Black Ice - Anne Stuart [74]
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Of course you don’t. Take the bra off. Though where the hell you could have gotten such a thing astonishes me. Not in Paris. It’s the sort of thing nuns would wear. Don’t you have any sense of style?”
“Not much. And who says those clothes will fit me?”
“Jean-Marc told me what size to get. Trust me, they’ll fit. So tell me, how was he?”
Chloe was reluctantly changing her bra before Maureen’s interested eyes, removing her plain white cotton one for the black lace confection that did indeed fit her perfectly. “How was he?” she echoed.
“In bed, girl,” she said, impatient. “We had an affair a number of years ago, and I still remember his…inventiveness…quite fondly. You don’t look as if you had the stamina to keep up with him.”
She finished changing quickly, not giving Maureen any more time to catalogue her physical deficiencies. “It’s none of your business.”
“Of course it is. I need to know how enraptured he is. He’s been acting strangely for the past few months, and falling for an innocent little bird like you is one of the oddest things he’s done.”
“He hasn’t fallen for me. He simply felt responsible after he…” Her voice trailed off, uncertain as to how much Maureen really knew.
“After he killed Hakim.” Maureen finished the sentence for her. “Well, at least he got that part of the mission right,” she muttered. “Though why he didn’t wait until after you were dead is beyond my comprehension. And why he didn’t just finish you when he realized you were still alive.” She shook her beautifully coiffed head.
“He hadn’t planned to kill Monsieur Hakim—”
“Of course he had. That was what he was there to do, among other things. You just happened to be in the way. Don’t tell me he managed to convince you he’d wasted Hakim for your sweet sake?”
“No,” Chloe said bleakly.
She stood, and to her horror Maureen began examining the blanket, then stripped it from the bed. “It doesn’t look like the two of you did anything while you were here, but you never can tell. We’re better safe than sorry when it comes to DNA testing.”
“You’re way off base. Bas…Jean-Marc has no interest in me. I’m an inconvenience that he’s passed on to you.”
“So it seems. But I can’t imagine he didn’t at least sample the wares. He’s got a strong appetite, and he’d find you attractive in a wholesome, American sort of way.”
Chloe said nothing. Even with the light from the open door the room felt more claustrophobic than it ever had, probably from Maureen’s poisonous cheer. “Could we leave? I’d like to go straight to the airport if we could.”
Maureen snapped the suitcase shut, the discarded clothes and sheet tucked inside. “Yes,” she said cheerfully. “It’s time to leave. But I’m afraid you’re not going to the airport.”
It was getting colder by the minute. The old house was unheated, and even with the bright sunlight reflected from the snow it only seemed icier.
“Where are we going then?” she asked.
“I’m going to meet with my supervisor and tell him I finally accomplished my mission. And you, my dear, aren’t going anywhere. You’re going to die.”
Bastien’s instincts had always been infallible. He would know when a mission was going to go south, when a mole would turn, when to strike and when to abort. He would know who he could trust, and just how far he could trust them, and he would know who, in the end, would betray him.
He’d lost that skill in the past year. Either lost it, or just didn’t care. His job had been simple—get rid of Hakim, keep track of the new division of territories and make certain Christos wasn’t put in charge of the cartel.
But he’d stopped listening to the voices that warned him of danger. They hadn’t gone away—they were whispering in his ear, insidious voices, warning him. Warning him of what?
He drove through the snow-blanketed streets of Paris with his usual suicidal speed. There was marginally less traffic than usual, but those who were out had less room to move, and the snow hadn’t improved their attitude.