Black Ice - Anne Stuart [67]
When they’d had enough he cleared the bed, putting the rest of the food on the small table next to the candle. Neither of them had touched the oranges, she noticed.
“What next?” she asked, leaning back against the wall.
“Next we sleep.” He was spreading the thin blanket on the floor. There was just enough space in the tiny room for him to lie down by the bed.
“I’ve been sleeping for hours,” she said. “Days, it seems. I don’t know if I can sleep anymore.”
He stared at her through the candlelit shadows. “Then what do you suggest we do?”
She had no answer to that, of course. In the two years she’d lived in Paris she’d learned a very creditable shrug, and she did just that, then stretched out on the narrow bed, staring fixedly at the candlelight while he watched her.
She had no earthly idea what he was thinking. Probably what an annoyance she was. That he should have let Hakim finish her off, or maybe that he should have killed her himself once she started fussing. But he hadn’t, he was stuck with her, an albatross around his neck.
He blew out all but one of the candles, then stretched out on the floor. The hard, cold floor—she’d felt it on her bare feet.
“You don’t have to sleep down there,” she said suddenly, before she could regret the impulse. “There’s room for both of us up here.”
“Go to sleep, Chloe.”
“Look, I know perfectly well you have no interest in me sexually, thank God. What happened yesterday was an aberration….”
“Two days ago,” he said, his voice matter-of-fact. “And it was part of my job.”
That shut her up, for at least a moment, even though she’d known it. She took a deep breath. “So, clearly there’s no problem with us sharing a bed. You’re not going to touch me. The room is cold, and we’d both be a lot warmer if you slept up here.”
She couldn’t see his face clearly in the shadows. He was probably exasperated. “For the love of God,” he murmured, “would you please stop prattling? You may have had too much sleep but I haven’t had more than an hour or so in the last three days. I’m only human.”
“I doubt that,” she muttered. “Suit yourself.” She turned away from him, with as close an approximation of an affronted flounce as she could manage while lying on a narrow bed, and stared at the cracked and stained wall.
“Merde,” he said. He rose, blew out the candle and climbed into bed with her. “It’s too small a bed not to touch you,” he said in a grumpy voice.
Unfortunately true. She could feel him up against her back, his body curved around hers. If someone broke in he’d be in the way of any danger. That was the only reason why she wanted him there, she told herself. The only reason why she suddenly felt warm and safe and able to relax. It was simply a question of survival.
“I can put up with it,” she replied. “But if you think that I—” His hand covered her mouth, stopping her midsentence. She could almost taste the pear juice on his fingers, an incredibly arousing sensation. She must still be hungry, she thought. But nothing under the sun was going to get her to eat a blood orange.
“Shut the fuck up,” he said sweetly in her ear, “or I’ll tie you up and gag you and put you on the floor. Understood?”
He’d probably do it, too. She nodded, as best she could with his hand covering her mouth, and he slowly moved it. She wanted to tell him that she was unwilling to share the bed after all, but he’d probably dump her on the hard cold floor if she said one more word.
His body was warm, deliciously so, pressed up against hers. Pissed off as she was, she could still feel a heated languor spread through her body. She might be able to sleep some more after all, she thought, what with the wine and the warmth and the undeniable feeling of utter safety with his body wrapped around hers. She didn’t want to—she wanted to keep awake just to spite him.
How was he going to get her out of Paris in one piece?