The Last Time I Saw Paris - Lynn Sheene [46]
And the flowers. A smile crept to Claire’s lips. They were magnificent. Two of her arrangements were paired on the mantel bordering an elaborate gilded mirror. Twisted gold branches looped out from the blossoming lilies like trails of golden fireworks, the dangling crystals their fire.
“Quite an operation, isn’t it?” a low voice, smooth as bourbon, said behind her.
Claire started and turned at the sound.
He was slender, aristocratically so, in an expensive tailor-made tuxedo. His thick black hair was parted with a knife and combed behind his ears. He smiled with his teeth, taking a drag from a cigar. “Beautiful, no?” he said, in the tone of a man who knew his worth.
This was the type Claire planned on finding in Paris. Rich, important, handsome, but judging from his eyes not so passionate or principled as to entangle. Times changed. She changed. But she couldn’t help the anticipation that kindled in her stomach. She twisted toward him; her hand nonchalantly adjusted her coat to hint at what awaited inside. She nodded in approval. “Very beautiful.”
He slowly took her in with his eyes. “Can I look forward to your presence tonight?”
In spite of herself, Claire was charmed. She let a slow smile grow on her lips.
“Perhaps I could offer you a drink? Or two?” He indicated the champagne table with the tilt of his head. “Madame . . . ?”
“Badeau, Claire Badeau,” Claire extended a hand.
Madame Palain appeared at Claire’s side. “Pardon, Monsieur. Madame Badeau is required in the salon.”
“Of course.” He bowed lightly.
She grabbed Claire’s elbow and led her into the salon. Her touch was light but the grip was steel. “You didn’t return with Bison.”
“I wanted to see.”
The florist looked at Claire’s lipstick, the flower in the open collar of her coat. “Is restraint a word you are completely unfamiliar with?” She bit each word as she said it.
“Madame Palain?” a man called from across the room, arms full with a large basket.
She composed herself, smoothing the irritation from her face. She pointed toward two large silver chalices brimming with lavender lilies. “Take these to the Place Vendôme lobby on your way out. Monsieur Brun will show you where to place them.” She leaned in close. “Do not allow yourself to be alone with the Comte de Vogüé again. You could hardly have done worse.”
Claire opened her mouth to argue, but the florist was already across the room. Another cart of champagne flutes wheeled past. Claire could almost taste the golden liquid, feel the bubbles play on her tongue. She sighed and hooked an arm around each chalice. With a final wistful glance around the room, she marched into the hallway.
It was easier to dawdle in the lobby. The flowers needed to be placed perfectly, one on the front desk, the other over the mantel in the seating area. Then there was flirting with the concierge, Brun. Shaped like a loaf of bread, thin hair parted on the side and swiped across a wide forehead. He wasn’t so much to look at, but each man who passed called him by name.
Leaning over the desk, her face inches from his; she toyed with the chalice, rubbing a nonexistent smudge. “Who is Comte de Vogüé?”
A scowl flashed across Brun’s face. “Important.” He paused, staring down at the desk and squaring a stack of papers as if he stopped himself from saying more.
“What do you mean?” Claire said, covering the irritation with honey.
A long car rolled up to the Place Vendôme entrance. Bellmen on each side opened the lobby doors wide. Three couples strolled in, one after another.
“The guests. I must go.” Brun scurried around the desk.
Claire swung to face them. She thought of her report. Flirted with Comte de Vogüé, an important, perhaps dangerous and strangely charming man. She pictured Odette bent over the note, a room of agents waiting with baited breath. She laughed to herself.
A Nazi officer came first, built like a Panzer tank with