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  He appeared uncertain, but then nodded solemnly, closed the tap, tested the water and turned for the door.

  “Josselin,” she said, waiting until he faced her, “I would like to know what’s going to happen. For how long are you going to keep me here?”

  “For as long as it takes,” he said, sounding uncompromising. “We’ll talk later.” He motioned at the bath. “Take your time. First, get warm, unless you want to catch your death.”

  Clelia stared at his very big and very solid back as he closed the door behind him.

  Unsteady on her feet, she battled to undress. Her fingers were numb and her coordination lacking, but she managed to shed the shorts, T-shirt and her underwear. She folded everything neatly on a bench before she stepped into the bath and lowered herself into the warm water. She was, in fact, cold, and the heat was welcome.

  In the low light of the lamp, she couldn’t make out much of the bedroom, but the bathroom was brightly lit. It was clean but neglected. Some of the black and white tiles on the floor were cracked and a yellowed mirror on the wall was split in two. The antique enamel clawfoot bathtub would once have been pretty, but now it looked sad with rusted metal showing like raw wounds through the chipped surface. A white plastic curtain extended from a curtain rail to shelter the bath and a wide shower nozzle was fixed to the wall above the taps. The broad basin was broken too, and the square that was supposed to be the window was shuttered from the outside, although she could see slivers of light slipping through, which meant that it was day.

  As she soaked in the water her nerves slightly calmed, and the shivering and shaking stopped. Slowly, her body started feeling normal again. She bent her legs and arms, testing her joints. All that was left to do was to get her mind working too, so that she could think up an escape plan. Still contemplating what her next move should be, she jumped when the door suddenly opened without warning. With a soft yelp, she jerked the plastic curtain closed.

  “I brought you dry clothes,” Josselin said, either oblivious of his unorthodox entry or not caring. “Will you manage to get into them yourself, or do you want me to dress you?”

  Clelia swallowed, cursing the blood that surged to various parts of her body.

  “Please,” she said, “just leave them here. You didn’t have to...”

  She heard him chuckle and the door closed again. For good measure, she sat very still and counted to ten. Only when the silence prevailed did she dare to pull the curtain aside. Once more, she was alone. She found a towel, a sweatshirt, and tracksuit pants on the bench. She dried herself and dressed in the oversized clothes, combing her hair through with her fingers. Her image looked strangely distorted in the mirror, as if she had a twin double, but each of them was missing a piece of her face.

  This time Josselin knocked. He entered with a brush and a hairdryer in his hands. She watched him in the mirror as he walked to her. As he looked at the baggy clothes drowning her body, a strange expression crossed his face.

  “I had to give you some of my stuff. It may be a bit...”

  “Too big?”

  “Uncomfortable.” He managed a crooked smile at her broken reflection in the mirror.

  “My backpack...” she said, suddenly remembering that she had left it in the house where they had been attacked. She gave a silent sigh of relief for having thrown Josselin’s revolver into the sea. If he had discovered it, he would have wanted to know how it got there, and she would have died of embarrassment to hear him admit that he couldn’t recall the way in which he had kissed her, or the way his hands had rested on her breasts. She felt herself flush again, and it wasn’t just her face that was heating.

  “Maya’s got it.”

  “Thoroughly searched by now, no doubt,” she said bitterly.

  He shrugged. “Of course. As were you.”

  Her eyes widened and her tummy somersaulted at the thought of Josselin body-searching her.

  He sighed. “Don’t worry, little witch. Maya patted you down in the van.” He touched her wet hair. “Let me,” he said, and without waiting for permission, he started drying her hair.

  When he was satisfied that her hair was thoroughly dry, he made her sit on the toilet, pushed up her pants and inspected her knees and feet.

  “I don’t have a first aid kit here,” he said, sounding annoyed again, “but I’ll give those some attention later.”

  She bit her lip. “It’s nothing. Just a few scratches.”

  He looked like he was going to argue, but he didn’t say anything as he rolled the pants back down, took her hand and led her back to the room.

