“Enchanted.” He brought her hand to his lips while his eyes sought Yvette’s attention. She wasn’t pleased by his kiss, if her frown and the quick turn of her head away from him meant anything.
Satisfied, he brought his attention back to the tall, shapely brunette who didn’t blush at his intimate gesture. He stepped closer. “An appropriate name for a beauty who smells as sweet as a garden full of flowers.”
Her shrill laugh drew the attention of all in the room, including Yvette, who watched him, wearing a frown of disgust that vindicated his feelings.
“I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.” Bernadette touched his arm in a suggestive manner.
André smiled. “I’ve heard quite a bit about you.”
Le Fleur was a volunteer with Britain’s newly formed Special Operations Executive, an organization whose purpose was to conduct espionage, sabotage and aid local resistance movements. An American spy working under the cover as a correspondent for the New York Post, Le Fleur was the collaborator London agents contacted to hookup with French resistance members. She was smart, determined to make a difference and becoming increasingly sought after by the Gestapo.
“All good, I hope.” She ran her fingers across his chest.
“Now what fun would that be?” André winked, which spurt more flirtatious laughter.
Yvette, he noticed, glanced away and began to draw on a piece of paper.
Disappointment stabbed his chest.
“Jean Bonaventure is pleased with your work.” Le Fleur rested her hand on his upper arm.
Annoyed Yvette wasn’t watching, irritated by Bernadette’s constant attack on his body, André gently lifted her fingers and held them loosely. “Then he will be happy to learn we can provide him with updated photographs and maps of the latest German coastal defenses, troops, and military storage units.” He let her fingers gently slip from his hand.
Le Fleur smiled, but he saw disappointment slide across her eyes. “The resistance grows a little each day.”
Too slow for the likes of him.
“Did you hear that a group of high school students gathered at the Arch of Triumph and celebrated the Allied victory over Germany in the First World War?” she asked.
“Yes, how ironic, children led one of the first displays of public resistance,” André said, his tone bitter. “I hope their tenacity shakes up their parents’ resistance to join us.”
“I have some information for your ears only.” She ran her finger down his chest.
“By all means…” He gestured to the corner opposite Yvette and Géry.
Bernadette hooked her arm under his and they walked in silence until they were out of earshot from the others.
André stood, his back against the rough stone wall, his eyes directly facing Yvette.
“I have a message from Rogér.” Slowly and provocatively, Le Fleur slipped her fingers inside her blouse. Her eyes beheld his and her smile promised unspoken carnal delights. She pulled the note, out, leaving one button, between her breasts, undone.
André unfolded the paper and scanned the message. The code made no sense, but he hid his confusion and stuffed the note in his pocket.
“I see you brought new blood.” He glanced to the young group of men who stood chatting.
“Always a plus, n'est-ce pas?” she purred.
“Yes.” No. New faces posed a threat. “Our brotherhood can always use more help.”
The slow progression of a united force frustrated him a little more each day. Spies prowled everywhere, growing in number. Time was the enemy. The Germans had a group called the Fifth Column, people living in southern France, whose mission was solely to gather Intel and spread false information. The streets were becoming more dangerous, the stakes higher.
He liked it better when he knew everyone’s name.
***
Though she knew a few of the men in the room, a sense of relief eased the tension from Yvette’s shoulders when she spotted André walk down the stairs. The sight of him strangled her breath and she parted her lips in an effort to steady her breathing.
He wore a brown tweed cap on his head, not a fedora, or a beret, like most men in the room. A white button-down collar lie flat behind his brown single-breasted jacket. The padded shoulders made him look larger than life. The fitted jacket emphasized his lean, muscular torso. Flannel trousers and laced-up brown Oxfords completed the ensemble.
She tried to ignore the fluttering in her midsection and forced laughter when Géry told a joke about a man confessing to a priest that he got paid to hide refugees in his attic and asked if it was a sin not to tell them the war was over. She knew, without looking, that her phony amusement caught André’s attention. When she stole him a glance, his lips turned into a scowl.
His solemn demeanor changed the minute he stepped up to the beautiful dark-haired woman with the voluptuous body. In fact, he seemed to be going out of his way to be overly cordial and flirtatious. The brunette ate up his attention like he was her last meal. It didn’t matter. She didn’t care.
“Our group is getting together tomorrow to discuss some plans.”
Yvette turned her attention back to Géry’s words.
“There’s a munition’s train bound for Lyon. We can’t let it arrive at its destination,” he said.
André was in the corner in whispered conversation.
“You should join us,” Géry continued, though she longed to hear what André was saying. “For the meeting, that is.”
“Aren’t you concerned about the new faces in the room?” Especially hers? Yvette wanted to ask, as she shot a glance to André and the woman huddled in the corner away from everyone else as though they wanted to be alone.
“Not really,” Géry said.
Yvette turned to him. “I don’t know who to trust anymore.”
“You can trust me.”
“I hardly know you.”
“That’s not what that kiss said.” Géry grinned wickedly.
“Oh please, do not remind me of my impulsiveness.” She groaned and covered her eyes.
“You can be impulsive any time you like.” His fingers resting on her hand made her uncomfortable and she fidgeted in her seat.
