Black Ice by Anne Stuart Page A

black ops clothing. Not in the room, at least, and she couldn’t have hidden them anywhere on the grounds without someone finding them. Noweapons, no papers of any interest. Her passport was an excellent fake—the picture inside looked like a plainer, younger version of the woman who’d walked in today. She supposedly came from North Carolina. She was almost twenty-four years old, five seven, one hundred and twenty-one pounds, and she’d entered France two years ago on a student visa. She had a work permit, a surprise in itself. He never trusted anyone with too clean an identity.
    Nothing else in terms of papers, either forged or otherwise. Not much money. No prescription drugs, nothing personal.
    There were a bunch of pictures in her wallet—fakes with the young woman posing with various genial family types. Easy enough to doctor.
    He put the purse back, moving around to the side of the bed. The glass had broken in large pieces, the drugged brandy seeping into the carpet. Not a bad mess for him to clean up—he’d done far worse. This time there was no blood to get rid of, no body to dispose of. Yet.
    He poured the drugged brandy down the bathroom sink, then refilled it from the flask he’d brought with him. He’d brought an extra glass, just in case, and he poured a splash in it before replacing it beside the bed.
    He stared down at her again. She was a real professional after all—if he couldn’t find anything in his search then she’d figured something out that even he hadn’t thought of.
    Unless, of course, she was telling the truth. That she actually was a twenty-four-year-old woman from North Carolina with no knowledge of who and what they were.
    But then, why would she be wearing the wrong shoes, the wrong bra. Why would she lie about her knowledge of languages?
    No, given the circumstances, there was no way she could be an innocent bystander. She was there to do damage, and he needed to find out what, and to whom.
    He began retying the ribbons that held the silken gown together, then stopped, leaving it open below the waist. She would wonder why, but she wouldn’t remember. He could really do anything he liked to her, and she wouldn’t remember.
    There were any number of things he would have enjoyed doing to her, but most of them would be much better if she were awake and participating. She might be inexperienced enough not to take advantage of the blatant pass he’d made at her earlier today, but he wasn’t so sanguine. She’d already betrayed too much already. Get her naked beneath him, move inside her, and he’d know her better than she knew herself.
    But not if she was comatose.
    He sat down on the bed beside her, watching her as she slept. It would simplify matters if he killed her now. He could do it fast, neatly, and simply tell Hakim he didn’t trust her. Hakim would accept that.
    He put his hand on her neck. Her skin was warm, soft beneath his skin, paler against his tanned hand. He could feel the pulse beat steadily, watch the rise and fall of her chest. He tightened his fingers for just a moment, then took them away.
    Afterward he wasn’t sure why he did it. Uncharacteristic of him, but then, he’d been playing by different rules recently. Or ignoring the rules he’d been taught.
    He stretched his body out alongside hers, his head on the pillow next to her. She smelled like soap and Chanel and cognac, an enticing combination.
    “Who are you, bébé ?” he whispered. “And why are you here?”
    She wouldn’t be answering for another six hours at least. He laughed, at himself, and sat up. There was time. With no weapons, her clear mission was to gather information, and he could ensure that anything she discovered didn’t make it past the walls of the château.
    There was time.

5
    C hloe had never been one to wake up slowly. She tended to be alert immediately, and she was nauseatingly cheerful, while her sleep-fuddled siblings and parents threatened her with death or dismemberment