The Last Time I Saw Paris - Lynn Sheene [3]
Claire crossed her arms in front of her. It wasn’t possible. Not after eleven years.
Bernard pulled out a tattered envelope and flashed rotted teeth in a caricature of the smile he plied on her father’s doorstep years ago. “I’ve carried it a long way. Maybe you could spare a little something for my effort?”
She examined him. A bum, but there were vultures inside who would pick his story apart. And a goddamn reporter and photographer. “Fine. I’ll be right back. Don’t speak to anyone.” She turned toward the door.
He grabbed her arm. “I don’t believe you, Clara May. You have a habit of leaving me behind. I remember where you keep your money.” His gaze fell to her breasts.
Claire yanked her arm free. The bastard was right. Old insecurities died hard. She fished out the folded bills tucked in her cleavage. Bernard snatched the money, his face greedy. Claire slipped the letter inside her dress.
He leered at her and rubbed a dirty hand against his crotch. “I still got my Studebaker. I’ll give you a ride anywhere you like.”
“Get out.”
He crowded her against the door, his bulk blocking out the night. The stench nearly overwhelmed her. “That’s a pretty necklace you got. You wouldn’t want anyone in there to find out what you really are, Clara May Wagner. I might just go tell them where you come from.”
A latch clicked behind them.
Russell Stone towered in the doorway, cigar clenched in his mouth. Going on fifty, his powerful physical presence made him look younger. His silk tuxedo didn’t disguise the hardness won from the street. “Who’s this, Claire?” Russell’s eyes were on Bernard.
“You the husband? I got something to tell you about this one.”
Russell took a deep pull on his cigar as he stepped between them. In one movement, he flicked the cigar into the darkness and swung a meaty fist at Bernard’s jaw. The man crumpled onto the sidewalk, blood pouring from his face. With the toe of a polished shoe, Russell flicked him off the bricks and into the grass.
A gasp came from the doorway where Davis stood wide-eyed.
“Clean up this mess, Davis.” Russell reached for Claire.
His grip dug into her arm as he led her toward the party. She struggled to build a lie. A friend of her eccentric uncle’s. A charity case. A crazy drunk.
“Take the Germans to my study. I want them softened, understand? I’ll give you an hour.” He straightened her necklace and prodded the diamond pendant with a thick finger; the force pushed Claire back a step. “Take better care of that.”
Claire hid a wince as he jerked her through the doorway.
Flora met them just inside the ballroom. “Oh, how wonderful. Mr. Stone has arrived. We must have a photo of the darling couple.” A smile and a flash.
Russell’s hand enveloped Flora’s thin fingers in greeting. “Mrs. Foster, we are so pleased you joined our little soiree tonight, hosted by my talented and beautiful wife.”
Claire offered her cheek for a perfunctory kiss from the adoring husband.
As Flora walked away, Russell faced Claire. He stroked her lips with skinned knuckles. “That grifter called you Clara May Wagner. Funny you responded, isn’t it, Claire Harris? Or maybe I should call you Clara too?” His hand moved down her arm, stopping to dig a thumbnail into the soft skin inside her elbow. She flinched. “Maybe you need to join him in the gutter, huh?”
Her throat constricted as she watched him stride into the crowd at the center of the ballroom. Russell didn’t tolerate disloyalty from any of his crew. Not at all. She picked a glass from the silver tray of a passing waiter and took a long drink, allowing the cold bubbles to wash the knot down her throat. His dealings with the Germans would take a few hours. She’d find a way to cover this up. She had to.
Von Richter and his business partner, Heimler Merkel, stood together near the fireplace, heads bent together in conversation. If von Richter was the playboy, Merkel was the accountant. A grey little man in his sixties, silently noting every gay laugh, kiss and toast. Claire imagined a tally sheet in his breast pocket. Bottles of champagne, twenty