And he pulled out, almost completely, drinking in her anguished cry like the honey it was. “Who are you?” he whispered in her ear. “What are you doing here?”
She clawed at him, trying desperately to bring him back, but he was much stronger than she was, and he held her still, his hands pinning her hips to the gilded top of the dresser. “Who are you?” he demanded again, his voice as cold as his body was hot.
Her eyes were dazed, her mouth a soft wound. “Chloe…” she said in a choked voice.
He thrust into her, hard, then withdrew before she could stop him. She cried out again, but he was without remorse. “Your clothes don’t belong to you,” he whispered, and in the background the noise from the television increased in intensity, matching his own ruthless arousal, “you speak languages you pretend you don’t. You’re here for a reason, and it has nothing to do with translating. Are you here to kill someone?”
“Please!” she cried.
Again he thrust, and he could feel her hovering on the edge, ready to explode, helpless as he knew he could make her, knew that he needed to make her. “What do you want, Chloe?” he whispered, knowing that he’d finally get the truth from her.
Her eyes were swimming with tears, and she was shaking. “You,” she said. And he believed her.
He stopped thinking then. He pulled her off the table, wrapping her legs around his hips, burying himself deep inside her, and the climax hit her so hard she cried out, louder than the voices on the television, a strangled cry of helpless pleasure.
He wasn’t ready—he was tired of playing games. He thrust inside her, slowly, deliberately, leaning up against the mirrored wall for support, holding her hips, fucking her slowly, sweetly, until it took him over as well, and he poured himself into her, losing everything, drowning in her hot, sweet flesh, her soft, sweet mouth.
He waited until he caught his breath, waited for the tremors to finish washing over his body, and then he withdrew, supporting her limp body against the wall until her legs could support her. He held her up for a moment, and he could see his face in the mirrored wall, dark and ruthless. He looked like the bastard he was, and there was nothing he could do about it. He’d accepted the fact long ago.
He stepped back from her, fastening his clothing. She was looking up at him as if he were a ghost, and he wanted to pull her into his arms, to comfort her. She looked so bereft. For all her claims of sophistication she was clearly not used to what he’d just put her through, and she looked disoriented, lost.
But he couldn’t. He closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against hers, pulling the dress back around her body and tying it at the waist. He couldn’t keep her out of sight of the cameras any longer, but he could keep it from being too easy for them.
When the logical answers get ruled out, you have no choice but to believe the impossible. Chloe Underwood was exactly what she claimed she was. An innocent, caught in a maelstrom far too powerful for her to even understand. And oddly enough, it was the so-called good guy who had done the most damage. Up to this point.
He was going to have his work cut out for him, distracting Hakim from his own suspicions. He needed to get back to that computer, erase little Miss Busybody’s virtual fingerprints and convince the others they had nothing to fear from her.
But first he had to finish with her. He kissed her on her mouth, lightly, carelessly. “Eh bien, sweetheart,” he murmured. “That was very nice. Too bad we don’t have time for more.”
She stared up at him, lost for a moment. And then she reached out and slapped him, using all the shattered strength in her body, and it jarred his head.
Regret was useless, remorse an unknown emotion, and his body was still humming with satisfaction. He gave her a crooked smile, picked up his discarded jacket and walked out of the room, closing the door quietly behind him.
Chloe leaned against the wall. Her legs felt weak, barely able to support her, and she slid down, slowly, ending on the beautiful parquet floor. She began to shake—it started slowly, as nothing more than a faint vibration that grew until she was shivering uncontrollably. She wrapped her arms around her body, but she couldn’t get warm. She closed her eyes, but the television was still on, the moans a staccato accompaniment to her confusion, and she opened them again. The torn lace underwear lay on the floor in the little foyer, in front of the antique chest of drawers that had probably never seen such usage in its long, elegant life. Then again, this was France.
She wanted to throw up. There was no question about it—she was horrified and sick inside at what had happened, and she still couldn’t understand why.
She hadn’t said no. There was no way she could avoid that simple truth—she hadn’t told him no. Whether he would have taken that for an answer was beside the point. She’d let him do that to her.
And the awful, sickening thing was, she’d liked it.
No, that was the wrong word. Like had nothing to do with it. She hadn’t liked being manipulated, intimidated, tormented and used.
But he’d managed to make her climax anyway, despite it all. Or, most horrifying of all, because of it?
No. She had no hidden, dark need to be punished, humiliated, used and discarded. There were no dark shadows hidden in her past, no twisted self-loathing that begged to be treated with carelessness.
So why had she let him? Why had her mind screamed no as she’d kissed him back? Why had she clung to him, knowing who and what he really was? Why had she come?
She could tell herself it was simple biology. Her family, if she had ever been insane enough to discuss it with them, would tell her it was a normal, physiological reaction. Nothing to be ashamed of, nothing to horrify and sicken her.
The problem was, she knew, deep inside, what was shameful, what was horrifying, what was sickening. Not that she’d managed to have the most powerful orgasm of her life under such unloving circumstances.
But that she wanted to do it again.
9
Bastien was back at the computer, moving through the history file with rapid keystrokes. He had always had the remarkable ability to compartmentalize his thoughts, his life, his emotions. It started when he was a child, following in his globe-trotting mother’s wake, barely able to keep up with her.