  This time a bare overhead light cast a hollow shine with long shadows over everything. Clelia looked around. It was a small round room with a bed and a bedside table pushed against the wall, a dresser with drawers and a desk and chair facing it. The walls were bare and marked. The furniture seemed old, but the mattress appeared new.

  “It’s not very nice, but it’s clean,” Josselin said, and when she looked up, she noticed him studying her. He pointed at a shopping bag on the chair. “There are new sheets in there. Will you manage to make the bed?”

  She glanced at him quickly. “You want me to make the bed?”

  “Yes,” he simply said.

  It wasn’t as if they were a couple on holiday together and the guy just asked his girlfriend if she could make their bed. She was a prisoner, a hostage. Between Josselin and a bed, a clean bed with new sheets, her thoughts drifted someplace they shouldn’t, and that scared her more than the fact that she was trapped between four walls–actually, in a circle of bricks–as the room was round.

  “Why?” she said, feeling more intimidated by him than ever before.

  A flicker of a smile twisted his lips and made her feel stupid. “Because I don’t want you to have to lie on a bare mattress.”

  She twisted her fingers together, looking at the bag with the Super-U logo. “What if I refuse?”

  He shrugged. “Then I’ll do it.”

  She frowned, trying to imagine big, strong Josselin making a bed. He lifted the bag and handed it to her. She reached out slowly and took it, extracting a yellow fitted sheet, flat sheet, pillowcase and comforter. It smelled freshly laundered. There were no price tags or plastic wrappings.

  As if reading her mind, he said, “I washed and dried it while you were knocked out.”

  The act seemed oddly out of character for Josselin. She didn’t say anything as he opened another bag and handed her a new pillow. While she moved around the bed to pull the sheets straight, she was aware of him watching her with his arms crossed, his expression unreadable. Only when she had finished did he step forward and look down at her.

  “Thank you,” he said. “Now, lie down.”

  “I need to go home,” Clelia said.

  “You know better than to ask that of me. We don’t know each other. Yet. But when you get to know me, you’ll know that I don’t take no for an answer. Sit down.”

  His body was almost flush against hers now, and more in an effort to put some distance between them than obey him, Clelia carefully balanced herself on the edge of the bed.

  “We have to talk,” he said, “but there are some things that need taking care of first.”

  He took hold of her shoulders and pushed her down. When she was flat on her back, he glided his hands over her arms, all the way to her hands, fleetingly intertwining their fingers before he lifted her arms above her head, smoothing his palms down over the sensitive inner flesh and back up. He leaned over her, his hair brushing her face, his eyes capturing hers, holding both of her wrists together with one hand while the other took something from his jacket and lifted it to her hands. Before Clelia knew what was happening, she felt something unwelcome and cold encircling her wrists, and then she heard a clicking sound. Her eyes widened as she realized that he had just handcuffed her to the bed. A hard pluck of her arms confirmed the knowledge. The metal pushed relentlessly against her skin.

  “Don’t pull,” he sai
d, frowning. “You’ll take off your skin.”

  He stared at her wrists for a long time, as if he was trying to make up his mind about something, and then he got to his feet.

  “No,” she shook her head, “please, Josselin, don’t leave me here.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, avoiding her eyes.

  Clelia suddenly knew where he had brought her. She should have realized right from the start. If her mind hadn’t been so fogged up with the drugs he shot into her bloodstream and with the heady cocktail of his male scent, she would have registered it sooner. The round room ... the tower ... this was his bedroom. A dread filled her, bloomed in her limbs and made them dissolve with fear.

  “Please,” she said, hearing the tears in her own voice.

  Josselin looked her over, from head to toe, and without showing any emotion, did exactly what she had begged him not to do. He left her alone in his childhood house, handcuffed to a bed.

