As the applause swelled, Max stubbed out his cigarette in a nearby ashtray and slid onto the bench. He was on the side nearer the rich blue of the curtains, his damaged leg stretched out stiffly, while she was on the side nearer the audience. They were so close their bodies brushed.
Returning the booklet to the music desk, he flipped it open and settled down to play. Without so much as a word to her, he began to pick out the intro, taking it slow, drawing it out, infusing the notes with plenty of bluesy heat. His fingers, long and tan against the ivory keys, moved with practiced grace.
Watching his hands, Genevieve experienced a moment of déjà vu: this was how she had first seen him, as an itinerant pianist in a smoke-filled bar.
Max flicked a look at her.
“Distract him.” He spoke under the cover of the music. He was referring to Wagner, she knew: she could feel the other man’s gaze boring into her. Max’s lips barely moved as he said, “You know how. Vamp it up, angel.”
Her heart thundered. Her chest felt tight. Max hadn’t called her angel since that never-to-be-forgotten night when she’d found out who and what he really was—and for him to give her an instruction like that, the danger must be more acute even than she feared.
The lights went out, except for the chandelier over the piano. She, Max and the piano were effectively spotlighted.
It took every bit of self-control she possessed to ignore the tremor that slid down her spine and simply concentrate on the music.
Max continued to play. The seductive notes of the intro swirled around her, around the now raptly waiting audience, drawing them in, catching her up. With her innate performer’s sensibility, she knew what they saw: the golden circle of light spilling down over the polished ebony of the grand piano; her, slender and elegant in her gleaming silver gown, her head tilted so that the black silk of her hair hid part of her face as she watched Max’s hands on the keys. Him in his dinner jacket, unsmiling and intensely masculine, his head bent so that a lock of his hair fell over his forehead. The two of them, seated close together on the bench.
He hit the segue into the vocal.
Supremely conscious of everyone’s eyes on her—of Wagner’s eyes on her—Genevieve detached the microphone with a smoothly practiced movement and kicked up her legs as she turned sideways on the bench so that she was facing the audience. Her skirt fell away, baring slim legs in their sheer nylon stockings to midthigh. She crossed them, arched her back and let her head fall back so that it rested on Max’s shoulder. She could feel the solid strength of it supporting her. “Bésame...bésame mucho...”
The love song poured out in a silky purr that entwined with Max’s bluesy playing so that the two seemed like parts of the same whole. In honor of the consul general and his wife, the lyrics were in Spanish.
Straightening away from Max, she came to her feet and moved behind the bench to trail her fingers across the width of his shoulders as she sang. The smooth wool of his dinner jacket was stretched taut over heavy muscle as he bent over the keys.
She then began a slow slink toward the audience. Her voice slid from a purr into a growl as she begged her lover to kiss her like it was the last time they would ever meet. She put every ounce of provocation she could summon into her movements and let the song do the rest.
She could feel the electricity in the room, feel the heat her performance was generating, feel the eyes of the audience fastened on her every move. Wagner stood just outside the circle of light, in the shadows at the front of the gathering near the semicircle of chairs. He watched her with frowning concentration, his arms crossed over his chest, his booted feet planted apart.
Her skin prickled a warning under the weight of his gaze. There was something in his expression that was not quite right, that made her feel cold all over—what was it? Could he suspect? Was he perhaps thinking about the songbook, realizing that she had carried it into the embassy with her, and considering the possibilities inherent in that? Or could there have been a telltale look or feel to the paper that was even now working its way to the surface of his consciousness?
Her heart galloped. Her pulse kept pace.
Distract him.
Back at the piano, Max steamed up the bridge.
Stopping in front of Wagner, Genevieve swayed in time to the music, looked into his eyes, summoned a come-hither smile and sang directly to him.
“Bésame mucho...”
As her voice and body language lent the words a languorous heat, the taut muscles of his face relaxed. His lips stretched into a slow grin as he watched her. Gliding away at last, she felt reassured. He was still watching her, but in a way that she no longer had any trouble interpreting.
She finished the song as she had begun it, slinking back to the piano, sinking onto the bench, letting her head drop back onto Max’s broad shoulder as he blazed through the closing notes.
When it was done, she came to her feet, as energized as she was frightened now. Moving out in front of the audience, bowing and blowing kisses, she accepted their enthusiastic applause, gesturing at Max to include him in the acclaim.
Max looked at her, said something she couldn’t quite hear. She cupped a hand around her ear and leaned toward him in an exaggerated way as he raised his voice to be heard over the clapping that was growing louder rather than dying away.
Across the top of the piano he called to her, “One more?”
“What do you think? One more?” She repeated his question to the room, tilting the microphone toward them to amplify their reply.
The roar she received in response had her laughing and retreating to confer with Max, who was, she saw with a stomach-clutch of understanding, rearranging the songbooks on the desk as he sought a new song.
Their eyes met in a quick but speaking glance.
