The Last Time I Saw Paris - Lynn Sheene [53]
Claire watched the bubbles rise in the golden liquid. The scent, like sunlight and berries, tickled her nose and made her mouth water. “We are honored you thought of La Vie en Fleurs for your business.”
He sat across from her, his gaze on the window. He squinted through the smoke as he exhaled.
Claire studied him as she drank. He wore the trappings of money and power well, like a fine suit. But, there was something roguish there. As if underneath that polished surface, she would find an altogether different beast. It made her want to scratch.
A waiter knocked and pushed in a wheeled cart loaded with covered silver trays. Claire held her breath as the meal was unveiled. Thinly sliced roasted lamb, potatoes swimming in a caramel brown sauce and a steaming baguette.
He leaned back, lit another cigarette and watched her eat, his food untouched. “Have you been in Paris for the entire, eh, reorganization?”
Claire nodded. “Why?”
He shrugged. “You attacked the lamb as if you hadn’t seen any lately. Forgive me. I am only making small talk.”
“And you. Have you been in Paris?”
He snubbed out his cigarette and met her eyes. “Occasionally. I travel frequently, on business. I also have a family home near Saint-Malo. It is a good place to pass the time, with family. And you?”
“No family. Came to France for love, why else? But then there was war and, well, things changed. Paris is my home now.” She glanced out the window as if the memory pained her.
The Comte examined her in the reflection. “There is always war, whether between countries or cities or men.” He held his glass in front of him as a toast. “We’re all soldiers in some manner. Only the foolish pretend otherwise.” With a dark smile he drank.
The conversation dribbled on, about the weather and the tides of war. The meal ended and the Comte guided Claire to the sofa to talk business as a white-coated attendant cleared the table, leaving a fresh bottle of champagne chilling in a silver bucket. For later, Claire knew it implied. The Comte offered her a sifter of brandy and slid close.
The heat of the drink warmed her throat and stomach. She leaned back against the sofa, turning her body to display her curves. She smoothed the dress over her thighs, showing more skin than hiding. His gaze followed her movements. Smiling, she stared deep into his dark eyes. He reached out a hand and cradled her cheek.
He may well be dangerous, but he was a man. Her fingers caressed the pale blue silk upholstery. His sheets would also be silk, breakfast would be fruit and champagne. Maybe she saw nothing to report. So what?
One hand on her cheek, the other traced her shoulder, down her bare arm to rest on her leg. His palm was warm on her thigh; his smooth fingers softly caressed bare skin. His dark eyes glittered. For the first time tonight, he looked hungry.
Claire leaned back, gently removing his hand as she smoothed the fabric back down against her leg. She knew better than to lay all her cards on the table. Not this fast. “Ah, mon Comte.” She ran her hand down his chest, firmly and slowly, pushing him back a few inches. “Please, tell me about this event.”
He sat back and examined her quizzically, his mind calculating a shift in the game. “A celebration for a friend in November. Here, in the hotel.”
“Magnifique. Is she a good friend?”
He raised an eyebrow, considered her real meaning. He nodded. “She is married now to the Minister of Finance. We have known each other for some time.”
The wife of the Minister of Finance. That was going to be a very expensive party. Claire took a sip of brandy to hide her excitement. “Have you established the theme? Colors?”
He refilled her glass, the smallest smile on his lips. “I cannot answer these questions. Perhaps after some discussion . . .” He reached for her.
She stared into his eyes, letting him envelop her. Madame needed this deal. And Claire needed to make it happen for her.
She heard a light knock on the side door.
The Comte paused. “Yes?”
“I have news,” a low