Nights Of Fire

by Laura Leone

He backed away, his eyes watering. "Okay, you're obviously a lot madder at me for leaving on our wedding day than I realized."

  "No, no," she assured him, trying to touch him again.

  "Stay back!"

  She folded her hands, looked at his nose, and noted, "It's not bleeding."

  "I know. Just stay over there, anyhow, okay?"

  She stood in the middle of the room while he sat on the bed and started pulling off his shoes.

  "I'm just nervous," she said, watching him.

  "There's no reason to be nervous," he assured her, taking off his shirt. "We've done this lots of times, Gabrielle."

  "I mean," she said through gritted teeth, "I'm still nervous from when you scared me to death a few minutes ago."

  He grinned. "I know. And I'm going to do something about that." He rose to his feet, took off his trousers and underwear, and stood before her as naked and handsome as any woman could want her bridegroom to be. "Come here."

  She eyed him doubtfully. "I've wanted this every hour since you went away—"

  "Me, too."

  "But, well..." She made an awkward gesture. "I'm not exactly in the mood at the moment."

  "I'll fix that," he promised her silkily. "Come on."

  She walked over to him on stiff legs. When he rubbed his knuckles across her cheek, she murmured, "I've missed you."

  "I've thought of you so much," he replied softly.

  "I lov—Yagh!" She whirled when she heard a sound. "What was that?"

  He sighed. "Nothing."

  Her nerves quivering, she stood with her back to him and listened intently to the small, silent house for a few moments. Then she sagged a little and admitted, "I'm a little overwrought."

  "No kidding?"

  Annoyed, she spun around to remind him it was his fault she was so tense—and inadvertently threw him off balance as he was trying to embrace her. He staggered back and started to fall as he encountered the bed. Somehow, this brought his eye into contact with her elbow.

  "Ow!"

  "Paul!"

  "Damn it!"

  "Mon amour..."

  "Don't!" he admonished, shying away as she tried to help him.

  "But Paul—"

  "Just stand back!" he insisted. "Don't move. Just stay there. Stay."

  She bit her lip. "Does it hurt a lot?"

  "Oh, only in the sense that you've just tried to gouge out my eye with your elbow."

  "I didn't!" Honesty compelled her to amend, "I mean, I didn't try."

  He lay back on the bed, a hand pressed over his injured eye. "I wonder," he said wearily, "if men who marry virgins have wedding nights like this? If so, it must be... very discouraging."

  "Maybe I should put something on it for you?"

  "Don't come near me or my eye."

  "I'm really sorry."

  "That's all right. I still have one good one left."

  "Can I get you something?"

  "No."

  "Cognac, maybe?"

  "No." He paused, then said, "You have cognac?"

  "I got it on the black market a few weeks ago. It was supposed to be a surprise. You know... for our wedding night."

  "This is our wedding night," he reminded her dryly. "And right now, I'm incredibly glad we didn't save ourselves for it all these months."

  "Me, too," she admitted.

  "Maybe I'll have some cognac, after all."

  "Me, too," she decided.

  She went into the kitchen, then returned with the bottle and some glasses. She poured him a generous shot and noted that he kept a respectful distance from her as he reached to accept the glass from her. He downed the cognac in two quick swallows, then sighed, closed his eyes, and sank back down onto the mattress.

  She looked at him, so happy to have him back despite her jangling nerves and frayed temper. He was in his early thirties, brown-haired, big-boned, well-built. He passed for French, even among Frenchmen, but she'd always thought he looked a little Italian, especially with those long eyelashes and dark brown eyes of his. They'd met when the OSS sent him here undercover last year, and it hadn't taken her long to fall hopelessly, irrevocably in love with him.

  "Don't spill on the bed," she said, noticing that the glass was starting to roll out of his slackening hand.

  "Hmmm?" His eyes were closed. He looked tired. He needed a shave.

  "I love you," she said suddenly.

  "I hate to imagine what my homecoming would have been like if you didn't," he grumbled.

