Black Ice - Anne Stuart [88]
Chloe could feel the tension radiating from the man beside her. “Time to pick a fight,” he murmured.
It should have been easy enough. He was equal parts irresistible and maddening, and she could have concentrated on the maddening part. Except that she could read the tension in the room, see Christos’s phalanx of bodyguards, and she wasn’t going anywhere.
“I’m fine,” she said in a dulcet tone.
He swiveled on the banquette to give her his full attention. “Time to leave,” he said in a low voice. “Things are getting dangerous around here.”
She gave him a bright, limpid smile. “I’m not going anywhere without you,” she said in a low, sultry voice that wouldn’t carry beyond the two of them.
His dark, dark eyes could freeze her in her tracks, but she refused to be cowed. “Don’t play this game, Chloe,” he said in a dangerous voice.
“It’s no game. I’m not leaving this room without you. If I do, you’ll die, and I don’t want that to happen.”
“If you stay, you’ll die.”
“Probably. Which means if you’re still determined to keep me alive you have no choice but to come with me.” She didn’t have long to feel pleased with herself for her plan—his expression was calm and faintly bored, but the look in his eyes was sheer fury.
He’d been sipping at a glass of whiskey and ice. He proceeded to dump it in her lap, leaping up in fake consternation. “Forgive me, my dear,” he said loudly. “I don’t know how I could be so clumsy.”
The icy liquid soaked through the gown, onto her thighs, and it took all her effort to smile up at him, unmoving. Black could cover things other than blood. “It was just a drop, my love,” she murmured, reaching up for his arm. “Don’t worry about it.”
“I really do think you should go clean yourself up,” he said.
“I’m fine.”
“He’s trying to get rid of you, child.” Monique, unfortunately, had joined them. “Go away and give us a few minutes alone. We need to renew our acquaintance.”
“I don’t think so,” she said in a firm, pleasant voice.
“Stay, then.” Monique dropped down on the leather seat, pulling Bastien down between them. “I’ve never minded an audience.” And putting her hand behind Bastien’s head, she pulled his mouth down to hers.
He kissed her back. He put his arm around Monique’s slender waist and pulled her up against him, and gave her a lingering, lazy kiss. The kiss he’d refused Chloe just a short time ago.
It wasn’t just her imagination that the tension in the room ratcheted up several notches. Monique’s husband was watching with avid fascination and not the faintest amount of discomfort, and the others were witnessing their little soap opera with various degrees of interest. Except for Christos’s bodyguards, who’d managed to station themselves around the room instead of surrounding their employer. And why wasn’t Bastien paying attention to this alarming development, Chloe thought, instead of having his tongue halfway down that woman’s throat?
If she was supposed to sit there looking like a fool he’d miscalculated. He probably hoped she’d storm off in tears, and while she was tempted, Christos’s men were at every exit. Whether he liked it or not, she was trapped in there with them.
She put her hand on his shoulder and yanked him away from Monique. He looked down at her, his face icy. “Go away,” he said, loud and clear for the room to hear. “I’m tired of you.” And then he turned back to Monique.
The bitch was clearly enjoying herself tremendously, Chloe thought, taking a deep breath to steady herself. The expressionless men surrounding the room weren’t paying any attention to the groping session on the banquette—their attention was glued to the man who controlled them. Christos was watching with what almost might be called amusement, but he wasn’t going to be distracted for long, and when he gave the signal they would all be dead. Chloe knew it as well as she knew her own name.
As far as she knew Stockholm Syndrome might be a fatal disease. She turned, and Monique had one hand in Bastien’s long, silky hair, the other on his crotch.
That was the last straw. If