The Last Time I Saw Paris - Lynn Sheene [54]
The Comte studied Claire for a moment. Finally he leaned back and stood. “Forgive me. Business.” He walked to the adjoining door and disappeared inside.
As the door clicked shut behind him, Claire slumped back into the couch. She stared up at the ceiling and tried to estimate the party costs over the fuzz of alcohol.
Low voices came through the door.
Claire walked to the mirror over the limestone fireplace mantel. She examined her reflection and frowned. She had looked better before leaving the house. Now, her eyes looked strained, her mouth tight.
Laurent’s words drifted up in her mind, riding on the smoke of the fire building in her stomach. Sure, the Resistance gave her papers, but they risked her life in return. Madame Palain gave her a new life. A place in the world where she could create a beauty that didn’t offer up regrets.
Claire glared at her reflection. Tonight was important. She owed it to La Vie en Fleurs. She smoothed the lock of hair over her brow. Like it or not, this was what she brought to the table.
In the mirror, she noticed the door into the next room swing open a crack. A corner of the bed, a dark wood desk against a damask fabric wall. She watched as the Comte picked up a phone from his desk, his back to her. He asked to be connected to Room 527.
I owe Madame, not them, Claire told the voice in her head that urged her to listen. She looked back at her reflection and pinched her cheeks to force color into her face.
The Comte dropped the phone into the cradle with a curse. A low voice—the visitor was still there, out of Claire’s sight. The Comte jabbed at the air with a slip of paper held in his hand. “We must report this tonight. It cannot wait.”
Claire glanced back at the couch, willed herself there, a drink in her hand. Instead, her gaze was locked into the mirror’s reflection. In the next room, the Comte impatiently crumpled the paper in his fist and dropped it into the trash can. Claire pulled her eyes away from him and turned toward the brandy on a silver tray near the sofa. She was refilling her glass when the Comte came through the door, pulling it firmly shut behind him. She caught his eyes and smiled.
His lips returned the smile, but his eyes were hard. He walked over to her, rested his palms lightly on her shoulders and brushed his lips against the curve of her neck. “I regret to say I must attend to—”
“Business?”
“Oui.” He glanced around the room. His gaze paused on the champagne in the bucket, then her. “Pressing business. It will take an hour, no more than two.”
It was an offer, Claire knew. Discreetly French. Would she like to be here when he returned?
She leaned in and kissed the Comte lightly, slowly on both cheeks. “I hope we can continue our discussion in the future.”
He studied her. “Next week?”
Claire smiled. “Next week, then.”
“You will want to freshen up,” he said, tilting his head toward the bottle. “I will send LeFevre up to procure a ride for you.”
He strode out into the hallway. She heard the visitor’s voice in the hallway, the Comte’s reply, then the voices faded away.
Claire drained her glass and slowly exhaled the warmth. The brandy was good, no doubt, but champagne was what she missed most of all. She glanced over at the bottle chilling in ice. It would fit in her coat pocket.
Her gaze was pulled toward the closed side door. Just beyond it, a crumpled piece of paper nestled in a trash can. Damn the Resistance, she thought through a flash of anger. She owed Madame. She wanted to owe them nothing.
But.
She had to know.
In three strides, she was at the door bent over the lock. It was old, the handle worn and the mechanism bent over the decades. Claire put her shoulder against the door and pushed hard. A grinding click and she was in the office, the crumpled note clenched in her hand. She smoothed it open on the desk with her palm.
In rough French script, hastily written and ink-smeared, Resistance groups converge for meeting in Paris 17-08. Leader coming from south. Carries names and plans.
Claire sucked in a breath and sank into the seat.