only take a few moments to add the right photograph. He was sending her out on Air France just before midnight, and after that he could breathe a sigh of relief, pay attention to business. Hakim was dead a little earlier than planned but that was no great disaster, and Christos hadn’t even shown up. There was a good chance of salvaging the mission once Chloe was out of the way. He wasn’t quite sure why he couldn’t wait until then—he was seldom distracted by sentimentality. Just one more piece of unexpected behavior that he would have a hard time explaining to the Committee. Except that he had no intention of telling them the truth.
He stopped at a café and ordered a whisky and soda. The rain