Black Ice - Anne Stuart [85]
“I don’t think so.”
But the subject was closed. He took his hands away from her throat, and she realized he’d been caressing her. “You’ll do what I told you, yes? When I give you the signal you pick a fight with me, then storm out of the place and go hide in the toilet. I will come and get you as soon as I can.”
“And if you don’t come?”
“Though hell should bar the way,” he said lightly. “You’ll be seeing your old friends from the château. Such good times.”
“Yeah, right,” she said. “I promise to keep my mouth shut.”
“You don’t need to. This will all be over tonight. It doesn’t really matter what you say, as long as you don’t tell them about the device I’m wearing. Just keep away from Christos.”
“Who’s Christos?”
“You haven’t met him yet. He’s arriving tonight, and he makes Hakim seem like Mother Teresa. Steer clear of him if you can. Your artless prattle might get on his nerves, and he’s not a man to cross.”
“Artless prattle…?”
He ignored her outraged protest. “If you just keep your head about you and do as I say you’ll make it through the night in one piece.”
“As will you?” It was a question, not a statement.
She didn’t like the faint irony in his smile. “As will I,” he said. “One more thing. You haven’t finished dressing.”
“There was no bra,” she said nervously.
“I know. That’s why I chose it.” He might as well have been discussing orange prices. He reached in the pocket of his tuxedo and pulled out a glittering string of diamonds. “You need proper ornamentation. Turn around.”
He was holding a heavy, old-looking necklace that had to be diamonds. She didn’t, couldn’t move, so he simply put his arms around her neck, fastening the clasp behind her. The light splintered and danced through the jewels, and the white-gold setting was oddly warm against her skin. He looked down at her, tilting his head to one side to judge the effect. “They look good on you.”
“Whose are they? Stolen swag? Or the best fakes money can buy?”
“Does it matter?”
“Not really.” He’d opened the door, and she knew she wasn’t coming back to this place. She was never going to spend time alone with him again, and when he took her arm she held back, just slightly.
“Would you do me a favor?”
“What is it?”
“Would you at least tell me your name?”
He shook his head. “I’ve told you, you don’t need to know. The less you know, the safer you are.”
She’d expected no more. “Then would you at least kiss me? Just once, like you really mean it.” If he didn’t kiss her she might not make it through the next few hours. If he didn’t kiss her she might not want to.
But he shook his head. “No,” he said. “Once you’re back home there’ll be dozens of handsome young men wanting to kiss you. Wait until then.”
“I don’t think so.” She put her arms around his neck and yanked his head down to hers and kissed him, hard. She half expected him to fight, to push her away, but he simply let her kiss him, not reacting, not participating. She might have been kissing her own reflection in the mirror.
She wanted to cry, but the tears could wait as well as the handsome young men. She drew back, a jaunty smile on her face. “For luck,” she said brightly. And without another word she walked out into the hallway, leaving him to follow, closing the door behind them. Closing safety away, as he took her arm once more and slowly walked her toward destiny or disaster. She would find out which soon enough.
They were all there. Otomi and his assistant, whose tattoos showed beneath the elegant cuffs of his dinner jacket. Bastien wondered idly whether Otomi was covered with the traditional colorful tattoos sported by most Yakuza, or whether he’d always been management level. He still had all of his fingers, so he might never have been in the trenches. His silent, impassive assistant was missing only part of one digit. Obviously he didn’t screw up very often.
The baron glowered at him from across the room, and