Out of Control by Suzanne Brockmann

part of the Nazi party manifest. Still, I said it again, staring right into his perfect eyes, daring him to contradict me. “That’s terrible.”

    “Yes, it is.” He smiled at me again, and neatly changed the subject. “Where are you staying?”

    I told him the name of my hotel as I stood up and brushed off my skirt.

    “That’s eight miles across town. You walked all that way in those shoes?”

    “It didn’t seem that far.” At the time. Now my feet were burning. And the rest of me was freezing. I hugged myself, and he took off his jacket.

    “Please,” he said, draping it over my shoulders.

    It was warm from his body heat and it smelled faintly of cigarette smoke, frying sausages, and sauerkraut. He must’ve just come from dinner at one of the local Bierhalls . I’d passed several on my journey, but hadn’t dared enter alone. My stomach rumbled now. “Thank you.”

    “My pleasure, Fraülein.” His hazel eyes were like warm liquid. Men should not be allowed to have such beautiful eyes. “Do you have any objections to getting a ride back across town?”

    I didn’t have the kind of money I’d need for a cab ride all the way back to my hotel. “Only if I can catch a bus or street car.”

    He made a face of dismay. “Only . . . ?”

    I was determined to use the small amount of spending money I’d brought to buy a present for my parents. Even if it meant walking another eight miles in the crisp night air in shoes that weren’t made for hiking.

    I pulled the young man’s jacket together in the front, trying to get as warm as I could while I still could. “Would you happen to know how late they run?”

    “I’m afraid I don’t. But if you want, I could ask my driver. He might know.”

    “You have a—” I shut my mouth. He didn’t look like the kind of man who would have not just a car but a driver. And yet . . .

    “It makes it much easier to get around Berlin,” he said as if he could easily read my mind. “I’m not a native, I’m actually from Wien—Vienna.” He held out his hand. “Heinrich von Hopf. My American friends call me Hank.”

    “I’m Ingerose Rainer,” I told him. “My American friends call me Rose.” As for what my German friends called me . . . well, I didn’t seem to have too many German friends. The Nazis who had paid my passage from New York to recruit me as a spy under the guise of a scholarship prize were not my friends.

    “Rose,” he said, melting my knees with another of those smiles. He was still holding my hand, and I gathered my wits about me and gently tugged it free.

    “You’re one of the American students visiting the university. I read something about it in the paper. How wonderful to have a cultural exchange with our American friends. Are you enjoying your stay?”

    “Do you want to hear the polite answer or the honest one?”

    He laughed and his eyes sparkled. “Oh, definitely both.”

    I gave him Kat Mulvaney’s smile. “Oh, yes, sir. I’m having such a wonderful time.”

    “Oh, my,” he said, “You are a good liar, aren’t you? And the honest one now . . . ?”

    “Berlin is nothing like New York. I love the history—the buildings are so old, but I don’t like not knowing my way around. And the papers don’t have the baseball scores . . .”

    “Horrors,” he murmured, pursing his lips to hide a smile.

    “I’m homesick, speaking and listening to German constantly is much harder than reading it in a book, and the people I’ve met aren’t very nice.” I amended that. “Most of the people.”

    My stomach growled again, and Hank laughed. He had a truly magical laugh. “And you’re hungry and chilled,” he said. “Shall we find you something to eat and perhaps a glass of May wine to restore you?”

    I hesitated, thinking of the limited funds in my pocket. Back at the hotel, I could order room service and the charges would be covered by my hosts. My Nazi hosts. I would be putting myself further and further