  "Give me your glass. It's spilling." He'd left a few scant drops of cognac in the bottom and she didn't want it on her sheets.

  He opened his eyes and did as she asked. He saw that her glass was still full and said, "Drink yours."

  She looked down at it and wrinkled her nose. "I don't really want it now."

  "Please," he urged, "for my sake. Drink it."

  She made a face but did as he asked. Maybe it was a good idea. The fiery assault on her throat briefly distracted her, and the hot glow in her belly seemed like it might start soothing her strained nerves.

  She closed her eyes and took a few steadying breaths, letting the heat wash through her blood. She heard the bed creak faintly with Paul's shifting weight, and then she felt him remove the glass from her hand. After he put the glass on the nightstand, he took her hand in his and tugged gently, urging her to join him on the bed.

  She opened her eyes. "I thought you wanted me to stay away," she said austerely.

  "Well, now that I've got you drunk," he confided, "I think I can manage to fend off your next surprise attack."

  "No one gets drunk that fast."

  He slid his arm around her and tried to coax her down into the pillows. She moved awkwardly. "Oof!" he protested when she poked him in the stomach. "You are all elbows and knees tonight."

  She went tense under his kiss and turned her head. "Did you hear something?"

  "No. I didn't. And neither did you."

  "I—"

  "Gabby, are we ever going to make love again?"

  "Um, eventually," she promised distractedly, still looking over her shoulder and out into the dark main room of the cottage.

  He groaned and let his head plop down onto her chest. "This isn't how I pictured married life."

  Deciding that there really wasn't anyone spying on them, trying to break into the cottage, or about to arrest them, Gabrielle returned her full attention to her husband. "And sleeping alone every night since I said my wedding vows isn't how I pictured married life."

  "Ah." He kissed her breast through her nightgown. "You feel neglected." He pressed a kiss into her midriff, then started pulling up her nightgown. "Forgotten." His warm hand paused to caress her stomach, then kept pulling the gown up, baring her breasts to his gaze. "Forsaken." He kissed each nipple, making them tingle. Making her shift restlessly. "Disappointed."

  "I, uh..." She sighed when she felt his mouth, warm and damp, on her belly. "I think I'm recovering."

  His kisses were butterfly light across her stomach. "Am I helping?"

  "A little," she whispered and felt him smile against her skin.

  He sat up and studied her head to toe, his eyes dark and sparkling, his face warmed by that expression that always made her go hot and shaky and blank-minded.

  "I got you a present while I was away," he said, starting to stroke her legs.

  She touched his cheek, feeling the slight rasp of stubble against her palm. "You need a shave."

  "Now?"

  "Later."

  "But it was confiscated. Your present, I mean."

  "Confiscated?"

  He nodded. "Some smirking soldier at a checkpoint outside of Rouen took it. The bastard probably gave it to his sweetheart."

  "What was it?"

  "Silk stockings."

  Black market, of course. No one could get silk stockings anymore. No one could get anything these days.

  "Oh, Paul..." She smiled, appreciating the effort he'd made.

  He cupped the
curve of her calf with his palm. "I wanted to watch you putting them on." Stroked the back of her knee. "See you roll them up..." Massaged her thigh... "Over your legs..." He lowered his head and nuzzled the curve of her hip. "Ravish you while you were wearing them..."

  She giggled. "Well, without the stockings, I guess your plans are ruined."

  "Not all my plans," he assured her, pushing the nightgown away so he could rub his face against her breasts. He tried to suckle her and got a mouthful of cotton, instead. He plucked at the fabric and said, "Take it off."

  She started to do so, but then gasped when she felt his hand between her legs. She forgot everything but the sharp pleasure of his attentions... until he repeated, "Take it off."

  She grunted and tried again. His mouth was hot on her abdomen, his hands strong as they gripped her thighs while he shifted his weight. Gabrielle moaned as she struggled to pull the nightgown over her head. She was just about to give up when she felt him helping her, tugging impatiently at the gown before pulling it away and tossing it across the room.

  "I hated being away so long," he whispered.

