Black Ice by Anne Stuart Read Free Book Online Page A

look at Monique’s flushed face made it crystal clear.
    She should have at least waited long enough to let the color subside, Chloe had thought critically, tossing back the glass of whiskey someone had handed her. Bastien was showing more restraint, but then, Monique could have managed it with just lifting her skirts, whereas Bastien would have had to unfasten his trousers….
    She drained the glass and reached for another. What the hell business of hers was it? Clearly the man was going after anyone who’d hold still long enough for him to nail them. At least she’d managed to drive him off quickly enough.
    She slumped down in her chair, eyeing her brie with dislike. When Bastien had sauntered back in a few minutes later, he looked as cool and composed as he had when she’d first seen him. Really, she was absurd to even think about him. There was nothing less appealing than a man who refused to let his reactions show. If someone could still look that composed after a quickie in the garden then he wasn’t for her. She preferred men who weren’t afraid to show emotion.
    And she was making wild assumptions all over the place, she reminded herself, none of which were justified. It didn’t matter whether he was her type or not, he was definitely out of her league.
    He hadn’t glanced at her during the interminable dinner, making it even more clear that his interest had been a moment’s distraction. She sat quietly enough in her chair, translating when she needed to, saying nothing otherwise. Monique von Rutter, on the other hand, was the life of the party—witty, charming, flirting with everyone there, both male and female.
    Chloe was ready to slide under the table in defeat when Hakim finally rose, signaling an end to the endless meal. “We have a great deal to accomplish tomorrow, mesdames et messieurs. I suggest coffee and liqueurs in the west salon, and then we retire. Those who wish to go directly to bed may, of course, be excused.” He turned his small black eyes in her direction. “You won’t be needed anymore tonight, Mademoiselle Underwood.”
    The dismissal was clear and welcome—a liqueur would have put her under the table for sure. She rose steadily enough, secure that her slightly impaired state wouldn’t be noticed in the general exodus.
    He was watching her. She couldn’t imagine why, and she couldn’t actually catch him at it, but she knew that he had been watching her all evening, while he charmed every other female present.
    Maybe it would make sense in the morning when the wine had worn off and she’d had some sleep, but right then it felt confusing, disturbing, threatening. And oddly, wickedly exciting.
    She’d forgotten how tortuous the halls of the château were. Bastien had led her downstairs—she wasn’t about to ask for his help in finding her way back. Trial and error would work well enough.
    It took her longer than expected. She should have asked for directions, but by the time she was halfway up the formal staircase there was no one in sight. She halted, slipping off Sylvia’s high heels with a grateful sigh, then continued onward, reasonably certain that she’d find her room sooner or later.
    She hadn’t realized quite how large the château was. Even if she’d been entirely clearheaded she would have had a hard time finding her own hallway. At that hour, in the dim light, she could have wandered forever, down one tasteful hall and up another, each one familiar yet strange. It wasn’t until she turned a corner that a familiar-looking door appeared, and she practically sprinted toward it, certain it led to the hallway with her rooms.
    She was wrong. The smell was powerful—rot and mildew, the decay of an ancient building. The renovations had only come this far, she realized, peering into the darkness. As far as she could tell the electricity hadn’t been added, but the reflected light through the dusty window illuminated a glimpse of what the rest ofthe château must have