The Last Time I Saw Paris - Lynn Sheene [48]
His smile faded. “I miss this.” With the tilt of his head, he motioned to the city around him. “I miss walks through Paris.”
Grey was a romantic? Impossible. Her face must have shown her wonder.
“Bloody hell. Why do you look so surprised? That is what Paris is for. Flânerie.”
“What does that mean?”
“Flâner. To amble. To enjoy. The pleasure in noticing all the details one wouldn’t see scurrying about.”
“My God, how French.” Claire smiled like a child. “Nous flânons.” She rolled it around her tongue. His eyes met hers. Struck by the depth of his gaze before he looked away, she was glad for the air cooling the flush on her cheeks.
They lapsed into a comfortable silence, both taking pleasure in the rare sun, the river, the stonework, the quiet company. They strolled past the pont des Invalides and stared over the rows of treetops to the arching ironwork and glass of the Grand Palais.
Shrill whistles turned their attention to the pont Alexandre III, ahead. German soldiers had a man pinned against the bridge’s railing over the center of the Seine. The man jerked free and flipped over the side, his arms flailing as he fell. A splash as he landed and thrashed feebly.
Soldiers charged off the bridge toward them as the man drifted past Claire’s feet. Grey pulled her from the river’s edge and pressed her backward against the far brick quai wall. He embraced her, his face tilted forward against hers in the appearance of a kiss, his back against the water. Her heart hammered, her hands gripped his broad shoulders.
“Don’t watch them. Look at me now, Claire.”
She fell into his fierce gaze. His dark eyes swallowed her, flecks of blue swam in the slate depths. Soldiers thundered by, jackboots ringing on the bricks. From the edge of her vision, she watched one man pause and finger his pistol as he examined Grey’s back. A shout near the river, and he turned and jogged away.
The soldiers gestured and cursed at the man struggling in the current’s center. Shots rang out. Splashes erupted around him. He jerked and was still.
“He’s dead,” Claire breathed. The suddenness of it stunned her.
Grey slipped his arm around her waist. “Come on.” He hurried them back the direction they had come.
She sank into his side, sick from what she’d seen, grateful for the strength that kept her upright. Out of sight of the bridge, he sat her on a bench facing the river.
He slid next to her and leaned close. “You alright?”
Claire glanced down and realized she was clenching his hand. She let go and gave him a small smile. “I’m fine.”
He stared at the water. “Tell me about the Comte de Vogüé. Describe him.”
“I don’t know much. I honestly don’t. Late thirties, dark hair, impeccably dressed.” She paused. She wasn’t going to say charming. Not now. “Who is he, Grey?”
“I don’t know. Not yet. But he is important, you were right about that.”
“And dangerous?”
“Likely.”
“You didn’t ask me about Sylvie. Or the Nazi she was with.” Claire’s mind was working, desperate to move past the shots, past Grey’s eyes. “You are using her.”
“She doesn’t know what Laurent does, what we do, against the Occupation. Her Nazi Kapitän requisitions SS equipment and supplies. She boasts more than she should to Laurent.”
“Pillow talk?” Claire said.
The barest of a grim smile. “She has no idea what a patriot she really is.”
Claire shivered. There was no flâner in Paris, not these days. She looked back at the Seine. It churned slowly along as it had for centuries. “I need to get back to the shop.”
Bison was wrong—nothing returned to normal. Although winter gave way to spring, which stretched into summer, there were no parties dripping with flowers, no large deliveries to be made. Just a little trip to Hôtel George V or Hôtel Emeraude or another nearby place to drop off a bouquet in the lobby, maybe flirt a bit. The goal was to keep going, to keep La Vie en Fleurs alive.
For Claire, even under the Occupation, Paris was like a university that summer. There were bouquets of zinnias, nasturtiums, marigolds, poppies, sweet peas and roses to