“Your Grandfather sounds like a good man.”
“He was the best.” Emotion quivered her voice.
When her parents weren’t fighting, they were so cold towards each other, the house felt like a meat locker. How could she even consider marriage?
André reached over and rested his fingers on her arm. Every nerve seemed focused, alive under his palm.
She’d never lain with a man before. How was she to face him, face others knowing she had given away her virginity to a man who didn’t love her? Could she look him in the eyes and not break down?
Yvette sat back in her chair and André’s fingers slipped away.
Maybe he had feelings for her. He certainly wanted her, but that wasn’t love. What if time changed things between them? What if she gave herself to him and then he just left, getting what he wanted and leaving her feeling nothing but shamed and foolish? She gulped her wine a little too fast and it landed with a thud that seemed to burn her chest.
“I wanted to live the life of a bohemian,” she blurted. By the look on his face, she managed to surprise even him with her abrupt outburst. That sounded ridiculous, she mused. “I always fancied myself living on the Left Bank, painting by the Seine, living in my studio.”
Her dreams were always torn; torn between wanting a family, despite her fears, and being free spirited. Looking at the man sitting beside her, remembering his tenderness with Hanna, his comforting words with Louise, his concern for her own well-being, though her fears were warranted, she knew in her heart she wanted him to be a part of her future. She pushed aside the nagging, what if you end up like your parents, and sipped her wine.
“Is that your dream, to be a famous artist?”
That had been a reckless dream based on fear. She realized that now. “Well, not famous.” She shrugged.
“I prefer the country. The city is…,” he waved his hand, “too crowded.”
They were so different. Differences kill a relationship. At least they had one thing in common. They were both afraid of commitment. And lest she forget, there was a war on. White picket fences and children, at this point in the game, was stuff of movies and romance books.
Future? What am I thinking?
“Would you like some more wine?” She refilled his glass even though it was half-full, then filled her glass to the top.
He toyed with the rim of his goblet.
She stared out the window.
The tick—tock— tick of the clock on the mantel cut the silence.
He cleared his throat. “I would love to see one of your paintings.”
“They are in my apartment in Paris and probably destroyed by now.” And all things of her past. The thought saddened her.
“That would be a shame,” he said, his soft, lazy tone hypnotic and sensual.
“I was in the middle of collecting works of artists I thought had a future when the Germans came.”
“Yes, Damn those Krauts. But there’s hope. Talk around town is one of speculation and preparation that the US will soon join the allies.” André stood, took off his coat and sat beside her.
Her breath hitched. He stared at her parted lips and she felt her face flush. “Many of my coworkers are departing,” she managed to say through a throat that suddenly went dry.
The war was escalating, rumors circulated. Just recently, she learned Roosevelt was providing significant military supplies to Britain. It was only a matter of time and she would be ordered to leave. Any day now, her father swore their papers would be ready. Would André ask her to stay if that day came and she was forced to leave France?
He shifted his position and their thighs touched.
“Anyway,” she crossed her legs and the sofa sank beneath her movements pressing her hip against his thigh. Their gazes locked. Her heart did a tap dance in her chest. “My artwork is trivial compared to the talent I have collected.”
He ran a gentle finger against her cheek. “Never cut yourself short.”
The languorous desire in his blue eyes pinged her pulse, ricocheting through her body, stirring up a need to feel him hold her, kiss her, touch her where her throbbing body felt alive. Kiss me, she willed. Kiss me. Tell me you love me.
He placed his hands on her cheeks, kissed her forehead, then leaned back and took a sip of wine. And she knew the answer would be no. He would not ask her to stay. The damage done by Amelia had been too great to let her into his heart.
***
“Ah hell.” André gathered Yvette into his arms, weary of fighting the strong attraction that, despite his resistance surged a hot yearning. She clung to him, returning his kiss with a passion he’d longed for the minute he stepped into her hotel room. He had been surprised when she’d invited him in, and had been hesitant to enter, for fear that this would happen. He brushed his lips against her neck and felt her quiver.
He deliberately left his coat on promising himself, he wouldn’t stay. “Yvette I should go,” he murmured thickly. Instead of pushing himself away, like he knew he should, he wanted to bury himself in her heat and luscious curves.
“I know.”
He recaptured her mouth as the nagging voice of resistance chomped away at the delicious sensation of her lips against his. She wrapped her arms around his neck. Her breasts felt taut against his chest and in an instant, he grew hard. He broke their kiss and stared into her eyes, willing her to realize the consequences if he stayed. She leaned forward and kissed him again, stimulating his arousal.
Damn, he was so lonely; so sick of the war. Was it wrong of him to want some affection?
He planted kisses along her jaw, then nibbled her earlobe. Her head lobbed back and he trailed his lips up her neck, listening as she delighted in his touch.
But, Yvette wasn’t just some woman he could bed, then walk away from. Hell, she deserved more than a toss between the sheets.
