Black Ice - Anne Stuart [55]
It was at that moment that she realized she didn’t have a key. Not to the house, not to the apartment, and she almost let out a wail of despair. Her feet hurt, her hair smelled like wet dog, her entire body ached, and even though her stomach was empty she wanted to throw up. And she was cold, even in the soft cashmere embrace.
She could go to the police, but there would be questions she didn’t want to answer. She could go to the embassy, but it was probably a mile in the other direction, and she didn’t think she could walk another foot, much less retrace her steps along the snow-drifted streets.
But luck was finally with her. The door leading to the upper floors was unlocked, as it often was. Sylvia usually couldn’t be bothered with locking it, and no one else had been around for the past few days. She closed the door behind her, shutting herself into the dark, cold hall, and reached for the light switch to guide her way up the two flights of stairs.
And then pulled back. It was very dark, but she knew her way by heart, and there was no need to draw attention to her presence. It was highly unlikely anyone would know where she lived, but Bastien had made her nervous. If she moved through the place in the dark, like some silent wraith, she could be reasonably sure that no one would come to investigate.
The door to the flat was locked, but Sylvia always left a key on the windowsill in the hall, just in case she lost hers, which she managed to do on a regular basis. She pushed open the door, and cold air surrounded her. Sylvia must be off having a riotous time in the arms of her elderly lover.
She closed the door, leaning against it, and slowly let out her breath. In fact, she hadn’t been away that long. Two nights, coming onto the third one, and Sylvia had gone off for a long weekend. It wasn’t surprising that she hadn’t yet returned, and probably just as well.
The moon shone in the dormer windows, illuminating the cluttered rooms enough for Chloe to make her way through them. She started the gas fire, shivering in Bastien’s coat, then drew her bath. It had never been the best of arrangements. The flat consisted of one bedroom—Sylvia’s—a tiny kitchen and even smaller bathroom, and a jumbled living room. Chloe slept on a mattress on the floor, stalwartly refusing to consider the possibility of insects or rodents in the ancient building.
She opened the door to Sylvia’s room and peeked in, but even in the filtered moonlight she could see it looked as if it had been hit by a bomb. Sylvia must have thrown everything here and there as she packed for Chloe’s magical weekend in the country. She wasn’t going to be very happy at the disappearance of some of her best clothes.
It was nothing compared to Chloe’s state of mind. Knowing Sylvia, she might not be back for a week or more, and by then Chloe would be long gone. Once she got back to the States she’d wire her some money to cover her share of the rent until Sylvia found someone to replace her, and an extra bit to help replace the designer clothes. While Chloe had very little money, the rest of her family had more than they knew what to do with, and they’d be so deliriously grateful that she’d decided to return home they’d probably send Sylvia enough to support herself for months.
She didn’t look in the mirror as she stripped off Bastien’s clothes and kicked them away. She slid into the old-fashioned tub, bracing for searing pain, but instead the hot water enveloped her like a loving embrace. She sank into it with a moan of pure pleasure and closed her eyes, at peace for the first time in what seemed like an endless nightmare.
But eventually the water grew cold, and life had to be faced. She climbed out of the tub, catching a glimpse of her body in the mirror. She froze, staring in shock at the reflection.
The noxious, searing green gunk had done its job. The marks were still there, stripes of pain caused by fire and blade, but they looked months old, a distant memory. There were dark marks on her hips, and she peered closer, until she could