The Last Time I Saw Paris - Lynn Sheene [52]
Laurent called after her. “Claire, not too good of an impression, eh?”
The soldiers on each side of the Ritz’s back entrance off 38, rue Cambon said nothing as she passed beneath the small awning and through the double doors. She stood straight, head up, feeling strangely vulnerable without arms full of flowers. It was the back entrance, only Nazis rated the Ritz’s front entrance on Place Vendôme, but still, it was the Ritz. Inside the long hallway, she passed a pair of doors on the left and right, and heard the murmur of voices, the smell of tobacco. Glancing inside the dimly lit bars, she saw a mix of men in uniforms and in fine suits, women in evening dresses. How hard would it be, she wondered, to get an invitation to the bar?
Moments after she introduced herself at the rue Cambon concierge desk, a suited man led her to the elevator. A hook nose on a thin face, he wore a lapel pin with the crest and crown logo of the Ritz. He introduced himself as Monsieur LeFevre with an expression that implied he’d seen better. He eyed her as the elevator ascended.
Claire kept her gaze on the gold elevator buttons, her posture straight. Apparently she wasn’t the first woman the Comte had to dinner in his room. The doors opened on the fourth floor and, heart pounding, Claire walked through a group of Nazi officers dressed up for a night out. Claire ignored their stares and followed the man down a long corridor. He stopped in front of a room, perfunctorily knocked twice and pulled a key from his pocket.
“Voilà.” He opened the door with a flourish.
Claire followed him inside. The wood-paneled room was richly detailed, pale blue velvet upholstered sofa and matching armchairs. The walls and rugs were a tasteful grey blue. A small table and two chairs faced a tall window. Nothing personal, nothing of interest.
He pointed toward the sofa. “Comte de Vogüé has been detained on business. He will join you shortly.” He nodded a curt good-bye and exited.
Claire walked over to the window. The sun was setting and the sky violet. Over shadowed rooftops, the gilded figures atop the Opéra glowed faint pink. Scattered pairs of headlights delineated rue Cambon, black outlines of thrashing tree limbs bent against the tugging winds.
Claire watched a couple cross the narrow street below. She frowned. So Grey had a family back home. Why the hell did she care? He never promised anything.
The couple on the street kissed beneath a blued-out lamppost and separated ways. Claire smoothed her dress over her curves and ran a hand through her hair. So Grey was gone. She was at the Ritz about to rendezvous with a handsome French aristocrat. This was why she’d come to Paris in the first place. It was hard enough to stay alive these days. How gauche to fall victim to a schoolgirl crush and risk getting shot over it.
Low voices sounded in the hall. The door clicked shut behind her. The Comte’s figure reflected in the window pane.
“My apologies, Madame Badeau, for keeping you waiting.”
Claire glanced over at the champagne chilling in a silver ice bucket beside the table. She arranged a devilish smile and twisted to face him, her hips cocked, chest out and one leg forward. “I am sure, Comte”—she extended her hand—“you have many important things to attend to.”
He cradled her ringers in his and brushed his lips over the back of her hand. He straightened, grip held, and admired her with a slight smile on his face.
She held his stare and examined him as he did her. He was dark. Lean, posture like a dancer, cigarette burning in his free hand. Polished hair, tanned skin and his eyes almost black in the shadows of his face. She saw lines around his eyes that weren’t there at the party eight months ago.
“Please.” He gestured toward the table, pulled out a chair for Claire to sit. He popped the champagne cork off the bottle and poured. “I hope you don’t mind we are dining