“‘Lili Marlene’?” He tapped the open page in front of him, which was in a different booklet from “Bésame mucho.” Sleight of hand with the sheet music—it wasn’t much protection from the murderous arm of the SS, but she was willing to embrace anything that might work.
She nodded and turned back to the audience as Max began to pick out the plaintive notes of the intro. Enormously popular after having once been banned from the airwaves by Joseph Goebbels himself for not being militaristic enough, the song was in German. Max’s choice was designed to signal unity with the occupiers and was another way of throwing Wagner off the scent, she knew, but a patriotic kernel lodged deep within her soul swelled in objection. Still, she knew the lyrics, it was a beautiful song and she didn’t want to end up dead or in a concentration camp, so she sang the tale of the woman left behind when her man went off to war in a way that, when she finished, had everyone in the room on their feet clapping wildly.
After that it was over. The lights came on. With a flick of her eyes at Max, she picked up her champagne and walked away from the piano to join the group around the consul general and his wife.
“You speak German. I am most impressed.” Stopping beside her as she graciously accepted compliments on her performance, Wagner spoke in a voice pitched for her ears alone.
“I speak lyrics.” She looked up at him with a smile that belied her fraying nerves. His expression was admiring. She had expected him to follow her, hoped he would follow her: anything to get him away from that songbook. Which didn’t mean she felt comfortable in his presence. The look in his eyes was now all too easy to read: it was carnal, almost predatory, in nature. That kind of sexual aggression made her skin crawl, but she kept her smile in place and did her best to appear warmly interested in what he had to say. Her hand tightened on her flute, but she didn’t follow through on her urge to drink from it. With danger so close at hand, she needed to keep her wits about her, and damn the date.
Immediate risk trumped past sorrow.
He said, “Spanish ones, as well. But I understand you are French.”
“I am.” S
hooting a quick glance past him, she saw that Max had left the piano. Was the songbook still there? She couldn’t see the music desk. There was no way to tell. “If we are to speak of languages, your French is very good. I compliment you.”
“I’ve made something of a study of languages. I find it—occasionally—very useful.”
In his line of work. Genevieve experienced an inner shiver as she made the connection but managed to keep her smile undimmed.
“It is good to have you with us again, Herr Obergruppenführer! How long do you stay in Paris this time?” The consul general’s genial entry into the conversation saved her from having to answer.
“My stay is open-ended.”
“Until you find who sent the villains who scuttled the barges in the Seine, eh? Don’t worry so much, my friend. The French character is very adaptable. In the end, these small pockets of resistance will amount to nothing.”
“That is only one of my reasons for being in Paris.” The sudden glint in Wagner’s eyes warned of his dislike of that line of conversation. Sophie Castellano cast a quick look of reproach at her husband, who hastily changed the subject.
“Well, well, you no doubt have much to occupy you. Have you had the pleasure of attending one of Mademoiselle Dumont’s shows? I assure you, they are not to be missed.”
“I have had that pleasure. And you are right. They are not to be missed.”
Genevieve smiled her thanks.
“Paris has much to offer in the way of amusements,” senora Castellano said, clearly bent on steering the conversation away from controversial subjects. “We feel very fortunate to have been sent here. Tell me, what sights have most impressed you?”
“I’ve seen very few.”
“What of our restaurants? I hope you’ve had a chance to sample the best of those.”
“I have, but, alas, I find I don’t enjoy dining alone.” He looked at Genevieve. “Indeed, if you could spare the time, Mademoiselle Dumont, I would count myself most honored if you would accompany me to one of my favorite dining establishments some evening soon.”
Genevieve continued to smile while her mind worked feverishly. Encouraging Wagner was the last thing she wanted to do, for a host of excellent reasons. But offending him would be a mistake, and under the circumstances embarrassing him in front of their hosts might well prove catastrophic. In five days, she and the troupe would be leaving Paris. Whatever she promised now, she could surely keep him at bay for five days.
“It would be my pleasure,” she said.
He beamed. The dimples she’d found so incongruous appeared, lending a sudden flash of boyish charm to a face that was neither boyish nor charming.
“Excellent.” He started to say something else, to set a date for their outing, she guessed, but was interrupted by the arrival of a junior officer at his elbow. The young man had his hat tucked under his arm, smelled of the outdoors and wore boots wet with the rain that poured outside, which told Genevieve he had just arrived. His body language made it clear that he had something of importance to impart: he was big with news.
“With your permission, Herr Obergruppenführer—” The officer’s voice was low with deference but urgent nonetheless.
Wagner looked at her and said “If you will excuse me” with punctilious courtesy, and stepped aside to listen to what seemed from his darkening expression to be unpleasant tidings.
Genevieve’s pulse started to race anew as she watched the exchange. No doubt her guilty knowledge about what was concealed within the songbook was affecting her reactions, but she couldn’t help but worry that whatever the young man was saying had something to do with her and Max.
A moment later Wagner returned to her side.
