The Last Time I Saw Paris - Lynn Sheene [27]
“I watched an old man be murdered. We both did.” He caught her hands and pulled her face close to his. “Tell me, Claire. Now. How were you in Hôtel Emeraude?”
“You don’t get to ask me questions.” She jerked herself free.
Harsh shouts rose from the direction of the restaurant. A truck engine rumbled. Grey motioned for her to stay put with a finger pointed at her face, then leaned his head out into the street. He grimaced then bit words off in his mouth. “Just go. Right now.”
“I need to get my cart.”
“No. Leave it. Go.”
Claire brushed by him and peered into the street. A truck had brought more troops. They were filing into the restaurant. The sounds of breaking glass echoed off the stone buildings.
Grey tugged on her arm. “You—”
“Just shut up.” Claire turned into the darkness of the alley and stalked away from the restaurant, away from everything.
The banks of the Seine forced her to turn. She walked mindlessly along the brick quai toward the tall spire of Grand Palais. With every stride, the anger drained away, leaving her weak, her stomach churning. Marching into that restaurant would have been an idiotic thing to do. She would have been carted off, likely killed.
Brushing away frozen snow, Claire slumped onto an empty bench that overlooked the pont des Invalides spanning the Seine. How was she going to explain this to Madame? Now the money was going to have to buy a new cart. If one could even be found. The muddy water tossed and churned in its banks. Claire let out a long breath and closed her eyes.
Warm lips pressed against her cheek as the scent of Gauloises hit her nose. Her eyes jerked open and her hand flew up in a fist.
Laurent peered down at her, smiling. “Ah, ma chérie, you used to like that.” He slid onto the bench next to her, parking the lost cart at her side.
Claire looked at the cart then back to him, trying to regain her poise. To see his smiling face so suddenly after the shooting, she couldn’t think. His English sounded strange to her ears.
“Today must be the day for unexpected reunions,” she managed to say.
“Yes. A surprise for everyone.” He paused as two businessmen walked past. “Where have you been, Claire? What have you been doing? We thought you left. Went back to New York.” He shifted on the bench to rest one arm around her shoulder and the other on her leg.
Claire smiled grimly. Same old Laurent. But the touch felt good. And he still had those lips. “I’ve done a little of this, a little of that,” she said, in her best French.
His forehead wrinkled, lips pursed. He was surprised. And, she realized, troubled.
Claire smoothed her dirty, soaked coat against her legs. She had planned on meeting him again in such different circumstances. A man on her arm, a fine dress. Jealousy was the intent. In truth, his expression read worry for her. She couldn’t help that her cheeks were thin.
“Your French is very good,” he said finally.
“Merci.” Claire extricated herself from his hands and stood. She gripped the cart, didn’t meet his eyes. “I need to go, Laurent.”
He plucked the handle from her hands. “By all means, ma chérie, lead the way.”
The empty cart bounced along behind them as they walked in silence. Claire tried to strategize, but the image of the old man crowded out every thought. She rubbed her dirty glove over her nose to erase the memory of those damn chocolates.
Laurent watched her. “Grey told me he saw you. He couldn’t believe it was you at first, but then when you glared at him as though you wished him dead, he was sure.”
“A man died on the sidewalk. Grey could have helped.”
“No. He couldn’t. He was working.”
“I’ve seen whores on street corners work harder.”
He snorted, seeming impressed by the breadth of her language skills. “I’ll tell him you said that.”
Claire threw him a dark look. What the hell had Grey been doing hanging around next to a Nazi hotel? There were rumors of Resistánts banding together to make life harder for the Germans. But how could it matter how the Nazis slept or ate? She clamped her mouth shut. She didn’t care what Grey heard.