Chloe wasn’t quite sure what had woken her up. She was alone in the bed, and cold, but it wasn’t the dense, suffocating blackness. A small flashlight lay on the mattress beside her, the light a tiny beacon in the dark.

She sat up, slowly. Her entire body ached, her stomach was twisted in knots and her head hurt. Her best friend had been murdered because of her, and she was on the run for her life, with only an enigmatic killer to turn to.

But she was alive. Painfully, undeniably alive, despite the guilt and the fear that were tearing at her. The only question was, what would she do next? And where was Bastien?

There was always the possibility that he’d finally abandoned her. Taken her to this deserted house, dragged her up to a tiny room and locked her in there to slowly die of starvation.

But there was a window in the roof, and she could climb out. And he had no reason to drag her all the way here if he wanted her dead.

If it was a question of simply hiding her body, then he wouldn’t have abandoned her to starve or scream or fall to her death on the pavement below when she tried to escape. He would have killed her, quickly, painlessly. He’d promised her that much, and she found the notion comforting. It was a sick, twisted reaction, but she was beyond conventional thought and emotions. Everything had been stripped down to the bare minimum—survival. After seeing Sylvia’s poor body she could no longer deny it. Her only means of survival was Bastien, and she wasn’t going to fight him anymore. In fact, she was actually going to be glad when he reappeared in the tiny, closed-off room. Downright delirious. Though she had no intention of telling him.

She scooted over to the corner of the bed, wrapping his coat more closely around her, pulling the threadbare blanket over her as well. She was hungry, a notion that horrified her. When her nephew had died in a car accident she hadn’t been able to eat for days—the very sight of food had made her nauseous. But now, even after seeing Sylvia’s brutalized body, she was famished. Part of the survival instinct, she supposed. It didn’t make her feel any less crass, but there it was. She wanted to survive, and she needed her strength to do it. And to be strong, she needed to eat. It was that simple.

Where the hell was he? At least he’d left her the light. She would have been screaming and climbing the walls if she’d awoken alone to total darkness.

He was right, she wasn’t the sort to be crippled by complexes. She’d actually thought she’d gotten over it years ago. She had no problem with familiar places, elevators or dark basements.

It had been her fault in the first place. She’d been eight years old, tagging after her older brothers, always trying to do what the older kids did, refusing to realize her own limitations. The mines were off-limits, even to the older boys, but no self-respecting teenager would pay attention to danger warnings. They would, however, stop at bringing their younger sister on such a risky adventure, so her only choice was to sneak after them. One wrong turn too many, and she’d lost them in the warren of passageways deep below the ground.

They hadn’t known she’d followed them, and no one realized she was missing for hours. Her flashlight had given out, and she’d been trapped in the darkness, in the middle of Miller’s Mountain, while time lost its meaning and monsters crawled at her from every corner. By the time the search party found her she’d been in the dark for nineteen hours, and she didn’t speak for two weeks after the ordeal.

Her father used to joke that after that she never stopped talking. She had a sensible family who carted her straight off to the best therapists, and by the time she was twelve she no longer had to sleep with a light on. By the time she was fifteen she could go down into the basement again, and by the time she left for college she thought she’d put it all behind her. Until last night.

It was probably just the accumulation of horrors that had suddenly made her weak and vulnerable again. She accepted that fact, grudgingly, just as she accepted she needed Bastien’s help. And she might even tell him so, if he ever got his skinny ass back here.

Except he wasn’t precisely skinny. She’d had a good look at his body in his apartment yesterday, whether she’d wanted to or not, and he was long and lean and smoothly muscled.

And she wasn’t going to start thinking about that, even though she should have welcomed the distraction. In the end she was more comfortable thinking about being trapped in a small room with monsters trying to kill her than she was thinking about Bastien Toussaint’s, or whoever he was, naked body.

She didn’t even hear him approach. She didn’t know whether the room was soundproofed or he was simply very silent, but she was sitting cross-legged on the bed, staring fixedly at the tiny beam from the flashlight and trying not to think about him when the door slid open and he was standing there.

“Are you all right?” he asked as the door slid shut behind him.

She took a deep breath, trying to sound unconcerned. “I’m fine. I don’t have any idea what time it is, but shouldn’t we be starting toward the airport?”

He said nothing, moving into the room. She saw the spark, and a moment later he’d lit candles that she hadn’t realized were there. “You’re not going to be flying out tonight.”

The knot in her stomach tightened. “Why not?”

“It’s shut down. Most of Paris is, for that matter. The snow has brought everything to a standstill. That’s why it’s safe enough to light some candles. The snow…” He paused.

“That’s all right. It’s covered the roof window, hasn’t it? I’m calmer now. Especially with some light.”