He heard her sexy groan and lost himself in the touch of her lips pressing against his mouth and the feel of her hair tangled in his fingers. She was so soft; felt so good that he couldn’t think; didn’t want to.
André’s mouth claimed hers, demanding a response and she let him in. His tongue flicked hers, withdrew and nudged again. Between erratic breathing, their tongues did a mating dance pushing André beyond logic. He lost himself in the rain kissed scent of her hair; marveled at the way her breasts sprang to life as they pressed against him, and the sweet taste of her full, moist, mouth hungrily responding to his. All angst drifted to the corner of his mind as his hands sank into her silken tresses and the sweet scent of lavender filled his being.
However, after a few minutes, reason did take control, as did the realization that for both their sakes this madness had to stop. He broke away. Still inches from her face, his gaze focused on her mouth, he took several deep breaths willing sanity to return. She didn’t back away and he knew if he didn’t end this, they would wind up in bed facing consequences neither one was ready to face. Gently he slipped her arms free and eased himself to a standing position. He bent over her, his hands against her collarbone, and leaned his forehead against hers.
“I really must go.” He stepped away, needing to put distance between them, wishing he could hold her close.
She nodded and watched in silence as he gathered up his coat.
“I will see you tomorrow.” He opened the door. Damn, he didn’t want to go. He wanted--
“Yes, of course. At the church?” Her expression solemn he thought, she really didn’t want him to leave, but staying wasn’t an option.
“I’ll come here for you,” he said.
“That would be fine,” she replied, her tone flat.
“Good.” It wasn’t good. He wanted to make love to her until dawn. He wanted to wake up with her beside him, but strict upbringing forbid such behavior. “Till tomorrow, then.” He placed his hat on his head.
“Until tomorrow.”
André stepped into the hall and closed the door.
What was he to do now? Every nerve
in his body was on fire. A cold shower? A long walk? He didn’t want to go back to an empty room and the prospect of waking up alone, as he did every morning, soured his gut.
He strolled down the stairs and into the street. Like most nights, the cafés were crowded despite the tight rationing. People from all nations came together, the need for conversation greater than food. The streets were dimly lit and jam-packed with pedestrians. He ambled down the gentle slope toward the port, where in the distance, fishing vessels rocked back and forth in dark waters along the quay.
Hell, what a day. He had pushed aside his aversion to coffins and talked his way out of an arrest. He’d done some fancy bantering to get them through that checkpoint. There was a moment there when things weren’t looking good. Thankfully, the policeman in charge of the the border had pulled him aside and explained he had no love toward the Germans and he convinced the German officers to show some Christmas spirit, and to let them pass.
And I kissed a beautiful woman… Yvette’s full, kiss-swollen lips came to mind. He seen the confusion in her eyes when he had released her and grabbed his coat. But, he also recognized relief. Though he always came prepared for such an occasion, she was a good Catholic girl; no amount of rubber could protect her against the regret she’d face in the morning. And no amount of fancy convincing would erase the guilt he’d face.
His thoughts centered on the beautiful woman he’d left behind, André rounded the corner. He sensed a presence behind him, but before he could turn around, strong arms grabbed him. A fist met his back and something dark slammed over his head.
***
Yvette rationalized André had been right to stop before things spiraled out of control, but she didn’t want him to be the perfect gentleman, not now, when her breasts felt swollen with need and a strong pulse throbbed between her thighs. Why did he have to be so damn perfect?
A knock interrupted her thoughts. She flew to the door. “Andr--”
“Good evening daughter.”
“Father.” Disappointment and shock hit her squarely in the jaw.
“May I come in?”
She gestured forhim to enter.
He took off his hat and fidgeted with the brim. “Merry Christmas.”
“What are you doing here?” Yvette walked across the room and sat on a chair by the window.
“I thought we could talk.” He moved toward her and pointed to the couch. “May I?”
She nodded and he sat.
“You have been avoiding me at work,” he said.
“Just busy. That is all.”
“Never-the-less…” He plopped his hat on the gray and pink marble table before him. “We must clear the air between us.”
“Must we?” she asked sarcastically.
Her father shot her a stern look.
She glanced out the window. “I would think you’d be spending your holiday with… what’s her name again?”
“You know very well her name is Marguerite. I plan on seeing her later.”
Yvette stood. “You took a chance coming here, the streets are dangerous.”
“My need to explain about your mother and me, in fact, anything concerning your mother, overrides my good judgment.”
“No need to jeopardize your well-being on my account.” She didn’t mean to sound so snippy, but his presence was agitating and sapping all her energy. He really was the last person she wanted to spend Christmas with.
A snippet of guilt flashed through her as she made her way to the door and grabbed the knob. “Perhaps another day?”
“Now is the appropriate time,” he insisted.
Yvette strolled back across the room and sat opposite him. She took a deep breath, exhaled and waited.
Hesitant to start, her father glanced around the room. “I could get you an apartment.”
“I don’t need one.”
“Surely you are not comfortable here.”
“I am quite--”
“Stubborn, yes, I agree.”
