Black Ice. Anne Stuart

locked away with such tiresome old capitalists like ourselves? Surely you must have had better things to do in Paris? Some young man waiting for you?”

      She smiled at him, willfully forgetting the couple who had just disappeared. “No young man, monsieur. I live a very quiet life.”

      “I don’t believe it!” he said. “A young girl as pretty as you are? What has happened to young men nowadays, that someone like you should be unattached? If I were forty years younger I’d go after you myself.”

      She roused herself to play the game. “Surely not forty!” she said lightly.

      “I’m thirty years older than my wife, and even that is a bit of a strain. Which is why I give her a lot of room to entertain herself.”

      Chloe blinked. “That’s very generous of you.”

      “Besides, what can she and Bastien do out on the terrace with so many people wandering around? An indiscreet caress, a kiss or two? In the end it only sharpens the appetite.”

      “I beg your pardon?”

      “I saw you watching them. Bastien is fine for someone like my wife, who knows how the game is played and expects nothing but immediate gratification. He’s not for an innocent like you.”

      He was the second man to warn her away in the last ten minutes. Little did they know that she hadn’t needed the warning—her own defenses had popped up just in time. “I am here to translate, monsieur,” she said brightly. “Not to indulge in dangerous flirtations.”

      “I hope you don’t count me as one of those dangerous flirtations,” he said. “Or perhaps I do. No one considers me very dangerous anymore.” He sounded mournful.

      “I’m certain you’re a very dangerous man indeed,” she said in an encouraging voice.

      His smile was almost beatific. “You know, my child, you may actually be right.”

      Chapter 4

      There was no question, Bastien thought, as he methodically slid his fingers over Monique’s firm breast. The woman hadn’t come here for him. If she had, Mademoiselle Chloe would not have been so quick to push him away. Even a mediocre operative would know that sleeping with the enemy was the best way to find out what you needed to know, and most men were at their most vulnerable when they were fucking.

      He wasn’t most men. He had ice water in his veins, in his cock, and even in the middle of an orgasm he was a dangerous man. Chloe wouldn’t know that—she was inept enough to betray her knowledge of languages within moments of arriving, and she would have taken the bait he’d dangled in front of her if he were really her target.

      Which means she was after someone else. Normally that wouldn’t matter to him—he had a job to do and whoever she was there to watch would have to take care of himself.

      But this whole affair had been in the works for too many months, and he wasn’t going to let an unexpected player destroy everything he’d worked so hard for.

      He slid his hand inside Monique’s silk gown. She wasn’t wearing a bra, and she was hot for him, as she always was. Her husband was old and compliant, as long as she gave him details about her adventures, and he expected the old man had even watched them once or twice. It had neither excited nor bothered him. He could perform with or without an audience, and in the end his partner was unimportant if they were the means to an end.

      Monique had no particular value at that point. He’d found out everything he needed from her at their last meeting, but it wouldn’t do to lose interest too quickly. She would be less trouble if he pulled up her skirt and did her against the cool stone wall of the château, in the shadows.

      They would be seen, of course. By security cameras, by the armed guards patrolling with such impeccable deference. Hakim would probably have them taped, and provide a copy of it to the old man, as well as any one else with the right price.

      He put his hands between her legs and she moaned in his mouth. She wasn’t wearing underwear either, in his honor, no doubt. She was groping for his zipper, and he knew she expected him to be hard. He willed it, by thinking of the look on her face when she came, and he reached for his fly with his other hand, ready to accommodate her, when he realized it wasn’t her face he was envisioning. It was the inept Miss Chloe.

      And suddenly he wasn’t in the mood. Instead of unzipping his trousers he simply took her hand away, and with his other he made her come, instantly, so hard that she screamed as her body went rigid.

      Not a good idea. He put his hand over her mouth and she bit, hard. Monique liked rough fun and games, and he knew she was trying to draw blood.

      He put a stop to that, and the whimper that came from the back of her throat was like a female tiger who’d just been mounted. Monique was like a cat—ruthless, amoral, impervious to ordinary pain. A good match for him.

      But he wasn’t interested. He pulled away, letting her skirt fall down around her perfect legs, and she leaned back against the stone wall, mouth open, panting, her eyes glazed with satisfaction. She had blood on her mouth, the bitch. He should have paid better attention.

      “That was…interesting,” she said, her voice a husky purr. “But we’ve only just begun.”

      “We’ve finished,” he said, and the words surprised him. He’d intended to string her along. After all, the last time he’d been with her was over four months ago, and some recreational sex would have only honed his senses.

      But he didn’t want her, and there was nothing to be gained by having her. There were too many unanswered questions about the nervous woman who’d arrived that afternoon and looked at him as if he were crème brûlée and froze when he touched her.

      “What do you mean?” Monique demanded.

      He leaned over and kissed her full, red lips, taking his own blood with it. “We’ve had a good time, you and I, but don’t you think it’s past time to find a new playmate? Your husband must be tired of hearing about me. Choose a woman next time.”

      As he expected, she wasn’t insulted. She smiled her cat smile. “We could ask Miss Underwood to join us. It could prove very entertaining.”

      He kept his irritation well hidden. “She’s not my type.”

      “And neither am I, apparently. Not any longer.” She shrugged. “Too bad, but as you said, my husband was getting bored. He likes it when men hurt me, and you weren’t particularly into that.”

      “Maybe next time,” he said lightly, feeling a faint desire to wring her neck. It was a pretty neck, decked in diamonds.

      “Maybe not,” she said, and moved past him, reentering the living room without a backward glance.

      He lit a cigarette, blowing the smoke skyward, dismissing her and moving back to more important things. Who had hired Chloe Underwood, and who was she checking up on?

      And what a ridiculous name. She might as well call herself Mary Poppins. The name went well enough with her cover, but she should have gone with something a little less jeune fille.

      His own organization might have sent her, but he doubted it. Anyone as obvious as she was would have been weeded out long ago. And who was she after? Mr. Otomi, Ricetti or Madame Lambert? Maybe Hakim himself?

      One thing was certain—she hadn’t come from the most dangerous of the cozy little cartel. Christos Christopolous didn’t hire any but the best, and he had little use for women in any capacity.

      He wondered where the original translator was. Probably in some alley with her throat slit. Just because Miss Underwood wasn’t an expert at dissemination didn’t mean she couldn’t accomplish wet work with the best of them. Those small, slender hands of hers could kill just as efficiently as Hakim’s fists.

      And why was he still thinking about her, when she’d already made it clear that this wasn’t