  * * * *

  Josselin swore as he made his way down the creaky stairs. He banged his fist against his forehead. What the hell was wrong with him? What just happened in there was so not okay. She could have his ass on the line for sexual harassment with the stupid act he had just pulled. Even if they operated outside of the law, the organization took sexual harassment and assault pretty seriously. He pulled his hands through his hair. Fuck. At the bottom of the stairs he stopped and pushed his thumbs into his tired, burning eyes. If there were a wise bone left in his cursed body, he would hand her over to Cain and claim a conflict of interest. But he knew that wasn’t an option. Her face, her eyes, her lips ... he felt like he knew her body, which was totally ridiculous, but not as ridiculous as the craving he had for her soul.

  When he had tasted her blood the first time, when she was only a girl, he knew that she was too good for him, someone the likes of him could only spoil and taint with his darkness. She was pure and innocent and everything he wasn’t. Her taste had haunted him for years, in his waking hours and in his dreams, and the minute he had tasted her again, he wanted more. He kicked the front door and stood quiet for a long time, his hands resting on his hips, his eyes on the floor.

  What had he done by bringing her here? It was the only safe place he could think of. No one would look for him here. He wiped his hands over his face, pacing the small space of the entrance at the bottom of the stairs. God forgive him for leaving her alone, but he didn’t have a choice. She needed to eat. She needed clothes. And he needed to find out what the hell was going on. Fast.

  Chapter Seven

  By the time Josselin had bought food and gone to Erwan’s cottage to pack some of Clelia’s clothes (after staring down four damn wolves), he got a call from Lann saying that Cain had arrived at the ‘safe house’. Josselin looked around the abandoned jetty in the hidden alcove to ensure he wasn’t followed, and scanned the surrounding forest with heat sensitive binoculars. When it came up clean, he threw the things he tugged along into a motorboat, started the engine, and drove it a few miles out to sea. After Île Longue, he spotted the yacht. He cut the engine when he was close, and allowed the momentum of the water to gently push his boat to the side of the luxury vessel.

  He had informed Lann that he was coming in and watched him appear on the deck, hooking the ladder into place for Josselin to come aboard their new safe house. He had to admit, it was clever. They could move around, making it harder to be tracked, and Cain had a natural affinity for water, not to mention that water was probably the safest place a person could be when a firestarter posed a threat.

  Lann extended a hand to help Josselin over the last step. His grip was unexpectedly firm for the slender appearance of his long fingers.

  “Where is she?” Lann said.

  “Safe,” Josselin replied, resenting the fact that he had to leave her there, on her own.

  Truth was he didn’t trust her with anyone else. Right now, he didn’t even trust Cain. Not that trust had ever been required for their working partnership. Josselin executed his missions without asking questions. This time around, he had plenty of questions, and he was going to demand answers. He had a feeling that there was more to the case than solving a crime. He also knew Cain’s brutality where the fight for snuffing out evil was concerned. Cain would harm Clelia if need be. It wouldn’t be the first time that they would be required to destroy someone who abused the power of their art, or use whoever they could to get to that person. Until he knew how Clelia fit into the picture, and what Cain’s plans were for her and Erwan, he wasn’t exposing her to anyone.

  Lann regarded him curiously, his green cashmere sweater hanging loosely over his lean but well-defined body. “You’re overprotective where that female is concerned.”

  “If I wanted your opinion, I would have asked for it.”

  “I’m not challenging you, Joss. I’m concerned. Cain isn’t pleased.”

  Josselin motioned to the motorboat. “Get the bags. There’s food that needs to be kept cold.” When Lann moved forward, Josselin laid a hand on his arm. “I appreciate your concern.”

  Lann’s yellowish eyes flickered. “You better get inside. Cain will be upset if you keep him waiting.”

  Upset was a girlish word for what Cain would be. Cain was only a few years older than Josselin, but his authority was asserted through his rank, and although Josselin had no particular desire to start fighting ranks, he’d do whatever was needed to keep Clelia out of harm’s way.

  His irrationality bothered him. He knew she was innocent, but innocence alone wasn’t enough for the enormity of his feeling of protectiveness, not to mention the sudden possessiveness that flooded him. For now, he pushed these troubling thoughts from his mind in order to focus on the conversation that was to follow.

