“I can promise you complete autonomy, Jean-Marc. I need your help on this one. Do you have a reason to stay?”
Still he didn’t look at her. He was bleeding, not badly, but she knew. She was probably in worse shape, and she was still standing, although with Dmitri’s grip she probably had no choice.
“No reason,” he said.
Madame nodded. “Then I suggest we get out of here. Dmitri can clean up the mess and join us later. You need to have that wound looked to.”
“Are you going to kill her?” He seemed no more than casually interested.
“Of course not. I told you, Thomason’s era is over. I don’t think she’ll discuss this with anyone—it would put your life in danger, and I know how you are with women. All you have to do is smile at them and they’ll defend you to the death.”
“Monique being a perfect example of that,” he murmured.
“If Miss Underwood causes trouble we can deal with it when it happens. Unless you’d rather tie up loose ends right now? It’s your call.”
He turned and looked at her, at last. She stood perfectly still, determined not to betray any weakness. She looked into his face, his eyes, and saw nothing. Just the emptiness she thought had gone.
He shrugged then. “I don’t think she’ll cause any trouble,” he said finally. “As you said, we can always deal with the situation later if need be. And we mustn’t discount my powerful effect on women.”
Madame Lambert ignored his sarcasm, nodding. “That’s the Jean-Marc I know. I was afraid he was gone forever. Your midlife crisis is over?”
“Completely. I know who I am and where I belong.”
Madame’s satisfied smile hinted at the beauty she once was. Even she wasn’t immune to his effect on women. Probably one of the first in a long line of suckers, culminating in silly little Chloe Underwood. “Thank God,” she said, putting a hand on his arm and starting to draw him away. “Together we can make the Committee what it always should have been. I can’t tell you how happy you’ve made me. The difference you’ll make in our war against terrorism and oppression.”
He paused at the edge of the clearing, pulling his arm free of Madame’s possessive grip.
“I’m afraid not,” he said in a cool voice. “Jensen can take my place. I’ve lost the killer instinct.”
“Not from what I’ve observed,” Madame said, eyebrows raised. “The world needs you, Jean-Marc.”
“Fuck the world,” he said succinctly.
The silence in the small, blood-soaked clearing was suffocating. Chloe didn’t dare move, didn’t dare breathe.
“You can let go of her, Dmitri,” he said, moving toward her in the bright sunlight. The snow was almost gone now, a bright new day dawning.
Dmitri released his crushing grip, and she felt her knees begin to buckle. She let out a muffled cry as Bastien caught her. He put his arms around her, gently, and turned her bruised face up to his. The light was back in his eyes, and he smiled down at her, a slow, sweet smile that she’d seen only once before.
“Don’t look so shocked, Chloe,” he said, touching her bruised mouth with his finger and then bringing it to his own lips. “I told you I wouldn’t lie.”
“I don’t suppose you’d consider just taking a short sabbatical, Jean-Marc?” Madame asked in a resigned voice.
“I’m retired,” he said, looking into Chloe’s eyes, and everything else faded into nothingness. “And my name is Sebastian.”
ISBN: 978-1-4268-3340-3
BLACK ICE
Copyright © 2005 by Anne Kristine Stuart Ohlrogge.
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Anne Stuart, Black Ice
(Series: Ice # 1)
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