  "I know," she sighed.

  "And I'm sorry I scared you."

  "It doesn't matter now."

  "But since I made you so tense..." He nuzzled the crisp curls at the juncture of her thighs, and Gabrielle felt a rush of volcanic heat there.

  "Hmmm?"

  "It seems the least I can do," he murmured, "is help you relax a little... before I claim my conjugal rights..."

  She groaned when she felt his tongue start to explore her. Her breath came in shallow pants as she melted bonelessly into the mattress and gave herself up to him.

  "Oh, I know I'm awake now," she breathed.

  He kissed her damp cleft. "Hmmm?"

  "It's never this good in my dreams."

  He "relaxed" her until she was incoherent and limp with pleasure, and only then did he consummate the marriage.

  "Too late for an annulment," he whispered as he entered her welcoming body.

  In the end, she decided, it was a wedding night well worth the two-week wait.

  Before Midnight

  Normandy, France

  November 1943

  He had never really been afraid until her.

  The war had taught Paul Finley many things about terror. He had known the sick dread of imminent discovery, as well as the mind-numbing shock of nearly dying. However, he now understood that he had never experienced real fear before falling in love with Gabrielle Beaugard.

  Now as he watched her brushing his black wool jacket—as if it really mattered that he look tidy when he left her tonight—Paul felt fear flood his veins with a deadly chill and squeeze his heart with iron claws.

  "I heard there was another Gestapo round-up today," he said, hating to tell her but knowing he must.

  He spoke French, as he always did, even when they were alone together like this. Even here, at home in their simple cottage on the outskirts of Caen, they maintained the illusion that he was a French wine merchant whose modest business had been devastated by the war.

  In fact, Paul was an American wine merchant whose intimate knowledge of France had led to his recruitment by the Office of Strategic Services several years ago. And the moment the Germans occupying Caen guessed that, he was a dead man.

  "Gestapo round-up," Gabrielle repeated. "I know." She paused briefly in her task. He saw the little brush in her hand quiver and realized she was trembling. "Madeleine Didier told me," she said, naming one of her associates in the French Resistance. "She was crying. I was so selfish..." Her shoulders sagged, then she shook her head and raised her gaze to his. Those wide sky-blue eyes set in that lovely fine-boned face had entranced him from the start. "I thought they had taken you," she admitted. "It was all I could think about. But..."

  He drew in a sharp breath, realizing. "They got Didier."

  She nodded. "It was her husband she was crying for, of course, not mine."

  She looked at him again, her long-lashed eyes sparkling with a sudden rush of emotion. "And for a moment, I was happy." She lowered her head, ashamed, and returned to her task.

  He listened to the faint, soothing sound of the stiff brush bristles moving in rhythmic friction against the nubby wool of his jacket. He watched the subtle flexing of the delicate muscles in Gabrielle's pale, tapered forearms. Her elegant hands were skilled at so many things, from the domestic tasks which she performed while her mind wandered elsewhere, to the focused passion of her artwork, to the deft and bold caresses she lavished upon him in the blissful cocoon of their marriage bed.

  "So Didier's been taken," Paul mused. This was bad. As a local Resistance leader, Didier knew who Paul was—and knew, therefore, that Gabrielle was married to an American intelligence officer.

  Gabrielle rounded the simple wooden table upon which his jacket lay and frowned as she brushed hard at a spot on the left sleeve. When she leaned forward, the neckline of her blouse fell away to reveal the lush curve of her breasts and the shadowed hollow between them.

  "I want you to go south," Paul said suddenly. "To those relatives of yours in the Pyrenees." Someplace where no one knew about her Underground activities or her marriage to him.

  She paused in her work, startled, then suddenly began brushing the jacket with furious vigor, making her breasts quiver distractingly.

  "Will you come with me?" she asked without looking up. She already knew the answer.

  "I can't." When she didn't respond, he added, "You know I can't."

  "Then you know I won't go."

