The Last Time I Saw Paris - Lynn Sheene [109]
“The last time I saw you there was plenty of scotch involved. I saw at least two of you. And you were all very grabby.”
“We are known for that.” He lit his cigar.
“It’s your fault I’m here. Your stories of Paris lured me.”
“You hadn’t heard?” He gestured with his cigar at the room full of soldiers.
“This is Paris. The good times don’t change.”
He nodded, his eyes on a woman who walked by, nude except for a man’s leering face painted on one butt cheek. “Only who enjoys them.” He looked back at Claire, his eyes hardened. “So, what about the name?”
“What name?”
“Stone. Why the deception?”
Claire ran a hand over her diamonds; let her fingers rest lightly against the curve of a breast. “No deception. A fresh start, I call it.”
He sat back and puffed on his cigar. “Giving a false name to a German soldier is a crime.”
Claire forced a smile. “I’ve learned certain skills in Paris. I can give the right German soldier a few things that would be considered criminal—in more civilized countries.” Claire drained her glass. “I don’t think he’d mind.”
He reached out and gripped her necklace, tugging her toward him. “So what should I call you?”
“Claire Badeau.”
“French?” He looked surprised.
Claire shrugged, let herself drift closer. “A husband—briefly. French.”
“Another husband? You move quickly.”
“You did business with Russell. How easy do you think it was to get away from him? With the name Stone, I get on a list and poof, I am back in New York.”
Von Richter laughed.
Claire started. “What is it?”
“You don’t know, do you?”
“Know what?”
He smiled. “Russell Stone is dead. I would offer you my condolences, but I don’t think you need them.”
Russell was dead? Claire struggled to find an emotion for her husband. She felt nothing. His face was fuzzy, indistinct, like a faded photo. “How do you know?”
“Our steel contract was severed. I inquired as to why.” He smiled and refilled her glass. “Stupid of you not to stay with him longer. You’d be a wealthy woman today.”
Claire shrugged. “I got what I wanted and I moved on.”
“To Badeau?”
“Badeau was handsome, French; he knew people. He was a fresh start.”
Von Richter’s eyes remained suspicious, but he looked intrigued. “Was?”
“The war. He didn’t last long.” Claire drank, allowing for a suggestion of sadness. She leaned back in her chair, letting her legs rub against von Richter’s. A broad smile. “But I find there are perks to being a widow. What do I care about a man’s war? I am a woman, Alby darling. I make do.”
“You certainly do.”
A waiter brought another bottle of champagne.
Claire slid in close and traced her fingers down his uniform buttons. “Have you conquered those clubs you once told me about?”
“I am working on it. It takes time and”—he grinned—“utmost concentration.”
She had to get him out of this brasserie, not just to the backseat of one of those black sedans, but inside—deep inside—the Ritz. Licking her lips, she leaned in close. “I am sure you are an unrelenting conqueror.” She pressed her mouth to his ear, her mind flashed to a flower arrangement that Madame Palain had taught her. “You have experienced Le Lis Enchaîné?”
“No.” His brow furrowed.
She laughed as if she were shocked he would miss something so delicious. She ran her fingers over her necklace, let them rest against her breasts, as her mind raced. “You will need two silk scarves, a fine cigar, three bottles of champagne and a very knowledgeable, willing woman.”
He faced her, his eyes burning. “Just one woman?”
“You must learn to walk before you run,” she said.
He captured her hands and pulled her close. His hand slid down her leg. A sigh. “No stockings to remove. Sad.”
Claire placed her hand over his and moved it to the warm inside of her thigh. “We will have to think of something else for you to do with your teeth.”
Von Richter gestured to the lieutenant who had retrieved Claire from the lobby. “Mein auto,” he said, gesturing toward the door.
The lieutenant smothered a frown and disappeared. He reappeared a moment later. Claire and von Richter