Her head lobbed sideways and landed on his shoulder. He stiffened. Torn between moving away and staying put, he opted for the latter, though the intimate contact and her warmth caused his heart to race and his head to imagine all kinds of delightful scenarios they could perform. She shivered in her sleep and he wrapped his arm around her only to be further tormented when she snuggled against him.
Intent on curbing the stirring of attraction building inside him, he listened to the cracking of the branches swaying in the crisp breeze and focused his attention to the sky. The cold chafed his cheeks. His immobile position caused his hip to ache and his leg to feel numb. Several times, despite his resolve, he caught himself studying her features, the small-sloped nose, her long, full eyelashes and softly parted, tempting lips. Several times, he was tempted to lean down and kiss her. Slowly he found himself relaxing to the gentle rhythm of her breathing and allowed himself the pleasurable feel of a woman’s body pressed so intimately against his. When was the last time he had held someone this close, felt this sense of connection?
The rumble of a plane’s twin engine broke the stillness.
Yvette’s eyes popped open, then turned wide. Flustered, she straightened.
André jumped up, held out his hand and she stood.
Bayard was already making his way up the hill.
They scrambled upward, flares in hand. One by one, the bright red light illumined the landscape, and the sight André saw chilled him to the bones. What the hell? In the landing field, wooden spikes shot up from the ground. Hitting the anti-aircraft defense known as “Rommel asparagus” would be a disaster. The plane circled low, making ready to land, the pilot unaware of the danger.
Someone he trusted had given away their location. Damn it. That pilot had no time to pull up.
André glanced at Yvette whose gaze, brightly lit by the glowing light, was glued below. Horror registered on her face. He had to do something and quick. The plane was going to crash and burn. He couldn’t let her see the savage destruction. The lasting scars could change a person forever.
André fumbled for the radio hanging off his belt and quickly tried to unhook it while holding the burning flare in his other hand. His cold fingers felt stiff and uncooperative. The radio slid off his belt before he could grab it and tumbled down the hill. He waved his flare searching the area, but couldn’t see where it had landed. He could hear the wheels of the plane making ready to land.
Bayard was waving two flares in the air, trying to catch the attention of the pilot.
Yvette, her flare in one hand, slid down the hill on her backside like a child on a sled.
He started after her. His stiff leg buckled and he cursed under his breath as he continued down the hill, struggling against the sharp radiating pain brought on by the cold and immobility.
They met in the middle and she handed him the radio. Quickly he fidgeted with the dials until he got sound. “Abort. Abort,” he commanded, then instructed them to go to a clearing farther downstream. The spot wasn’t as secure and if the pilot was inexperienced he’d have trouble landing on the tight strip.
Bayard was already making his way to the new area.
André grabbed Yvette’s hand. “Come on.”
Following the river, they ran stride by stride through the thick forest with only moonlight shining their path.
André could hear the plane circling giving them time to show them the approach.
As they hastened toward the new area, he could see Bayard jamming flares into the ground. André ran to the opposite side and did the same. Yvette ran to his right. Together they formed a brightly lit landing strip and within seconds, the plane slid to a safe stop.
The door opened and four men came out.
The pilot slipped his goggles up to rest on his brown leather helmet and extended his gloved hand. “That was a hell of a landing, old chap.” His other hand clamped down over André’s in a two-fisted handshake. “Woke me up some.”
“Just keeping you on your toes.” With a vigorous shake, André welcomed him.
“Well, I’m no dancer…” The pilot noticed Yvette standing in the shadows. “But I might just take a spin or two with that lovely lady.”
“Eva.” André gestured her over. “We couldn’t have done any of this without this beautiful lady.”
“Thank you, my dear.” The Englishman bent and kissed her hand. “Beautiful and brave.” He winked. “Tally ho then, we’d better unload. Wouldn’t want the Jerrys to confiscate the merchandise, now would we?”
Everyone got to work loading the truck and covering the ammunition and the two agents with turnips and straw. After the plane took off André turned to Yvette.
“We did it. We did it!” She wrapped her arms around him her excitement contagious. He felt her stiffen as she realized the close proximity of their bodies. She drew back and turned.
Her jumpsuit was filthy, covered with grass stains and mud, especially on her derrière. He picked fragments of grass and pine needles from her disheveled tresses.
Slowly she turned to face him. Her gaze lingered on his chest, then swept to his face. Her mouth parted slightly, a tempting invitation. Against better logic, he gently stroked his finger over her bottom lip and her pupils dilated with what he hoped was, pleasure, not fear.
“We did it.” Her breathy low voice and sexy whisper heightened his senses.
“We certainly did” The desire to taste that moist mouth angled his body closer.
Though the Brit’s plane had taken off, it felt as though he was being pulled by the suction of the plane’s engines and he couldn’t stop himself from leaning in closer and closer till his lips were inches from hers and he could feel her warm breath waft his face. She closed her eyes, anticipating his kiss. His heart spun as fast as the propellers on the British aircraft that could no longer be heard above them. He leaned in… closed his eyes…
“Hey, you two. You coming?”