“Seriously,” she slipped her hand free and glanced over to André whose gaze was glued to the woman’s breasts. Yvette snapped her attention back to Géry who was staring at her a little too intensely. “I don’t know who to trust.”
“You can trust me.”
“Trust? Trust who?” Jacques waltzed over, wearing a baseball hat backward over his unruly brown hair. “Not that ugly man with the funny mustache. Nah. Don’t listen to him. I think he got hit in the head by one too many salutes.” He clicked his heels together and extended his right arm in the air with a straight hand. “Heil Hitler!” he mocked.
Jacque plopped down beside her. ”And this one here,” he pointed to Géry. “Don’t believe a word that scoundrel says.” Jacque’s top teeth stuck out and his mouth moved from side to side like a cow, chewing cud as he chuckled. It was hard for her not to laugh. He grabbed her hand. “He’ll steal your heart when it should be mine.” He brought his lips to her hand and kissed it. “Come, let us ditch this motley group.”
Géry’s face turned red. His jaw clenched.
Bayard stopped playing. “Eva you ok?”
Conscious of all eyes on her, including André’s, she nodded. “I’m fine.” She forced a smile and the music started up once again.
Uncomfortable by the flattery and the sudden change in Géry’s demeanor, Yvette felt the need to escape. She stood and the two men did the same.
“A dance, très bien.” Jacques took her in his arms before she could protest and spun her around the room. “Trust me, mon amour. I can make you happy.”
Trust. There was that word again. Trust him. Trust Géry. Trust André. How could she? Yvette’s head was spinning with every twirl around the room.
André was a spy; a man who lied for a living, who hid his
emotions under a wall of aloofness that barely gave away what he was thinking. She had trusted René; thought she loved him. Those misguided feelings led to disaster. How could she trust André, who she hardly knew, who changed the subject when it became personal; who made it impossible to think? Her emotions went wild whenever they were together and curbing the “what ifs” was becoming increasingly harder.
She wanted to trust, desperately wanted to put her faith in all these men. It would be so easy to let her guard down, but she just wasn’t completely sure if she could.
***
Yvette tucked her knee length white dress under her legs and sat on a gray stone wall outside the church.
This war was killing her soul. The constant strain of pretending this was just another day drained her. Though she tried to keep her fears at bay, at times, they seeped through the small cracks of her crumbling resistance.
How was her family? Was her home now run over with Germans? What was to become of this country whose years of tradition and culture had been lost overnight? Where was Louise? What would happen if in her carelessness she got caught?
Yvette bit her lip and stared at the stained glass windows, noticing how the shades of light played among the panes.
She’d heard horror stories about prisoners sent to work in factories until their fingers bled and their feet blistered from standing for hours in wooden shoes that didn’t fit. The thought made her kick off her own shoes and wiggle her toes.
Earlier, she had sketched a picture of her cousin with the hope that someone would recognize her. Géry had not, but she planned to pass the photo around.
Yvette glanced to the church doors and thought about the meeting going on inside. The government claimed they, the resistance networks, were a terrorist movement. The people on the streets didn’t talk about the good the units did, not even a whisper of thanks… no. They spoke of rationing. The more the Germans took, the more they thanked Pétain for saving what little food was left. Neighbors, who were once friends, were greeted with anger and hate by people they once broke bread with because they were different. And they say the Germans are barbarians? This country she had grown to love was falling apart.
Yvette tugged her wool sweater closer together against the cool November chill, her thoughts drifting to the man inside.
In the midst of all her turmoil stood André and a kiss that, despite his apparent desire, had never happened; the promise of a kiss that kept creeping into her mind making her wonder how she would feel with his lips pressed against hers.
The need to distance herself from the tender scene between him and the American had her reasoning the room was too stuffy and she needed air.
She noticed the flirtation, how Bernadette’s hands continually touched his arm or lingered a bit too long on his shoulder; how her hips brushed his. But what irked her was that he seemed to be overly enjoying himself, something that was rare when it came to the two of them. She left him laughing at something Bernadette said.
Yvette frowned. When they were together, he was cordial, concerned, but never that pleasurable. She sensed the underlying tension and it bothered her. Why? What set him on edge? And why should she care? Whatever it was, it didn’t seem to matter in the presence of Bernadette.
She pressed her thumb against the throbbing pain in her temple that made it difficult to think. Everyone, including herself, was losing the ability of rational thought.
Not wishing to give in to her headache, she lost herself in the serene surroundings. Pine trees swayed in a light breeze, gray clouds dotted a darkening sky and waning sunlight blanketed the solitary stone steeple with rays of orange and pinks.
“I was wondering where you went.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
YVETTE’S HEART LEAPT at the sound of André’s voice.
He walked over and sat beside her and she managed a look of indifference, even though her pulse barreled in her neck like a locomotive clanking on tracks.
“Since your English is better than mine, I thought you might help me understand this.” He held out a small piece of crinkled paper and their fingers accidently touched.
She pushed aside the unsettling rush of blood coursing through her veins and concentrated on the message. Everything was written in English except the word boot.