He nodded. He’d managed to acquire a jacket somewhere, and she suspected he’d changed his clothes, though they were still all the same unremitting black. Which reminded her…

“I don’t suppose there’s a bathroom in this place?” she asked. “Otherwise I’m going to have to sample the snow firsthand.”

“There is one. It’s rudimentary, but it works.”

She’d scrambled off the bed before he’d even finished his sentence. “Where?” Now that she knew relief was at hand it had become a great deal more urgent.

“It’s on the floor below, directly beneath this. We’ll have to go without light—we can’t risk anyone seeing the torch.”

She swallowed. She was better now, she reminded herself. Calmer. “Okay.”

He blew out the candles, and in the sudden darkness she heard the door slide open. She swallowed, then jumped as she felt him take her hand.

She tried to pull away, instinctively, but he held on tight. “You’re not going to find it without holding on to me,” he said, matter-of-fact.

She took a deep breath, her hand still in his. “Of course,” she said.

It helped, holding on to him, though she wasn’t about to admit it. They walked through the cavernous darkness, down a narrow flight of stairs to a wall by an old fireplace. The door opened, and he put the tiny flashlight in her hand before giving her a little push. “Don’t turn it on until the door is closed. I’ll wait here.”

It was utilitarian indeed, but the toilet flushed, the water ran cold from the sink, and there was even a square of mirror. She could have done without that—but curiosity got the better of her, and once she’d rinsed her mouth and done her best to wash up she took a curious look.

She’d expected hollow eyes, pale color, some kind of mark from the horrors of the last few days. Instead she looked like Chloe—practical, not unpleasant to look at, the damnably pedestrian freckles still scattered across her nose and cheekbones, the bane of her existence. Her hair was ridiculous, standing up around her face like a dark halo. But she was no saint either.

She took a deep breath, flicked off the light, and then realized she had no idea how to open the door. She rapped on it, lightly, and it slid open. She couldn’t see him, but she didn’t jump when he took her hand this time, and she was almost happy to be back in the safety of the little room in the attic.

She scrambled back onto the bed—the room was so small she’d bump into him if she remained standing. He lit the candles again, reached behind his coat and pulled out a gun, setting it down on the table. She looked at it like it was a poisonous snake, which it was, but it was there to help her, not kill her. She hoped.

“So what now?” she asked.

“Now we eat,” he said, and she almost wanted to kiss him. “There weren’t many stores open, but I managed to get us something. And don’t tell me you don’t feel like eating—you have to. You’re not out of this yet, and you need your strength.”

“I wouldn’t tell you any such thing. I’m starving. What did you bring?”

She hadn’t noticed the paper sack he’d brought with him. He’d brought a couple of baguettes, some brie, two pears and two blood oranges. And a bottle of wine, of course. She wanted to laugh, but that would have been as bad as screaming. She’d never stop. Just breathe, she reminded herself.

He sat on the other end of the bed, their meager feast spread out before them. Their only utensil was his pocketknife, but he managed to open the wine with it, and they passed it back and forth to hack off pieces of bread and cheese.

The pear was divine—ripe and messy, and she wiped the juice from her mouth with the paper napkin he’d brought. And then she realized he was watching her, an odd expression on his face.

He passed her the bottle of wine. There was nothing else to drink, and no glasses, and she had no choice but to put her mouth where his had been. She took a long swallow, letting it begin to warm her, and when she passed it back to him their fingers touched. She drew back hastily, and again he smiled.

When they’d had enough he cleared the bed, putting the rest of the food on the small table next to the candle. Neither of them had touched the oranges, she noticed.

“What next?” she asked, leaning back against the wall.

“Next we sleep.” He was spreading the thin blanket on the floor. There was just enough space in the tiny room for him to lie down by the bed.

“I’ve been sleeping for hours,” she said. “Days, it seems. I don’t know if I can sleep anymore.”

He stared at her through the candlelit shadows. “Then what do you suggest we do?”

She had no answer to that, of course. In the two years she’d lived in Paris she’d learned a very creditable shrug, and she did just that, then stretched out on the narrow bed, staring fixedly at the candlelight while he watched her.

She had no earthly idea what he was thinking. Probably what an annoyance she was. That he should have let Hakim finish her off, or maybe that he should have killed her himself once she started fussing. But he hadn’t, he was stuck with her, an albatross around his neck.

He blew out all but one of the candles, then stretched out on the floor. The hard, cold floor—she’d felt it on her bare feet.

“You don’t have to sleep down there,” she said suddenly, before she could regret the impulse. “There’s room for both of us up here.”

“Go to sleep, Chloe.”

“Look, I know perfectly well you have no interest in me sexually, thank God. What happened yesterday was an aberration….”

“Two days ago,” he said, his voice matter-of-fact. “And it was part of my job.”

That shut her up, for at least a moment, even though she’d known it. She took a deep breath. “So, clearly there’s no problem with us sharing a bed. You’re not going to touch me. The room is cold, and we’d both be a lot warmer if you slept up here.”