Bayard’s question shattered the moment, breaking them apart.
André hoisted Yvette up on top of the truck and sat beside her on top of their deadly cargo.
Very aware of the danger they faced, he pulled out his pistol and they traveled in silence. His gaze vigilant, appearing to those around them like a farmer guarding his crop, all André could think about was a kiss that never happened.
Shortly before daybreak, their goods delivered, André made a decision. When the moment was right, no one was going to come between her lips and his.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
HER THOUGHTS ON LAST NIGHT, Yvette locked the hotel door behind her and entered the lobby. André almost kissed her. Dear Lord. What had she been thinking? Running on adrenaline, excited about their successful mission, she reacted without thought of the consequences. He would think her a loose woman… he would expect… Dear Lord, she felt what he expected!
If her father thought a few dreamy thoughts in church were unladylike his bushy brows would shoot up with disgust.
What was wrong with her? Throwing herself at André like some harlot was certainly out of character, but every time they were together they were drawn to each other. She had to admit the thought that she could be so aggressive was a bit liberating. No. She didn’t want to think about those dreamy eyes, his handsome face, or the unaccustomed feelings upturning her control.
Yvette pushed open the wide glass door and stepped outside. There would be no more hugs even if they had been innocent. She had to keep her guard up and not be distracted, despite the fact that, when she was around him, all coherent thoughts waned. André’s calming manner, his soft, soothing tone, always managed to seep into her mind erasing Grandpère’s warning. And she dare not forget René…
Yvette tightened the hold on her purse as a tall, lanky man stepped a little too close by her side.
André was right. This was no game. Lives depended on them. She couldn’t trust her life to anyone, even a man whose velvety voice broke down her defenses. Besides, any day now she was going back
to America and the last thing she wanted was to give André the wrong impression.
She walked past a German decree stating: death to anyone caught sheltering allies and she shivered. Rounding the corner, she halted.
Louise stood by a wall and ripped off Vichy propaganda. The man, Yvette recognized as Vitorio, plastered up new French tracts that read: A Tous Les Français. When had her cousin arrived in Marseille? Did her Aunt know she was here? Yvette hurried over and grabbed her arm just as she was about to rip down another paper. “Louise. Are you crazy? There are spies everywhere.”
“Wha--” she glanced over. “Here, help us.” She shoved some papers into Yvette’s hand.
“I certainly will not. Someone will see us. Vitorio why are you being so careless? It is broad daylight.”
“Hurry, we need to get this done,” Louise insisted.
Again, Yvette tugged her arm. “Let’s go. This is ridiculous. You are in danger.”
Louise pivoted. “What kind of patriot are you? de Gaulle says,” she waved the paper in Yvette’s face, “unite in sacrifice and in hope. Our country is in danger of death. So, I sacrifice a little of my safety for the cause.” She turned back toward the wall and held up a new tract for Victorio to paste up. “You should do the same.”
“Louise, I am all for helping the cause, however, there are precautions that need be followed.”
“Miliciens!” someone shouted. Panic erupted. Everyone scattered in different directions. Paper littered the floor. Someone’s sweater lie on the ground.
Yvette stuffed the tracts in her purse and ran after Louise, but she lost her among the fleeing group. She bumped into a hard body. Strong hands grabbed her waist, steadying her.
“Géry!”
“Mademoiselle.” He leaned on a crutch and tipped his red beret. “A little too close for comfort non?”
She stepped back, “Yes,” and studied the man before her. Short, stocky, built like an ice chest, he studied her with narrow spaced eyes. His nose was sharp, his features reminded her of a rodent and she immediately felt guilty. A torn piece of paper, she recognized as German propaganda, clung to his shoulder and Yvette realized he had been among those who now hid from the police. She brushed the incriminating evidence away.
“Stop it. Stop!” The hysterical woman’s scream caught their attention. ”I’ve done nothing wrong.”
A young blonde woman struggled fiercely in the tight grip of a man wearing the familiar blue uniform coat, brown shirt, and a wide blue beret. The Milice, a group of Frenchmen who frequently tortured those they captured to extract information or confessions, were considered more dangerous than the Gestapo and SS because they knew locals, especially the informers.
For a heart-stopping second, by the similar structured frame and color hair, Yvette thought the man held Louise against his body.
Anger crept up Géry’s neck and sealed his face. “Leave her be,” he shouted.
The recruit ignored him and yanked a handful of the woman’s hair in an effort to drag her after him.
“I said, let her go!”
The mercenary halted and glanced in their direction. “Mind your own. Be on your way. This is none of your business.”
Géry put his weight on his crutch, threw back his shoulder and jut out his chest, making his small square frame appear more threatening. “When a woman is forced against her will, it is my business.”
The soldier tossed her free. As she stumbled backward, he strut toward them.
Unafraid, despite his clumsy gait, Géry headed right toward him like a bull ready to battle.
When the Milice drew out his pistol, the horrific death of her grandpère, ricocheted through Yvette like a bullet—a bullet that at any minute would find its way into Géry’s heart. Without thinking, she ran in front of him, threw her arms around his neck and kissed him.
