The Last Time I Saw Paris by Lynn Sheene Page A

tomorrow.” She looked over at Sylvie. “You know how tiring that is.”
    The cousin scrambled to his feet next to her. “I will take you home.”
    The scotch was burning its way up her throat. “Burcet—”
    “Bertrand,” he said, lips pushing forward in an angry pout.
    “I’m sorry, I don’t even know your name, but you are. So. Boring. And—” She shuddered and slipped away from his hands. “Don’t.” She waved him off. “Just don’t.”
    “Claire.” Laurent reached for her elbow.
    She jerked her arm back, stepping away. “Laurent. Thanks for an . . . evening.” Lurching from the salon into the hallway, thank God, the closet was open and her coat in sight. She skittered down the stairs as fast as she could go. A few wobbly strides across the hall and outside. Doubling over, she vomited into the cone-shaped topiary boxwoods.
    “Let me take you home. You aren’t well.” Grey shrugged on his coat behind her.
    “Damn.” She hadn’t wanted to lose dinner. Claire straightened up. It took a moment for her eyes to catch up to her head, but her stomach seemed to be staying put.
    Grey handed her a kerchief. “It’s past curfew. I’ll take you.”
    Claire wiped her face with the cloth. She was relieved to find she hadn’t thrown up on her dress or coat.
    Laurent rushed onto the step, hugging his arms to his body against the chill. “Claire, you mustn’t misunderstand this thing with Sylvie. We married when we were very young, in school. This is Paris. She doesn’t even live—”
    “Laurent,” Grey said, a low warning tone.
    Laurent frowned, then turned to Grey. “I deserve the chance to explain myself.”
    “Not now. You are needed inside.”
    Laurent sighed, facing Claire. “ Au revoir , Claire. I was truly glad to see you again.” He turned on his heel and hurried back in the door.
    Grey watched him close the door and turned back to Claire. “I don’t like anything that happened tonight. But”—he shook his head and tugged his coat collar up around his ears—“I’m getting you home.”
    “Really?” Claire said with as much venom as she could muster, pulling her coat tight around her. “I am not interested in your opinion of my actions. Nor do I need or desire an escort.” She marched away, head high, saying a prayer she wouldn’t stumble. She called over her shoulder. “Thanks for the kerchief. I will wash and return it.”
    She felt his eyes bore into her back. She glanced behind her. He hadn’t moved from the sidewalk; his hands were stuffed in his pockets, his stare drilling through her. A warm shiver rose up her torso.
    As she turned the corner, she heard him swear, bloody Yankee princess . A sharp ache dug into her chest. She was so damn tired of pretending to be someone she was not, of scratching her way up. It never worked. Not for long. The little barefooted farm girl was still there, inside her. Bloody Yankee princess. He had no idea. She breathed deep into the cold air, letting it burn away at the fuzz in her head and lungs.

Chapter 4
    THE OFFER

52, rue du Colisée, Paris. November 28, 1940.
    T he click of a heavy bolt into the flower shop’s ancient front door marked lunch break. Claire pressed away from the bench in the back room and stretched. She had hand-painted curved tree branches silver and gold all morning. They hung like long jeweled fingers from a wire stretched across the small room. Lunch wasn’t in mind. Her stomach still churned from last night’s scotch; she couldn’t even look at the brined egg Georges had passed her.
    It was easy to stay busy. The Paris Ritz called this morning. The hotel had lost their florist to the fighting, and their greenhouses had been requisitioned for growing food for the hotel. But apparently Marshal Goering, Field Marshal of the Luftwaffe and said to be running the Blitz against England from the hotel’s Imperial Suite, demanded something lavish be done for the New Year. The staff at the Ritz turned in desperation to