  "Gabrielle..." He sighed, already knowing how pointless the argument would be. He was reluctant to spend the evening fighting when he knew he had to leave her again tonight. These separations, rife with secrecy and uncertainty, were hard enough on the two of them even without parting in anger and frustration.

  Still, he was so afraid for her that it nearly crippled him. No, indeed, he had never really known fear before knowing Gabrielle.

  Now, as she refused to flee to a safe haven, Paul's fear and frustration mingled with pride and respect. It was a familiar, if exhausting, mix of emotions, a volatile combination which had plagued him for more than a year—ever since first meeting the golden-haired young sculptress whom Didier had presented to him as a reliable Underground agent.

  "The Boches," Didier had said, referring to the Germans, "will never suspect Gabrielle. Even if they do—with her looks, she can easily distract them." Didier had nudged Paul and grinned. "Even Germans might feel a stir of romance when looking at this woman, eh?"

  Paul had certainly felt it, and he had quickly fallen head over heels in love. It was crazy, of course. He was an OSS spy in occupied France; it was a profession which granted him the life expectancy of a mayfly. As a member of the Resistance, Gabrielle's chances of survival weren't much better—which was why, almost from the moment they met, he started trying to convince her to go south, to the Pyrenees, to hide with some distant relatives until the war was over.

  He had never managed to talk her into abandoning her duty here and fleeing south. She, on the other hand, had managed to talk him into marrying her six months ago; probably because, despite his scruples about the danger this marriage might expose her to, he had never wanted anything as much as he'd wanted to make her his wife. Since then, despite their perilous commitments in a world tearing itself apart all around them, he had been almost sinfully happy.

  Except for the fear.

  He could never bear the agony of losing her. He could never survive the grief and guilt if she died.

  "Marrying you was the worst thing I could have done," he said now, his mind awash with the worries inspired by Didier's capture. "I should never have agreed to it."

  She surprised him by smiling. A woman's smile, full of certainty and secret knowledge. "Too late now."

  He folded his arms across his chest and rocked back in his wooden chair, balancing on just the rear legs as he gazed at her. She wore a faded red skirt and a simpl
e white blouse. No stockings. Old shoes.

  The most spectacularly dressed woman in the world wouldn't have looked half as alluring to him. "Come here," he murmured.

  He saw the corner of her mouth twitch in response, but she raised her brows and said austerely, "I'm busy."

  "I can keep you busy," he promised, his eyes narrowing as he watched her edge away from him and suddenly devote as much attention to his coat as if he were leaving to meet Eisenhower himself tonight.

  "This needs tending," she replied, turning away; but then she bent over and deliberately shifted her weight so that the faded fabric of her skirt molded lovingly over the ripe curve of her buttocks.

  "I need tending," he said, feeling the heat of desire start to flow through him, heady and powerful enough to push away his fears—if only for a few moments.

  "I tend you quite a lot already," Gabrielle pointed out.

  He grinned. "Then come let me tend you." When she gave him a playfully skeptical look, he explained, "I need to get lots of practice if I'm going to stay ahead of the competition."

  She finished her task and now stood back to study his threadbare but spotless jacket with a satisfied expression. "Competition?"

  "Even I know what women say about Frenchmen."

  Her eyes sparkled with amusement. "Oh, really? What?"

  Paul rocked forward and let the front legs of his chair hit the floor with a thud. "That they're very good at... tending."

  She circled the table, coming a little closer to him but still staying strategically out of reach. "I wouldn't know about that," she said virtuously. "I'm a respectable married woman. Whatever I knew about the way Frenchmen, er, tend, I seem to have forgotten it."

  "I wouldn't want you to feel tempted to refresh your memory." He watched as she went to put the brush away and then to hang his jacket by the door, passing close enough that he could scent her warm skin, but bustling around with the air of a woman thinking of everything but touching her husband.

  Paul followed her everywhere with his gaze, feeling the way the air changed around him, the way desire seeped through his body to spread fire, the way Gabrielle now watched him, too, without even seeming to look at him.

  "I wouldn't," he added, his voice getting husky, "want you to feel that you'd chosen unwisely when you married."