“Darling, please come home,” she managed when they broke apart. She grabbed his arm in an effort to drag him away from the potentially dangerous scene about to unfold. Her heart pounded so hard it felt like it would explode. “Don’t you dare go after your mistress. She’s too young for you. I need you.”
Surprise lit Géry’s eyes, then realization.
Afraid to turn around, yet determined to make a point, Yvette threw a pleading glance over her shoulder toward the mercenary. The mercenary’s brutal stare weakened her knees and she felt Géry grip her tighter against his chest. His fingers on his weapon, the soldier stood solid as he deliberated what to do next. He holstered his pistol, turned and relief eased the tension from her shoulders. Yvette exhaled sharply.
“Well mademoiselle,” the deep male voice said against her ear. “I guess I should thank you.”
Her body jerked.
Géry studied her with interest.
She had to stop doing this. Had to stop throwing herself into the arms of men she barely knew, regardless of the reason. “What,” she asked sternly, “were you going to do? Stab him with your crutch?”
Smiling, he ran his fingers against her collarbone. The intimate touch should have alarmed her, but the grin on his face, his amusement, put her at ease.
“Don’t get any ideas.” She sighed and swiped his fingers away.
“Oh my heart,” he feigned a look of hurt, “how easily you break it.”
***
André stood in the shadows of the building witnessing the tender scene around the corner between Géry and Yvette. Anger and jealousy punched his gut so strongly it felt as though he’d been hit by a two-ton tank. Was it her habit to throw herself at any man who happened to be in her presence? Hadn’t those same arms, not only last night, been wrapped around his neck?
Earlier, he had heard tracks were being distributed and he thought to help. What he didn’t expect to see was Yvette kissing Géry; a kiss he’d been robbed of thanks to Bayard’s interruption last night. André fisted his hands at his side. Hell, what did he care if her affections were for Géry? He had better things to do than stand here wasting time. Her hug last night meant nothing. Idiot! Take it for what it is— nothing. Nothing but her excitement; not an enticement.
André walked up to them. “Bonjour.” He kept his voice calm, despite his annoyance, despite the sudden impulse to drag her away and finish what had been left unfinished between them last night. Let it be. Drop it. It’s clear where her affections lie.
“Hello back.” Yvette smiled, which added fuel to the already simmering fire in his gut.
“I see you two have been busy.” André clenched his teeth, causing the muscles in his jaw to bunch. Satisfied by the guilty blush coloring her cheeks, he pointed to the tracks plastered on the wall. Confusion, then understanding slid across her eyes as she realized he spoke of propaganda, not her compromising situation. Her sense of relief aggravated him.
“We almost got caught,” she said.
He’d caught them all right, he wanted to yell; caught them kissing like lovers in the middle of the street in broad daylight; caught her lips pressed up against Géry’s and her arms wrapped around his neck and the way her body had been pressed up against his--
“Is something wrong?” she asked so innocently he wanted to shake her.
Determined not to feel anything toward her, he shrugged. “Why would there be anything wrong?”
“Well, despite that cool, detached tone, if your jaw got any tighter your face would crack.”
Géry grinned. “She’s right. You are a bit red in the face.”
“There’s a meeting at fifteen hundred hours,” André said matter-of-factly. “You’d best be there. And you…” he turned to Yvette.
“Yes?”
Damn that husky sexy tone and those full, pouting lips. Damn. Damn. “Isn’t it about time you went back to your hotel and started working on those documents?” he said more gruffly than he dare reflect on.
Being around her unbalanced him, made him lose focus, a dangerous, deadly distraction he didn’t need and certainly didn’t want.
***
Seeing Yvette in Géry’s arms had thrown him a punch he’d been unprepared for. Mon Dieu!
He yanked open the cellar door. The rusty hinges screamed in protest.
He learned to remain detached when it came to matters of the heart, yet she managed to break that shield. Damn. What the hell was she doing to him? She shattered his control, made him feel things long dead. He’d built the wall around his heart bit by painful bit and he’d be damned if he was going to let anyone in who threatened to weaken his defenses.
Thoughts of Amelia began to seep into his mind, but he quickly repressed them. The noose of marriage bit him once. He was never going down that aisle again.
Earthy mildew and cool dampness accosted him as he made his way down the creaky wooden steps. Acrid smoke accosted his nostrils. Familiar voices of men, enthralled in a card game and some he didn’t recognize, rose to meet him.
An attractive woman stood chatting with a group of men he’d never met. New recruits, he figured, as he stepped into the smoke-filled cellar. A group of men sat around a table listening to the soothing sound of Bayard’s harmonica. Géry and Yvette sat alone in a shadowed corner. Deep in conversation, completely enthralled with her companion, she paid him little mind. He, on the other hand, noticed how her lips parted with open invitation and how her relaxed posture sent alluring signals across the table. Her laughter irked him, despite his silent insistence that he didn’t care. André headed straight for the woman whose inviting gaze lifted toward him.
“You must be André. I am Bernadette Le Fleur.”
Behind The Mask Page 15
