Black Ice - Anne Stuart [6]
Except for him. She quickly lowered her eyes, astonished at her unexpected reaction. She didn’t like men in suits, even in Armani. She didn’t like businessmen—most of them were entirely without humor and intent only on the acquisition of money. There were a great many things Chloe loved about France, but the obsession with finance was not one of them. Too bad he was one of them, she thought briefly. Unfair that she be instantly attracted to someone who was out of the question.
Madame Lambert, Signor Ricetti, the Baron and Baroness von Rutter, Otomi and Toussaint.
Bastien Toussaint. At least he seemed supremely uninterested in her as he acknowledged the introduction, nodding and then clearly dismissing her from his thoughts. There was no particular reason for her reaction—he wasn’t the best-looking man she’d ever seen. He was a little taller than most, lean, with a hard, narrow face and a strong nose. His eyes were dark, almost opaque, and she doubted she even registered in them. He had long, thick black hair, an anomaly, maybe even an unexpected vanity. She didn’t want a vain man, did she?
Yes, she did, if it was Bastien Toussaint. She pulled her gaze away as her ears attuned themselves to a torrent of Italian from Signor Ricetti.
“What’s she doing here?” he demanded furiously. “It was supposed to be that stupid British female. How do we know we can trust this one? She may not be as unobservant as the other. Get rid of her, Hakim.”
“Signor Ricetti, it’s impolite to speak Italian in front of someone who doesn’t understand the language,” Hakim said in disapproving English tones. He glanced at Chloe. “You don’t speak Italian, do you, Mademoiselle Underwood?”
She didn’t know why she lied. Hakim was making her nervous, and the clear animosity on Ricetti’s part didn’t help. “Only French and English,” she said brightly.
Ricetti was not pacified. “I still think it’s too dangerous, and I’m sure the others would agree. Madame Lambert, Monsieur Toussaint, don’t you think we should send this young woman away?” He was still speaking Italian, and Chloe kept her expression blank.
“Don’t be an idiot, Ricetti.” Madame Lambert spoke Italian with a British accent, a surprise. Like Sylvia, she had somehow managed to absorb the ineffable chic of French womanhood, something that had so far eluded Chloe.
“Oh, I think she should stay,” Bastien Toussaint said in a lazy voice. “She’s too pretty to send away. What harm could she do? She probably doesn’t have a brain in her head—she’d be incapable of reading between the lines.” His Italian was perfect, only slightly tinged with a French accent and something she couldn’t quite define, and his voice was deep, slow and sexy. Things were not improving.
“I still say she’s trouble,” Ricetti said, setting down his coffee cup. Chloe noticed that his hands were trembling slightly. Too much coffee, perhaps? Or something else.
“Well, you don’t need to say it again,” the baron spoke up. He was plump, white-haired, grandfatherly looking, and some of Chloe’s strange forebodings lessened. “Welcome to Château Mirabel, Mademoiselle Underwood,” he said in French. “We’re very grateful you were able to fill in at the last moment.”
It took her just a millisecond to remember that she was supposed to understand the last speech. “Merci, monsieur,” she replied, trying to focus all her attention on the sweet old gentleman, trying to ignore the man who stood just past her right shoulder. “I promise to do my best.”
“You’ll do fine,” Hakim said, a faint edge to his voice. Ricetti