Black Ice - Anne Stuart [59]
He almost could have laughed. She was so offended, with little idea just how desirable she really was. He’d wanted nothing more than to strip off his clothes and crawl beneath the duvet with her, to lose himself in her body, in the darkness. He was tired, so very tired.
But he’d kept his distance, even when he read in her eyes that he could have her. He buried his face in the soft flannel, inhaling the scent of her body, her soap, her skin. She had no idea just how powerfully erotic the juxtaposition of soft, shapeless flannel covering a lithe, sexual body was. And he wasn’t about to tell her.
If he were a man with any softer feelings left inside him he would have taken the nightgown as a souvenir, to remember her by. She was unlike anyone he’d ever dealt with—vulnerable and angry and surprisingly brave. But then, he didn’t need a nightgown to remember her for the rest of his life. It wasn’t going to be that long.
She’d torn the nightgown when she’d yanked it off—he’d been too busy covertly admiring her body to notice. The fabric was old and well laundered and very soft—it must have been in her possession for many years. She’d slept in it since she’d been no more than a girl—she wasn’t that old as it was.
He didn’t know why he did it. But he did. He took the fabric and yanked at the tear, ripping a piece from it. She wouldn’t notice. He wasn’t going to give her the chance to pack anything. He had the piece shoved in his pocket, conveniently forgotten, by the time she emerged from the bathroom, looking just as furious as she had when she went in, though unfortunately more clothed.
Nothing like telling a woman you didn’t want them to really piss them off, he thought. He couldn’t afford to have her start having second thoughts. The sex they’d shared had been nothing but that—short, powerful, even harsh. She belonged in a field of daisies with a tender lover. Not on the run for her life with a murderer.
He’d only begun to think of himself as that, but it fit as well as anything else. He’d killed in self-defense, he’d killed in cold blood, he’d killed by assassination and he’d killed in formal combat. He’d killed women and men, and he hoped to God that he wouldn’t have to kill Chloe. But he would if he had to.
Maybe he’d tell her before she died, if it came to that. He could make it very fast, so she barely knew what was happening, but before he drove the knife up into her heart he could tell her the truth. At least she could die feeling smug.
He was getting ahead of himself. If he was forced to kill her it would be a failure, and he wasn’t a man who considered failure to be an option. As long as they kept moving they’d be fine. And as long as he kept his hands off her they’d keep moving.
“Do you have a coat of your own, or do I need to let you have mine?”
“Mine’s at the château. I can borrow one of Sylvia’s—I’ve already lost some of her best clothes.” She sat down in a chair and began to put on her socks and shoes. He didn’t need to tell her to wear comfortable shoes—her boots were well-worn and serviceable looking, with low heels. She’d be able to run in them if she had to.
He hadn’t seen her in jeans and a sweater before. She looked even more American, and even more desirable. She got up and opened the door to the bedroom, and he recognized the smell before she did.
He tried to get there in time, but it took him a second to spring to his feet, and she’d already gone in. The room was darker than the rest, even with the early light of predawn, and she wouldn’t be able to see anything. But she must have known, because she turned on the light.
His hand was already over hers, turning it off again, but not fast enough that she didn’t see the woman’s body lying on the floor. She hadn’t been dead for more than a few hours, probably just before Chloe had arrived home. The smell would have been more noticeable if she’d been there awhile.
He’d put his arm around Chloe,