The Last Time I Saw Paris - Lynn Sheene [107]
Claire bowed her head in a display of humility. “Merci,” she murmured as she hurried past. At this point a bullet was not an unexpected outcome. But she had higher aspirations tonight.
In the restroom off the back hall, Claire set the vase on a counter and inspected herself in the mirror. She looked like hell. Soaking wet, her hair was slicked against her head and her coat hung off her like a wet blanket. If the guard came searching for her tonight, he would be looking for a drowned rat. Not this, she thought slipping off her coat.
The diamonds at her neck caught the light like a thousand candles. Claire released the clip at her waist and the full volume of her creamy silk gown spilled over her legs, circling her feet. She pulled a pair of delicate grey pumps from her coat pocket and slipped them on her feet. A towel for her hair, a little brushing, a coat of red lipstick.
Claire examined the identification card in her hand. Claire Badeau stared back at her. Parisienne. Knowing. A spark of drama in her eyes. She slipped the card into her décolleté. Inspecting herself in the mirror, she willed her heart to numbness and arranged a smile. She broke the stem from a ranunculus blossom and threaded it behind her hair.
The card read Badeau, but Claire Harris Stone was back.
She dumped her coat and shoes in the trash. White-vested servers loaded with trays bustled past her as she paused at the doorway of the main dining room. Clusters of drinking officers, men in tuxedos and women in evening gowns stood at the mahogany bar and sat around tables. A pianist played from a glittering alcove. The room smelled of a decadent blend of roasting meats overlaid by tobacco.
She stroked the cool stones around her neck with the tips of her fingers. It was the kind of party she expected when she came to Paris. Before Madame Palain, before Grey.
The music was brisk, some sort of complicated waltz. She slowed herself down to half-time as she sauntered through the tables. A ripple of silence followed her to the bar.
The bartender leaned on his elbows, hands mechanically wiping a glass with white linen. His lined eyes were focused on the distance like a man who preferred to think he was someplace entirely different. He glanced at Claire, his gaze rested on her necklace for a second before returning to her face. “Bonsoir, Madame. Bienvenue.”
Claire bellied up to an open space at the bar. “Merci. Ça va?”
“Not too bad. What can I get you?”
“Champagne, please.”
He nodded and reached below the bar. “A strange place tonight for une Américaine,” he said, voice soft.
Claire smiled. “It is a strange place tonight for all of us, no?”
He smothered a grin as he poured. “Oui, Madame.”
The champagne tingled all the way to her empty stomach. She turned to face the room, cocking her hip and slinging one bare arm on the bar. She inspected the men present. All were Wehrmacht, regular army. Von Richter wasn’t in the room.
A towering captain stood at the end of the bar. His massive shoulders were shaped like a battering ram, his face red from drink. She caught his eye and let a pleased smile grow on her face.
There was a lot she didn’t know about von Richter. His favorite drink, his favorite club. She sure as hell didn’t know how that party boy ended up in the SD. But she did know that when it came to women, von Richter wanted what he couldn’t easily have.
It was her second glass of champagne, the captain’s second bottle, when von Richter’s party finally arrived. Their drunken shouts and giggles drowned out the pianist as they swept into the mezzanine next to the bar. The group had grown; dancing girls had joined the officers. The women were wrapped in coats for the weather but still wore sparkling headdresses and heels.
Claire and the captain leaned against the bar, the better to be seen. He’d been a good choice. He spoke no French and didn’t care that she didn’t understand German. His face so flushed that his blue eyes stood out like beacons, he continued a story he had started thirty minutes ago. She didn’t follow a word, but at von Richter