Black Ice. Anne Stuart

least it wasn’t drugs this time. He had never been totally comfortable with smuggling heroin. Foolish sentimentality on his part—people chose to use drugs, they didn’t choose to be shot by the guns he trafficked. It must be a throwback to his old life, so long gone that he barely remembered it.

      It was a cold, crisp winter day. There was a distant scent of apples on the air, and the calming sound of the garden staff raking leaves in front of the sprawling house. Most of the staff would be carrying guns under their loose clothing. Semiautomatics, maybe Uzis. Possibly ones he’d provided.

      It would be damned funny if one of them killed him.

      He dropped his cigarette on the ground and ground it out with his foot. Someone would come and remove the butt, someone who would just as calmly remove him if ordered to do so. And the odd thing was, he didn’t really care.

      The door opened behind him, and Gilles Hakim stepped out into the sunlight. “Bastien. We’re having coffee in the library. Why don’t you come and join us? Meet the others? We’re just waiting for the translator to show up.”

      Bastien turned his back on the beautiful December day and followed Hakim into the house.

      Chapter 2

      Chloe had far too much time to consider how rash she’d been. The uniformed chauffeur kept the glass screen up between them, it was too early for a drink to calm her nerves and Sylvia had been in such a hurry to get her going that she’d forgotten to bring a book with her. All she had were her thoughts to keep her company for this seemingly endless ride.

      She automatically reached up to shove her long brown hair behind her ear when she remembered the miracle Sylvia had wrought in three minutes with nothing more than a handful of makeup and a brush. She might not have a book but she had Sylvia’s compact in Sylvia’s Hermès handbag, and she wanted one more surreptitious look. To see the stranger looking back at her out of the same calm brown eyes she’d always had, though now they were lined and smudged and gorgeous in her pale face. The long, straight brown hair no longer hung down around her face—Sylvia had moussed and teased and fiddled with it so that in less than a minute it turned from a lank veil to a tousled mane. Her pale mouth was now plump and red and shiny, and the borrowed scarf adorning her shoulder was draped just so.

      The question was, how long would she be able to carry on with the illusion? Sylvia could look like this in three minutes—it had taken her less than five to transform Chloe from a plain brown wren into a peacock. Chloe had tried to achieve the same results on numerous occasions and had always fallen short. “Less is more,” Sylvia had lectured her, but more was never enough.

      And she was fussing for nothing. They wanted an interpreter, not a fashion model, and if Chloe knew one thing, it was languages. She could do her job and spend the rest of the time pretending she belonged in a château instead of her tiny apartment that always smelled of cabbage. And she would eat anything she wanted.

      Three or four nights in a château and then she’d be back, and Sylvia would owe her big time. And it might not be the sex and violence she was playfully longing for, but at least it would be a change. And who knows, maybe one of the boring businessmen would have a handsome young assistant with an interest in American girls. Anything was possible.

      Château Mirabel had more security than Fort Knox, she thought a half hour later, as they began their journey through a series of gates, checkpoints, armed guards and leashed dogs. The deeper inside the grounds they went, the more uneasy Chloe became. Getting inside was hard enough. Getting out looked to be just about impossible, unless they were willing to let her go.

      And why wouldn’t they? She was being ridiculous, and when the limousine finally pulled up outside the wide front steps she’d managed to control both her curiosity and her imagination and climb out of the back of the car with a fair approximation of Sylvia’s languid grace.

      The man waiting for her was tall, older and dressed better than the average Frenchman, which meant he was well-dressed indeed. He was clearly of Middle Eastern origin, and Chloe gave him her most dazzling smile. “Monsieur Hakim?”

      He nodded, shaking her hand. “And you are Miss Underwood, Miss Whickham’s replacement. I only just found out you were coming. If I’d known, I could have saved you a trip.”

      “Saved me a trip? You don’t need me?” Two or more hours back to the city was not at the top of her list of things she most wanted to do, and she was even more loath to part with the promise of the money Sylvia had mentioned.

      “We are a smaller group than expected, and I think we could manage to understand each other without outside help,” he said in gentle, well-modulated tones. They were speaking English, and Chloe promptly switched over to French.

      “If you wish, monsieur, but I’m sure I could be quite useful. I have nothing else planned for the next few days, and I would be more than happy to stay.”

      “If you have nothing planned then you will be able to go back to Paris and enjoy a nice vacation,” he suggested in the same language.

      “I’m afraid my apartment is not the best place for a vacation, Monsieur Hakim.” She wasn’t sure why she was trying to talk him into letting her stay. She hadn’t wanted to come here in the first place—it was only Sylvia’s wheedling that had talked her into it. That and the thought of the seven hundred euros a day.

      But now that she was here she didn’t want to go back. Even if it was the smarter thing to do.

      Mr. Hakim hesitated, seemingly unused to argumentative women. And then he nodded. “I suppose you could be of value to us,” he said. “It would be a shame for you to make such a long trip for nothing.”

      “It was a long trip,” Chloe said. “I think the driver might have gotten lost—we passed several places more than once. Next time he should have a map.”

      Hakim’s smile was slight. “I will see to it, Mademoiselle Underwood. In the meantime, we’ll have the servants take care of your bag while you come meet the guests you’ll be translating for. It shouldn’t be too onerous a task, and when we’re not meeting you’ll have a beautiful setting in which to enjoy yourself. And, of course, the presence of such a lovely young woman can only make our work go more smoothly.”

      For some reason the usual French good manners sat slightly askew on Hakim, and she found herself wanting to go wash her hands. She gave him the maternal smile she reserved for the most lecherous of the Laurent brothers and murmured, “You’re too kind” as she followed him up the marble steps.

      A great many of the old châteaus had been turned into luxury hotels and conference centers, with the shabbier ones becoming bed-and-breakfasts. This was more elegant than any she had seen or even heard of, and by the time Hakim ushered her into a large room she was finding herself more and more uneasy.

      At least she wasn’t the only woman. There were eight people gathered in the room drinking coffee, and her eyes passed over them quickly. The two women had nothing in common but their good looks—Madame Lambert was tall, of a certain age, dressed in what Chloe recognized as Lagerfeld, thanks to Sylvia. The other woman was a bit younger, in her early thirties, a little too beautiful, a little too vivacious. The introductions went smoothly—there was Mr. Otomi, an elderly, dignified Japanese who fortunately spoke excellent English, and his steely-eyed assistant Tanaka-san; Signor Ricetti, a vain, middle-aged man whose handsome young assistant was undoubtedly his lover as well; and the Baron von Rutter, all to be expected, no one of particular interest except…

      Except for him. She quickly lowered her eyes, astonished at her unexpected reaction. She didn’t like men in suits, even in Armani. She didn’t like businessmen—most of them were entirely without humor and intent only on the acquisition of money. There were a great many things Chloe loved about France, but the obsession with finance was not one of them. Too bad he was one of them, she thought briefly. Unfair that she be instantly attracted to someone who was out of the question.

      Madame Lambert, Signor Ricetti, the Baron and Baroness von Rutter,