“Nothing too terrible, I hope?” The consul general asked before Genevieve could say anything. He cast a concerned glance at the young officer, who stood waiting at attention a few feet away.
“An administrative matter merely.” Wagner’s tone was dismissive, but his eyes were bright with what looked like anger, and a small muscle jumped in his jaw. The dimples that had been on display earlier were nowhere in evidence now. He looked at Genevieve. “Forgive me, but I must go. If I may, I will do myself the pleasure of calling on you very soon.”
“I look forward to it.”
He bowed with a click of his heels and strode away with the younger officer trotting behind him.
“Trouble,” the consul general said with a knowing look at his wife.
“Nothing to talk about while we are having a party,” she scolded, and turned her attention to Genevieve, who found herself torn between relief and trepidation. She was beyond glad Wagner had gone, but fear that the reason might have something to do with the song booklet made her cold with dread. She cast a slightly desperate glance around for Max: nowhere in sight.
“Mademoiselle Dumont, I understand that you are staying at the Hotel Ritz? How are you liking your accommodations there?”
“It’s a very beautiful hotel.” She’d stayed there before, in the summer of 1931 when her parents brought their daughters to Paris to celebrate her sister’s fifteenth birthday. The highlight of that trip had been seeing Josephine Baker, but in retrospect the entire five days had been magical. Her mother had taken the girls shopping along the rue de la Paix, the entire family had climbed the Eiffel Tower to marvel at the view and they’d gone rowing on the Seine. She and her mother had been in one small boat, her sister and father in the other, and the excursion had devolved into a race with her and her sister at the oars. Her sister, older and stronger, had won, which had only slightly marred her enjoyment. Later, looking back, she’d thought of that as the last of the good times, coming as it had just before the terrible economy had overtaken her family along with everyone else and such treats had become a thing of the past. She had found the hotel infinitely more beautiful then than now, and not only because it had not been, as it was currently, packed with Germans. “I am embarrassed to tell you that within its walls I am spoiled with every luxury.”
“And so you should be spoiled,” senora Castellano replied, patting Genevieve’s arm in a motherly way. “Your voice brings light to our lives in these dark times. Come, let me introduce you to more of my friends.”
Chapter Seven
“Ready to go?” Max asked when he caught up with her some time later, as she emerged from the powder room. How much time later Genevieve couldn’t really say. Call it two glasses of champagne later. She was feeling much better, more relaxed, almost calm. She credited that to the fact that Wagner was still gone and she hadn’t been arrested. Oh, and the champagne.
She smiled at Max, strictly for the sake of anyone watching.
His eyes narrowed at her. They were, she noted with a critical look at them, actually more hazel than brown, with a hint of green in their depths.
He looked more closely at her. “Is something wrong?”
Realizing that she’d been staring, her brows snapped together. “Where have you been?”
“Around. Come on, let’s get our coats.”
“I have to say goodbye to our hosts first.” She started walking toward the closest of the crowded reception rooms, where she had last seen the consul general and his wife. Max caught her elbow.
“Probably better not.”
They reached the foyer, and Max asked the servant on duty for their coats.
“Mademoiselle Dumont and Monsieur—Bonet?” the man asked, and when Max replied in the affirmative, he went away.
“But I haven’t said goodbye to anyone,” Genevieve protested. She made an effort to head for the reception rooms but Max retained his hold on her arm, preventing her.
“I said goodbye for both of us. Anyway, you don’t want to be here when our good friend gets back, do you?”
Genevieve stopped trying to pull away and stood still, frowning. She knew who he was talking about: Wagner. �
�Is he coming back?”
“I don’t know. He could.”
“You’re just trying to scare me.”
“I wouldn’t do that.”
The look she gave him said it all.
He smiled. Annoyingly.
She scowled at him. “I never want to be put in a position like that again. He was watching us like a fox would a pair of chickens the whole time.”
“He was watching you.”
“He asked me out.”
“Did he?” From Max’s expression, Genevieve saw that the revelation interested him. He was, she realized, turning it over in his mind, working out ways in which he could use it—use her—to his advantage. As always.
“You know what—sometimes you can be a real shit.”
“Only sometimes?” His tone mocked her. “We’re making progress.”
Before she could do more than blister him with a glance, the servant returned with their coats. The man helped Genevieve into hers, custom made to go with her dress in a gorgeous silver brocade shot through with gold threads, while Max, juggling his stick, shrugged into his plain black overcoat all by himself. The servant then opened the door and bowed them out. They found themselves on an imposing covered portico with a soldier stationed on either side.
As the door closed behind them, the resultant darkness made it impossible to see very much at all. A strong gust of wind blew in from the river, catching Genevieve unaware and making her stagger sideways.
“Careful.” Max caught her with an arm around her waist. She leaned against him gratefully for a moment, regaining her balance while letting him shelter her from the wind, afraid that the shock of the cold, damp air after the warmth of the rooms inside might blow away some of the pleasant wooziness she was feeling.
The Black Swan of Paris Page 7
