The Last Time I Saw Paris - Lynn Sheene [131]
Von Richter walked around the chair and planted himself in front of her. “Really, Claire. You are no more of a patriot than I. Your naive rebellion accomplished nothing.”
“Really?” Claire raised an eyebrow. The Oberons and girls had left Paris and were, she prayed, safe. Sylvie was dead.
“The Kapitän’s woman, you mean?” He snorted. “The shrew’s usefulness had come to an end. You saved us the trouble of dealing with her. We have moved on to fry the bigger fish.” He smiled at the term. “I believe you know the Comte de Vogüé?”
Claire kept the bored expression. Inside she crumbled a little bit more. Hold on another day.
The room rattled. It was an explosion outside. The lightbulb swung lazily overhead; the spotlight traced a circle over the worn, bloodstained bricks. The same noise she had heard earlier. She smiled. “The Allies are coming.”
“Just overeager patriots with very misplaced expectations. All the little poodles out there who have decided to nip at our heels are, in fact, going to face a harsh reality.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“It doesn’t matter.” His face was inches from hers. “I own you either way.”
Claire stared into his eyes. His perpetual sneer was gone, his gaze serious.
He pressed her against the wall. “End the charade, tell me what you know. Paris is my oyster. It can belong to us, together.” He stroked her cheek, let his fingers trail down over her breasts to her hip. “You and I are the same. I’ve known that since we met in New York. We are cut from the same cloth. When others fall, we succeed, we thrive.”
Claire sighed. She was so damn tired of loss and despair. What he offered was all she had once dreamed of. Claire traced the scar on his chin with her fingertips. Couldn’t she go back to being that woman, if it meant the pain stopped, if it meant a real life?
He dug his fingers into her hip, a triumphant smirk on his lips. “You’re a smart woman, Claire.”
She closed her eyes, let herself sag against him. “Smart,” she whispered.
Sylvie’s cold eyes flashed in her mind. That was what smart was, the price of accepting his offer.
“We were the same when we met,” Claire said, her gaze met his. “But not anymore. All that Paris offers someone like you means nothing to me. Its beauty can’t touch you, Alby. You aren’t thriving. You aren’t even really alive.” Claire pulled herself up straight, chin up. “I chose to live. Truly. Deeply. At least for a while.”
Von Richter’s palm cracked across her face. Her head snapped back against the wall and she slid to the floor. He closed his fist, cocked it to strike. Claire stared up at him, her face expressionless.
The muscles in his jaw bulged as he bit out his reply. “You chose to die, my darling. We are making a strong statement about traitors. At noon, the guards are going to line up all the criminals here and shoot them.” He tapped the crystal of his gold watch. “You have about two hours left. Try to savor the beauty of your Paris with Lieutenant Holtz.”
He shouted out a command. The door opened and he stalked from the room.
Claire let out a long breath. It felt like she’d been holding it for months. She rested a hand on the cold floor. There it was, then. Not so surprising, after all.
A soldier walked in flanked by two guards. He took up half the room with his wide shoulders and barrel chest; the guards at his side barely reached his shoulder badge. It held the designation of a specialist. It wasn’t hard to guess his specialty.
The guards lifted Claire and pushed her into the chair, binding her arms and legs. He dismissed them with a word, his meaty hands carefully rolled up each sleeve, showing corded arms crisscrossed in scars. He looked up and spoke in grammar-school French. “I am Lieutenant Holtz. You must have made Sturmbannführer von Richter angry. He made a special request for you.”
Claire glared at him, straightened against the chair. “I won’t talk.”
He rolled his massive shoulders and clenched his fists. “I won’t listen.”
Claire’s heart charged like a frightened horse.
The first blow lifted the front feet of the