Black Ice - Anne Stuart [79]
That was enough to make her open her eyes. “Why did you come back?” She didn’t recognize her own voice—it was small and strained. What on earth was wrong with her? She felt encased in ice.
He didn’t even look at her, concentrating on driving. That was the one thing she’d never done—drive on the Paris streets. She was brave enough to tackle most things, but driving in Paris was too much even for her. Sylvia had always laughed and called her a wuss. Sylvia…
“Breathe,” he said sharply. And she did.
He drove right up to the front of the Hotel Denis. One of the very best in Paris, small and exclusive and elegant, and he was driving up to the discreet front entrance, jumping out and coming to her door before the doorman could do more than open it. He said something to the man, but she wasn’t listening, and he unfastened her seat belt and helped her out, keeping the coat around her shoulders, his arm around her waist, his head low to hers like an attentive lover.
“Look sleepy,” he whispered in her ear. In German, she realized without surprise. “I’ve told them you’re just in from Australia and you’re jet-lagged. They won’t expect anything from you.” He brushed a kiss against her temple, part of his act, and if she could she would have turned and kissed him on the mouth.
They moved through the small, tasteful lobby of the old hotel. It seemed as if a thousand eyes were upon her, watching their progress as he guided her toward the elevators, his arm around her shoulder, holding the coat around her. She was cold anyway, her chest wet from the snow, and not even the coat could warm her.
He somehow managed to get her up to his room—she was past the point of noticing. He closed the door behind them, switching on the light, and she was barely aware of her surroundings. “I’m cold,” she said, her voice unnaturally loud. She dropped the coat off her shoulders, onto the floor. “I’m cold and I’m wet.” She touched the front of her shirt, pulling the damp fabric away from her body. She couldn’t figure out how she’d gotten snow on her front.
“You need to rest. I’ll have some new clothes sent up for you. I wasn’t expecting to bring you back here. The bedroom’s behind you. Why don’t you get under the covers and try to warm up?”
She pulled at the soft silk jersey, then looked down at her hands in sudden horror. They were streaked with red.
She looked up at him, into his impassive face. He’d wiped his hands, but she could see the brownish red traces of dried blood on them. And his shirt was wet—she could see the shiny dampness in the afternoon light.
“Have you been hurt?” she asked. “Your shirt…” Without thinking she put her hand against his chest. Against his beating heart.
He shook his head. “It’s Maureen’s blood,” he said. “It’s on both of us.”
It was the final straw. “Get it off me!” she cried, yanking at her shirt, sobbing. “Please…I can’t…” The soft knit fabric simply stretched beneath her panicked hands, and she lost whatever calm distance she’d had. She was there, in the present, covered with a dead woman’s blood, as he was, and if she didn’t get it off her she was going to explode.
“Calm down,” he said, reaching for the hem of her shirt and yanking it over her head. Exposing her body, the lacy black bra, the streaks of blood on her pale skin.
He swore. She was past the point of speech, yanking at her clothes as she gasped for breath, and he simply picked her up, carried her through the darkened bedroom, into the bathroom. It was instantly flooded with bright light, illuminating her skin. He put her into the shower, half-dressed, and turned it on full force, getting in with her as the hot water blasted down on them both.
He stripped off the rest of her clothes, quickly, efficiently, taking the soap and washing her as she stood there, frozen, shivering beneath the steamy downpour. His hands were fast, rough, covering her body, shocking her into action, and she pulled at his clothes, at the blood-soaked fabric,