Black Ice - Anne Stuart [66]
“It’s shut down. Most of Paris is, for that matter. The snow has brought everything to a standstill. That’s why it’s safe enough to light some candles. The snow…” He paused.
“That’s all right. It’s covered the roof window, hasn’t it? I’m calmer now. Especially with some light.”
He nodded. He’d managed to acquire a jacket somewhere, and she suspected he’d changed his clothes, though they were still all the same unremitting black. Which reminded her…
“I don’t suppose there’s a bathroom in this place?” she asked. “Otherwise I’m going to have to sample the snow firsthand.”
“There is one. It’s rudimentary, but it works.”
She’d scrambled off the bed before he’d even finished his sentence. “Where?” Now that she knew relief was at hand it had become a great deal more urgent.
“It’s on the floor below, directly beneath this. We’ll have to go without light—we can’t risk anyone seeing the torch.”
She swallowed. She was better now, she reminded herself. Calmer. “Okay.”
He blew out the candles, and in the sudden darkness she heard the door slide open. She swallowed, then jumped as she felt him take her hand.
She tried to pull away, instinctively, but he held on tight. “You’re not going to find it without holding on to me,” he said, matter-of-fact.
She took a deep breath, her hand still in his. “Of course,” she said.
It helped, holding on to him, though she wasn’t about to admit it. They walked through the cavernous darkness, down a narrow flight of stairs to a wall by an old fireplace. The door opened, and he put the tiny flashlight in her hand before giving her a little push. “Don’t turn it on until the door is closed. I’ll wait here.”
It was utilitarian indeed, but the toilet flushed, the water ran cold from the sink, and there was even a square of mirror. She could have done without that—but curiosity got the better of her, and once she’d rinsed her mouth and done her best to wash up she took a curious look.
She’d expected hollow eyes, pale color, some kind of mark from the horrors of the last few days. Instead she looked like Chloe—practical, not unpleasant to look at, the damnably pedestrian freckles still scattered across her nose and cheekbones, the bane of her existence. Her hair was ridiculous, standing up around her face like a dark halo. But she was no saint either.
She took a deep breath, flicked off the light, and then realized she had no idea how to open the door. She rapped on it, lightly, and it slid open. She couldn’t see him, but she didn’t jump when he took her hand this time, and she was almost happy to be back in the safety of the little room in the attic.
She scrambled back onto the bed—the room was so small she’d bump into him if she remained standing. He lit the candles again, reached behind his coat and pulled out a gun, setting it down on the table. She looked at it like it was a poisonous snake, which it was, but it was there to help her, not kill her. She hoped.
“So what now?” she asked.
“Now we eat,” he said, and she almost wanted to kiss him. “There weren’t many stores open, but I managed to get us something. And don’t tell me you don’t feel like eating—you have to. You’re not out of this yet, and you need your strength.”
“I wouldn’t tell you any such thing. I’m starving. What did you bring?”
She hadn’t noticed the paper sack he’d brought with him. He’d brought a couple of baguettes, some brie, two pears and two blood oranges. And a bottle of wine, of course. She wanted to laugh, but that would have been as bad as screaming. She’d never stop. Just breathe, she reminded herself.
He sat on the other end of the bed, their meager feast spread out before them. Their only utensil was his pocketknife, but he managed to open the wine with it, and they passed it back and forth to hack off pieces of bread and cheese.
The pear was divine—ripe and messy, and she wiped the juice from her mouth with the paper napkin he’d brought. And then she realized he was watching her, an odd expression on his face.
He passed her the bottle of wine. There was nothing else to drink, and no glasses, and