“Marseille shines brightly where the rivers meet the sea, especially At seveM. A dead rat will fly by the river Rhone. Its tale is highly prized. Tomorrow thirteen is your lucky number, but there is sure to be a flood, so seek out the boot at the hotel where the sun sits on its peak,” she translated in French. “A flying rat? And why is the word tail spelled wrong?”
She noticed how the setting sun cast shadows on his handsome face and how wisps of his hair lifted in the light breeze. He raked his hand through his hair and she couldn’t help but notice his bulging biceps. She swallowed her throat suddenly dry.
“Rat could mean the Milice or anyone who poses a threat; traitors, thieves, turncoats. And tale is a story, so I think there is some sort of message being delivered at thirteen hundred hours,” André said.
“Well, that doesn’t make any sense unless the police are in a plane.”
“Right. So let’s start at the beginning.”
Yvette glanced to the note. “Marseille shines brightly, could mean the lighthouse down in the old port.”
“Maybe, but there is only one river, the Rhone, that flows into the Mediterranean, not rivers, plural.” A thought registered and his eyes widened with understanding. “The Fontaine Cantini.”
“The fountain in the center of the square?” Distracted by thoughts of kissing him, she stared at his mouth, barely concentrating on his words.
“Yes.” Their gaze met. Amusement danced in his eyes for a flicker of a moment. Yvette’s cheeks flushed as she realized he guessed where her thoughts lie.
“The sides of the fountain evoke the Mediterranean and three rivers, the Durance, the Rhone and the Gardon,” he continued nonchalantly as though her discomfort had no effect on him. She wished he’d stop talking in that smooth sexy voice. “A statue of Marseille sits on top of a marble column.”
“Marseille is characterized as a woman, right?” she asked.
“Yes.”
Marseille shines brightly… “Well, since she is on top…” The realization of her words, the quirk of his brows, his steady eye contact, added more fuel to her already flaming face. “…of the statue. It--the sunlight--it--it would hit her first.” She balled her hand in the folds of her dress. When he didn’t follow up with sexual commentary and pointed to the note, she relaxed.
“Look here.” He pointed to the message. “The word At is capitalized and I think that is seven spelled with a M.”
Concentrating on the misspelled words and not on his close presence was becoming increasingly difficult. Yvette gave herself a mental shake. “So that could mean seven am.”
He looked at her as if she was a brilliant scientist discovering the cure for some deadly disease. His pride warmed her, made her feel worthy of working with a man who put his life on the line every day under the watchful eyes of danger.
“But rats don’t fly.” She shivered at the thought of rats, living or dead. “And a flood?
André stood, took off his jacket and carefully placed it over her shoulders. “I don’t know. The fountain doesn’t flood. Even with rain there is no overflow.”
Something changed in his eyes. She could tell his thoughts no longer focused on the message they’d been deciphering, to something that made the pupils in his eyes widened, despite the fact that the light hadn’t changed.
Her pulse skipped. “Well, what floods?” She could smell the clean scent of soap on the collar of his jacket…“Rivers, rain… people flood…” some spicy cologne that flooded her senses. “They flock, they flood--it must mean people…. a list of names,” she said as she closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose trying to gather her composure.
André rubbed his chin in thought, then nod
ded. “Yes, or we are to meet new escapees. But the word is boot, not boots and why would we need footwear?”
His captivating stare made her nervous. Her gaze darted. Quickly, she looked back to make sure she hadn’t misread the quick flash of interest in his eyes. His wide shoulders were arched back as if to say look at me. Languid warmth flowed through her, catching her off guard.
“That doesn’t make any sense,” he said.
“What?” She had to drag her gaze away from his muscular chest to listen to him.
“I said...”
Subtle amusement, once again, lit his eyes. He knew how he affected her. She forced herself to remain calm although his close proximity made it difficult to concentrate and try as she might, she couldn’t slow her heart rate.
“The message doesn’t make sense. And the word boot is the only word in French, why?” he asked.
“Maybe there is a different meaning to boot.”
In an effort to hide her spiraling emotions she bent down and dug into her purse like it was bottomless and finally, gathering her composure, she pulled out a small dictionary. Yvette thumbed through the pages until she found the English term for boot. “Here look.”
He leaned closer and her breath seemed strangled in her throat. His gaze fell to her mouth and she understood, without him saying a word, he wanted to kiss her.
She swallowed and focused on the writing. “Boot in English… ok footwear, but in French... noun… cireur, garcon d’ hôtel: shoe shine, hotel waiter. Our contact is a hotel waiter?”
“Or shoe shine and I think I know which hotel. The Rising Sun. When the sun rises directly behind the roof its rays sit on the right top eave.”
“Then that can’t be at thirteen hundred hours. The sun doesn’t rise in the afternoon,” she said.
Why did he have to be so handsome? Why couldn’t he be old and fatherly, so there’d be no attraction? If he kissed her, dear Lord, she didn’t trust her reaction.
The sky’s pastel hues, bathing the earth in a warm glow, spoke of romance. The light breeze and soon to be starlit sky spoke of dancing, and they spoke of espionage. How nice would it be to clear her mind of sabotage, faceless people needing help and her family so far away.
Behind The Mask Page 16
