The Last Time I Saw Paris - Lynn Sheene [114]
The night passed with Claire examining every paper in the study for any indication of Grey. She gave up as traffic began to flow outside the window. Every honk, every rumble, made her heart race. She crawled in bed, her nerves brittle.
The ring of the phone jangled too loud in the sunlit room. Von Richter moaned and rolled over beside her. A mumbled German curse and he reached for the receiver. “Of course. Come by at 9:00. We will talk.” Dropping the receiver in place, he rolled from bed. “Duty calls. Get out now, my luscious schlampe.”
Claire only stretched, curving her body toward him. She wasn’t going anywhere without seeing what this was about. “You smell like a dead bum, mein Sturmbannführer. Let me bathe you.”
He threw her dress at her and jerked on his pants. “You are leaving. Dressed or not. Your decision.”
A theatrical sigh and Claire reached for a stocking. She was dressed and at the entry when the door reverberated with a light knock. Glancing back, she saw von Richter bent over the bed slipping on his boots. He hadn’t heard.
“Go.” He strode into the bathroom. Water splashed in the sink.
Claire reached for the knob.
The Comte de Vogüé stood in the doorway, his eyes flicked open wide.
A gasp escaped her mouth. She heard von Richter walk in the room. “Entrez,” she said.
He examined her, a soft smile, and he entered.
Von Richter offered the Comte a tight smile. “Good morning.”
“We haven’t been introduced,” the Comte said, his eyes boring into Claire.
“Comte de Vogüé, this is Madame Badeau.” Von Richter opened the door wide for her to leave.
Her gaze was glued to the Comte’s face.
“Enchante.” He reached for her hand and held it tight as he brushed his lips against her skin.
“Madame Badeau is just leaving,” von Richter said and turned to his desk.
The Comte pulled Claire toward him. “You play with fire,” he whispered in her ear then kissed her cheek. “Au revoir, Madame. I hope to see you again. Soon.”
“Madame Badeau,” von Richter said, the impatience clear in his tone.
“Au revoir.” Claire sucked in a deep breath as she stepped into the hall. She didn’t know if she should run for the exit or dress for lunch. She pressed her ear to the wood.
Américaine? the Comte said.
They should start getting used to real men between their legs, von Richter said with a laugh.
She slid from the door as she heard the creak of hobnailed boots in the hallway. Soon, the Comte said. She didn’t know his game, but she would play along, if that was what it took. If not, then she just had to make sure he died first. She strolled past the soldiers toward the stairs. Her olive skirt and jacket for lunch, then.
Place Vendôme. July 12, 1944.
A soft rain tapped the awning in front of the Ritz. Claire pulled her coat tight as she stepped out onto the sidewalk, nodding at the soldiers positioned on each side of door. The sun had dipped behind the rooftops, leaving the square in misty blue-toned shadow.
Claire waited for von Richter’s car. Another evening hung up at the SD office on avenue Foch, he was already an hour late for the dinner and show at Le Bal des Etoiles. The breeze was perfumed with blooming chestnut trees. It smells of summer, Claire. No army can stop that, Madame Palain told her last year when the trees blossomed on their street. It had been a beautiful day, the shop windows glowing with a golden light. Madame’s arms had been full of jasmine. The memory dug into Claire’s chest. She sighed and tugged on the waistband of her yellow silk dress, reflexively checking the seams of her silk stockings.
She needed a drink.
Last night she’d dreamed of Marta and Anna again. Claire never saw their faces, only heard them. Sobbing. Keening. She awoke sweating in her sheets, her eyes swollen. She was dressed and in her coat before she convinced herself not to go see them. You endanger everyone you know, everyone you touch, Odette