  Josselin braced himself as he went below deck to the lounge where Cain sat on a leather bench, an espresso by his elbow, reading data on a 3D screen. With his thumb and forefinger, Cain minimized the graphics he was studying and pushed the information aside with a flick of his hand. He wore a white suit with a white shirt and white silk tie, his signature attire. He dressed like God, Josselin thought grimly, as if he controlled the fate of mankind, which wasn’t too far off the mark. His dark hair was brushed back, curling over the nape of his neck, and his brown eyes were brimming with a brewing explosion. The inflamed redness of the birthmark on his cheek told Josselin that Cain was ‘upset’.

  Josselin only nodded in greeting, coming to a halt in front of the table that separated them. Maya sat in a corner on a red leather chair working on her ePad, Bono was behind the bar twisting open a bottle of beer, and Lann had gone to a table in the center covered with maps. With a toss of his head, Cain dismissed the others. They gave Josselin looks that varied from worried to concern as they filtered to the upper deck.

  When they were alone, Cain put the tip of his Italian shoe on a metal chair that stood at his side and kicked it toward Josselin. Josselin caught the chair, placed it facing Cain, and sat down, his legs spread, his hands on this thighs. Neither man spoke as each waited for the other in silent challenge to either attack or defend.

  Josselin had a lot of time and respect for his leader. After all, it was Cain who found him, trained him, and rescued him from himself when he washed up, a shadow of a boy, in the streets of New York. But on this, Josselin had to trust his gut. It ran deeper than his conditioning, maybe deeper than he’d ever like to admit. The men stared at each other until Cain sighed in frustrated recognition of Josselin’s hardheadedness.

  “What the fuck was that stunt?” Cain said, his American accent strong.

  “What stunt?” Josselin said, feigning innocence.

  “Acting doesn’t suit you de Arradon. You’re a team leader, not a circus clown.”

  “And your point is?”

  “You better start acting like the man I trained and not like some rabid action hero gone astray.”

  “I took the suspect in, just as you commanded.”

  “You were supposed to bring the girl in to gr
ound base. And if the base was compromised, naturally, you should have brought her to the safe house. I thought my orders were clear.”

  “I made the best decision I could with the knowledge at my disposal.”

  Cain lifted his brow. His expensively cufflinked arms rested on his cane, his wrists elegantly crossed. “You think I’m withholding information from you?”

  “I know you are,” Josselin said. His tone wasn’t accusing. He knew they operated on a need-to-know-basis. “I don’t know who’s behind the attack, but I’m not a fool. I know the assault was meant to take us out.” He leaned forward. “And to take her alive.” He reclined, waiting for Cain to digest the information. “Someone else wants her as bad as we do. To keep her with us puts the whole team in danger. I thought it best to hide her until I know more.”

  “Lann said the first shot was aimed at him.”

  “Yes. He was standing in front of the window, a clear target for the assassin. Lucky for him, he moved at just the right moment.”

  “And after that, are you sure the shots were not aimed at the girl?”

  “The shots only targeted my team. They steered well away from me. I’m guessing it’s because I was covering Clelia and the shooter didn’t have a clean shot without the risk of taking out Clelia. Maya recorded the bullet holes and reconstructed a hologram that shows the bullet path directions. You can look at the report if you want.” Josselin narrowed his eyes. “Who else would be interested in abducting a fisherman’s granddaughter? Cain, is there something you’re not telling me about Clelia?”

  Cain smiled. “Is there something about her you’re not telling me?”

  Josselin felt his muscles tense but managed to keep a calm exterior. “I told you what I knew, that there were rumors about her mother.”

  “Just rumors?”

  “So far, yes, they’re just rumors. Nothing concrete. We’re trying to track down anyone who was on the trawler that rescued Clelia’s mother.”

  “So, just rumors. And nothing else?”

  “No, nothing else.”