Yvette rolled her gaze to the ceiling.
“Did you know your mother was engaged to another before me? No. I can tell by your shocked expression you did not. He died in the great war shortly before I met her.” Her father stood and began to pace. “She never could get him out of her mind. I saw his face every time I looked at her. Wore that damned ring of his even though I insisted she remove it from her person. She wore it to taunt me.”
“Father, I hardly think--”
He pivoted, facing her. “You do not know her like I do. She is manipulative and cold-hearted.”
Yvette jumped to her feet. “Then why did you marry her?”
“I foolishly let her mother manipulate me.”
“So there was never any love?” Yvette wrapped her arms around her midriff. Even though she always suspected there was someone between them, his unsettling words sent a pang to her stomach.
“I did, once, when we were young. You must understand I tried my best to overcome the obstacles in our way. I am not the bastard your mother paints me as.”
No, perhaps he wasn’t. But there was no excusing his abandonment. “You left us.” Yvette pressed into the knot forming between her breasts.
“I had no choice.”
“There is always a choice. You ran and left your children.”
“And for that I am sorry.” But you must understand--”
“No.” She put up her hand, a barrier between them. “Do you know how I felt watching you go, knowing in my heart you were leaving for good?”
“Sad, I assume.”
“Sad? Ha,” she scoffed.“I hated you.”
Her father slouched back against the couch. “You disrespect me with such talk.”
“And where was the respect when you tried to poison mother?”
His face paled. “You knew?”
“I was there when she sobbed thinking she lost her sight, thinking she would lose her baby.” Tears began to form in Yvette’s eyes. “I crouched in a corner, in the dark, praying to God to stop her wailing and make everything all right and I cursed you… I cursed you.” Yvette turned toward the window unable to control her emotions, unable to look her father in the eyes.
“I am so sorry,” he said, his voice a mere whisper. “I never knew. Please understand…”
She felt his hand on her shoulder and spun around. “No. I never will.”
“I’m an old man; too old for a new baby.”
“Not too old to get her pregnant.”
Heat angered his face. “Do not talk of such private matters.”
“Well then. You want me to understand, please explain why I have a new brother,” Yvette said with pursed lips and a dismissive hand.
He sat, rested his elbow on his crossed arm, lowered his head and rubbed his forehead. Then, he looked up. “As you may recall, I came home. My intent was to tell your mother, as far as I was concerned, we were no longer married. She pleaded with me not to leave her. I did not then, nor to this day, understand her reasoning, for I assured her she would not lack for anything other than my presence.” He cleared his throat. “She got me drunk and things just…” he waved his hand, “happened. That is all I care to say on this matter, except to say, your mother never loved me. She told me she despised the baby because it was mine and hated me for getting her with child. I hope you will take that under consideration when you judge me.” He sank back against the couch like a deflated balloon, as though spilling his guts had sapped the life out of him.
As he studied the ground, Yvette felt a bit sorry for him, just a small bit and sorry her mother had lost a man she truly loved all those years before. Maybe she would forgive, maybe. His clarification and knowing he was right about her mother’s cold attitude, explained a lot. Her mother could be melodramatic and distant at times. Yvette glanced away. Still… she couldn’t forgive her father for leaving them.
“I shall say goodnight now and take my leave.” He grabbed his hat.
“Mother doesn’t hate Mathew.”
<
br /> “Mathew. That’s a nice strong name.”
“I will see you to the door.”
Her father stood in the hall and twisted his hat in his hands as he studied her. “Your mother forbids me to see you girls. Please take that under consideration.”
“Good night father. I will think on your words.”
“That is all I ask.” He turned.
“Father…”
“Yes.” He looked over his shoulder.
“Merry Christmas.”
“And to you.” He took a step.
“Father.”
“Yes.”
“I will see you at work.”
He nodded and she watched him walk toward the stairs as though a heavy burden lifted from his shoulders.
She always thought the worst of him, exclusively blamed him.
Guilt weighted her conscience.
She closed the door.
A guilt that would afford her little sleep.
***
Géry stood in the hall and watched Eva from around the corner.
First André, now this man? What the hell is going on in there? Just what kind of woman is she?
Another woman came to mind and he squeezed his hand. Thorns from the roses he held pricked his fingers. He watched blood drip slowly across his palm.
It didn’t matter. André was being taken care of and, as far as he was concerned that old man was no competition.
Géry stepped from his hiding place.
She was his woman. Only his.
Luck had been on his side this evening when he came upon André and Eva at the church. He followed them here to her hotel, then left only for a short time to put his plan into action.
He slipped from his hiding place and knocked on her door.
He’d make her see he was the only one in her life and forget all the others.
“Géry!” She clutched her robe to her chest and he salivated knowing she wore nothing but a nightdress beneath.
“For you.” He held out the red roses.
“Thank you, they are beautiful. But you shouldn’t have.”
She didn’t take his gift.
The thorns cut deeper into his flesh.
“May I come in?”
The door remained barely open.
Behind The Mask Page 25
