Black Ice - Anne Stuart [73]
But it was no more than a featherlight kiss. “I’m the devil incarnate, Chloe,” he whispered. “And you’re an idiot if you can’t see that.”
“Then I’m an idiot,” she said, waiting for him to kiss her again.
But he didn’t. They stayed like that, for a long, endless moment, and then he said, “Come in, Maureen.” The hidden door slid open, flooding the tiny room with blinding light.
It slid shut again, but by then Chloe had retreated to her corner of the bed, trying to make her eyes adjust to the newcomer.
“Am I interrupting something, Jean-Marc?” The woman’s voice was rich with amusement. “I can always come back later.”
“You weren’t interrupting anything more than a little lesson in survival. Maureen, this is your charge, our little lost American.” He turned his dark, opaque eyes back to Chloe. “And this, ma chère, is Maureen. My sometimes wife. She’s a very good operative—I would only trust you to the best. You’ll be in her hands from now on. She’ll get you to the airport and safely on your way back home—she hasn’t failed a mission yet.”
“Oh, I’ve failed one or two in my time,” Maureen said in her rich, warm voice. “But in the end I’ve always made it right. We’ll be just fine, Chloe and me.” She was an attractive woman in her midthirties, chic, well-dressed in a suit that Sylvia would have died for.
Chloe’s thoughts stopped cold at the thought. She managed a stiff smile before turning her attention back to Bastien. Or Jean-Marc, as she’d called him. Or the man with no name. “You’re leaving me?”
He made no effort to hide his amusement. “I’m abandoning you, my sweet, leaving you to Maureen’s tender mercies. I’ve let my work slide for far too long, and I’m afraid I can’t wait any longer. Have a safe trip home and a good life.”
And then he was gone.
17
“Another one of Jean-Marc’s conquests,” Maureen said, moving into the room. “Poor thing. You’re all alike, with your pathetic eyes and pretty faces. Jean-Marc never could resist a pretty face.” She sounded affable enough, and she set the suitcase she was carrying down on the bed. She tilted her head to one side, surveying Chloe. “Though maybe you’re not his usual type, come to think of it. He’s never been one for the damsels in distress. I’m surprised he didn’t get rid of you himself.”
Her offhand words shocked Chloe into speech. “He wouldn’t—”
“Oh, I assure you he would. And has. But for some reason he wants to keep you safe, so he’s enlisted my help. What have you been calling him?” She snapped open the suitcase, pulling out some clean clothes.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Well, he certainly wouldn’t go by Jean-Marc. I doubt that’s even his real name. He’s probably forgotten what it is. Last I heard he was using Étienne.”
“Does it matter?”
“No,” Maureen said. “You’ll want to change into some fresh clothes before we take off. And what in God’s name happened to your hair? You look like you’ve been attacked by Edward Scissorhands.”
“I cut it.” There was a pair of black trousers, black shirt, even black bra and panties. Must be regulation issue for all…spies. Operatives. Whatever they were.
“I can see that you did,” Maureen said. “Never mind—I’m sure someone can fix it when you get back home. Go ahead and change.” She leaned against the wall, her arms crossed in front of her, waiting.
The last thing Chloe was going to do was strip down in front of her. “Could I have a little privacy?”
“You Americans are all absurdly prudish, aren’t you? I would have thought spending a few days with Jean-Marc would have gotten you over such squeamishness.”
Chloe said nothing. Clearly Maureen wasn’t going to move, and she had no choice but to pull the turtleneck off.
The room was cold. She looked down at her arms, but the livid marks were almost gone. Two days ago she’d been tortured and bleeding. Now she looked nothing more than a little worn-out and a little cold.
She reached for the new shirt, but Maureen stopped her. “Take off everything,” she said. “You’d be surprised at what people