Black Ice - Anne Stuart [89]
It was the most ridiculous thing she could have said. The entire room was frozen in silence, watching them, and then Monique smiled. “I don’t mind a threesome, chérie, if you’re that jealous. You may not be enough for him but I imagine I can fill in the gaps.”
Chloe lunged at her, and Bastien caught her midair, hauling her against him. And then she went down, hard, on the floor, his body covering her, as all hell broke out.
She was crushed beneath him, unable to see, but the noise was hideous. The gunshots—some of them silenced, some of them deafening, the screams and curses and sounds of a panicked stampede.
And then the smell—cordite and the heavy, coppery scent of blood. He was holding her down, but he was alive, she could tell that much. He was breathing heavily, and she could feel his heart beating against her back. She didn’t move, didn’t want to move. Maybe they could just lie there forever, and no one would notice they weren’t dead.
And then he rolled off her, onto his side, taking her with him. The room was shrouded in darkness, only the spit of gunfire providing any illumination. Not that Chloe wanted to see the tangle of bodies, the writhing ones, the motionless ones, the blood everywhere.
He half-dragged, half-carried her behind the banquette, hauling her toward one of the curtained windows. He shoved her behind the fabric and slammed her up against the wall, one hand over her mouth so she couldn’t speak, couldn’t scream, couldn’t breathe. In his other hand he had a gun—she could feel it against her skin.
“Are you hurt?” he whispered.
She managed to shake her head, just barely, he was holding her so tightly.
The windows led out on a small, snow-covered balcony. She couldn’t see how many flights up they were, and she didn’t care. They were trapped in the tiny alcove, and there were only two ways out. Through the gunfire. Or out the window.
“Stay put,” he said, pulling away from her, turning to the enveloping curtain.
“No!” she cried out, clinging to him, but he simply knocked her away from him, so that she fell back against the wall. He opened the curtain, and she squeezed her eyes shut, put her hands over her ears to drown out the awful noise.
And then he was back. “Let’s get the hell out of here,” he said, his voice strained. “We might as well go.” He opened the floor-to-ceiling window, and the cold air whipped inside, making the enveloping curtains billow out. He cursed, shoving the gun into his belt, and she could see the stain of fake blood on his shirt. “Come on.”
She didn’t have time to ask where. He simply picked her up and tossed her over the side of the balcony, dropping down after her.
It was two flights up, and she landed hard, but the snow was deep enough to keep her from hurting herself. He must have hit harder, because he stumbled as he rose, grabbing her hand and pulling her into the shadows just as people appeared on the balcony overhead, a babble of languages she didn’t want to understand.
“My car’s over there,” he said, breathless, as he pushed her ahead of him. “I’m always prepared for contingencies. You can drive a stick, can’t you?”
“I don’t drive in Paris!” she said sharply.
“You do now.” He yanked open the driver’s side, grabbed her arm and shoved her in, and she had no choice. At least the traffic would be lighter at this hour.
He collapsed into the passenger seat beside her. “Drive,” he said. “Head north.”
She gave him one, assessing glance and then decided not to argue. The BMW started like a charm, when she half expected it to explode. She spun the tires backing out, slid as she started forward and stalled out.
Bastien was leaning back against the seat, his eyes closed. “If you don’t get moving we’re going to be dead,” he said, very calm.
“I’m doing the best I can.” She started the car again, shoved it into gear and headed into the street, just