She couldn’t see his face clearly in the shadows. He was probably exasperated. “For the love of God,” he murmured, “would you please stop prattling? You may have had too much sleep but I haven’t had more than an hour or so in the last three days. I’m only human.”

“I doubt that,” she muttered. “Suit yourself.” She turned away from him, with as close an approximation of an affronted flounce as she could manage while lying on a narrow bed, and stared at the cracked and stained wall.

“Merde,” he said. He rose, blew out the candle and climbed into bed with her. “It’s too small a bed not to touch you,” he said in a grumpy voice.

Unfortunately true. She could feel him up against her back, his body curved around hers. If someone broke in he’d be in the way of any danger. That was the only reason why she wanted him there, she told herself. The only reason why she suddenly felt warm and safe and able to relax. It was simply a question of survival.

“I can put up with it,” she replied. “But if you think that I—” His hand covered her mouth, stopping her midsentence. She could almost taste the pear juice on his fingers, an incredibly arousing sensation. She must still be hungry, she thought. But nothing under the sun was going to get her to eat a blood orange.

“Shut the fuck up,” he said sweetly in her ear, “or I’ll tie you up and gag you and put you on the floor. Understood?”

He’d probably do it, too. She nodded, as best she could with his hand covering her mouth, and he slowly moved it. She wanted to tell him that she was unwilling to share the bed after all, but he’d probably dump her on the hard cold floor if she said one more word.

His body was warm, deliciously so, pressed up against hers. Pissed off as she was, she could still feel a heated languor spread through her body. She might be able to sleep some more after all, she thought, what with the wine and the warmth and the undeniable feeling of utter safety with his body wrapped around hers. She didn’t want to—she wanted to keep awake just to spite him.

How was he going to get her out of Paris in one piece? The longer she stayed the more dangerous it became, the more likely it was that someone would find her. Would she be better off slipping into another country, leaving from Frankfurt or Zurich?

And how the hell was she going to do that with her passport back at the château? And someone must have found poor Sylvia by now. The police would have been called, they would have searched the place and found her belongings. Which meant the police would be looking for her as well.

Definitely a good thing. Even if they thought she’d somehow managed to kill Sylvia she’d rather take her chances in a French jail than running for her life, having to depend on one enigmatic man.

Everything had taken on a blessed haze of unreality. She’d seen him kill a man, and yet she could barely remember it. She’d been in such pain, and then the pain had stopped, and Hakim was lying on the floor.

He’d had sex with her. She would like to deny it, call it something else, but in truth it was sex, and he had come inside her. And to her everlasting shame, she had climaxed as well, powerfully.

But that didn’t feel real anymore. Even the stark horror of Sylvia’s body was beginning to fade. Maybe that would happen with everything, she thought, slowly relaxing her body against his. Maybe everything that had gone on in the last days she spent in France would wind up in a little bubble that never really touched her again. She wouldn’t have to remember it, wouldn’t have to deal with it. It would just be gone.

She didn’t know if that was how people usually managed to get through traumatic periods in their life. All this made nineteen hours in a pitch-black cave seem like a child’s prank in comparison. No one had died, no one had been hurt, no one had developed a kind of sick fascination for…

She didn’t like the way her mind was going. She tried to inch away from Bastien’s body, but his arm clamped around her waist, pulling her back. “Lie still,” he muttered sleepily in her ear.

She could feel him all along her back, the sensation of warmth and strength, bone and muscle and the unmistakable feel of him against her butt. It felt as if he had an erection, which surely couldn’t be true, since he had no real interest in her and she had all the interest in the world in him.

Stockholm Syndrome, didn’t they call it? When the hostage developed an unhealthy obsession with her captor. It was a normal reaction—they were in a life-or-death situation, and so far he’d managed to keep her alive. And to complicate matters, they’d had sex before she’d realized just how dangerous he was. And why couldn’t she stop thinking about the sex?

Because she was lying in the shelter of his strong body, she could feel his cock against her backside and she was scared. The only thing standing between her and a painful, hideous death was his body, and she wanted it.

But he didn’t want her, he’d simply been doing his job, and as he’d told her, he was very good at it. In the end his lack of interest was a very good thing. At least he wanted to keep her alive and safe and get her back home. Which was an even better thing.

Developing an unhealthy fascination for him was not unexpected. And once she was safely home everything would be back in perspective.

He was right, the bed was too small. There was no way she could move away from his body. She could turn her head just enough to see his face. He slept, which amazed her, and even her thrashing around hadn’t woken him. She could barely make him out in the darkness, and she gave up trying, laying her head back down on the threadbare mattress, listening to the sound of his heartbeat against her back.

At least he had a heart—something she’d wondered about. He was human, he was warm and strong and ready to kill to keep her safe.

What more could a girl want in a man?