by Candace Camp
“Follow him up,” he ordered brusquely.
A door into the ballroom opened behind them. Blakely’s back was to it; he frowned. “Damn! Who is it?”
Alyssa smiled at him, pretending not to see the woman who had just stepped through the door. “Annette Lowry. We might as well put an ad in the paper as have her see us together.”
“Oh, hell. Well…” He raised Alyssa’s hand to his lips and kissed it softly. “Is she looking?” he murmured.
“Of course.” Alyssa flashed him a sizzling look, but removed her hand coquettishly.
“Why, Alyssa!” a high-pitched voice sounded behind Blakely. “What a surprise. Whatever are you doing out here in the hall?”
Blakely turned and fixed Mrs. Lowry with a black gaze. “I should think that would be obvious, even to you.”
“Now, Everson…” Alyssa gave him a light, admonishing tap on the arm. “Actually, we were just about to return.”
She slipped neatly past Blakely and started off down the hall with the other woman. “I’m so glad you came out,” she whispered. “That man is getting to be such a bother.” It was the cover they had agreed upon if people began to notice them together at functions—that Blakely was pursuing Alyssa but she was not interested. It would account for their being together for brief periods of time now and then without being seen together regularly.
“Oh, really?” Annette asked, eager to hear more. “What has he been doing?”
“Well…” Alyssa launched into her planned stories with the enthusiasm such gossip required, but inside she felt nothing.
*****
The next morning Alyssa dug through her invitations for a party at which she was likely to meet Paul Chermé again. Finally she came upon one for the next Friday at Betty Haskell’s. Betty considered herself very sophisticated, and as part of her image, she was slavishly devoted to anything French. That would be the place where Alyssa would be most likely to see Chermé. She had planned to go to the theater that night, but she would simply cancel.
Alyssa was lucky. Paul Chermé was at the party. As soon as she stepped inside the door, he spotted her and crossed the room to speak to her. This time Alyssa didn’t turn a cold shoulder as she had before. Instead she smiled and flirted, and before the evening was through, she had accepted a date for the following evening.
Her efforts were worthwhile. Once she’d made herself ignore Paul’s accent and French gestures, all achingly reminiscent of Philippe’s, she realized that she might have a real find on her hands. After a few more evenings of his company, she was sure she did.
Paul was an ambitious man, the son of a good family but one that had always struggled on the edge of poverty. A wealthier relative had paid for his university education and had arranged to get him into the diplomatic service, but Paul found that his poverty put him at a disadvantage. He had not risen as quickly or as far as he had hoped; and because he had to spend so much of his salary on the social life that was part of the diplomatic service, he was continually in debt. Most important, on probing gently into Paul’s job at the embassy, Alyssa found that, while he was a loyal Frenchman, he disliked the Germans, calling them boorish and crude, and resented the fact that his government was under their heel.
He was perfect, Alyssa thought, exactly what they needed to be turned into their own agent inside the embassy—so perfect, in fact, that Blakely wondered at first whether he might be a plant by the Nazis for the purpose of feeding the British false information. Because of Blakely’s doubts, they proceeded cautiously at first, Alyssa pursuing nothing more with Chermé than a light romantic relationship. Then, gradually, she began to talk about the Germans, feeding his dislike and distrust, emphasizing how they had conquered France. She hinted that she was not friendly to the Germans without telling him what she did. He seemed interested, but Alyssa continued to play the game out, letting her secrecy increase his interest while she elicited vague promises of help from him. One day she hinted that she could use blank Vichy French passports. The next evening, when Paul arrived at her doorstep to escort her to an embassy party, he pulled a stack of blank passports out of one pocket of his overcoat and several rubber stamps out of the other.
“You did it! Paul!” Alyssa threw her arms around him in a spontaneous hug.
“Ah, for that I would steal anything—would you like the ambassador’s desk, perhaps?” His brown eyes twinkled down at her.
Alyssa thought of green eyes smiling at her, and her stomach knotted. She stepped back out of his arms and forced a little laugh at his joke. “No, I don’t think so. But there is more you could do. I’d understand if you didn’t want to; it could be very dangerous.”
He fell immediately for that appeal to his masculine pride. “Dangerous? That wouldn’t stop me. Actually, I found it exciting.”
The heightened color in his face and the sparkle in his eyes confirmed his words. Alyssa smiled and worked her way slowly into the conversation, reminding him of his loyalty to the real France, of his dislike of the Germans, skillfully using her voice and words to paint a picture of him as a brave patriot who would be honored and loved later when the Germans were defeated and it was revealed how he had helped to do it. She mentioned that he would be rewarded financially now for his effort, subtly slipping in that fact as though she must mention it but knew it was of little importance to him. By the time she finished, he was hooked.
She arranged for them to accidentally run into Everson Blakely the next day, and after that Paul Chermé went to work for them. He continued to bring out passports and documents and the Vichy visas with the special mark that showed they were real and not counterfeit. Blakely asked Chermé for proof that the Vichy government was supplying the Nazis with information, and he showed up with copies of telegrams which the embassy had sent to the Germans, giving information about British ships docked in the United States. Later Paul brought them carbon copies of correspondence filched from a secretary’s desk that confirmed the presence of Vichy spies and sympathizers in New York City.
Over the next few weeks, Paul funneled out huge amounts of information. To cover their frequent meetings, he and Alyssa dated heavily. He was the first man in whom Alyssa had shown any long-term interest since she moved to Washington, and the gossip circuit had a heyday with it. In private, their relationship was purely platonic. Personally, Paul would have liked nothing better than to have an affair with Alyssa, as everyone assumed. He found her beautiful, and her cool, standoffish ways intrigued him. But he was a practical man, too. Alyssa was firm about not wanting anything but a working relationship, and he realized that there was nothing to be gained by pushing her.
Early in March Paul invited her to a formal dinner at the French embassy. It was to be given in honor of a group of visiting French businessmen who were in the United States to apply pressure on American businessmen to work to prevent the pro-British Lend-Lease bill from passing Congress. It was a raw, blustery evening despite its proximity to spring, and Alyssa wore her mink coat against the chill wind. As she and Paul stepped inside the embassy, her cheeks had a high color and her hair was tossed by the wind. She smoothed her hair with her fingers, glancing around the room, as Paul came up behind her to remove her coat. She shrugged out of it, the fur sliding off her bare shoulders in an unconsciously sensual gesture, just as she looked across the room at the receiving line and her gaze locked with a man standing there.
Philippe Michaude.
Chapter 11
Alyssa’s knees began to buckle, and for a moment she thought she would fall, but Paul’s hand on her arm steadied her. “Alyssa? Are you all right?”
“What?” She turned an unnaturally pale face to him; her eyes were huge.
“I said, are you all right? You look…”
“Like I’ve seen a ghost?” Alyssa offered, her mind beginning to function again. “Something like that.” She was afraid she would start shaking all over.
“Who did you see? What is it?”
He checked her coat, and they started through the long line waiting to greet the ambassador’s guests. In the minutes they waited before they reached the ambassador, Alyssa struggled to talk courage into herself. She didn’t look at Philippe again. She didn’t need to; his image was clear in her brain. He was slim and tall in his tuxedo, as sophisticated, male and appealing as ever. The thick black hair fell across his forehead in the same way; his eyes were as piercing a green. Alyssa found herself wishing she had worn a different dress, that stunning black Chanel, for instance. Then she was disgusted with herself. Why should she care what she looked like for him? It was absurd. Pride—that was all that it was. She didn’t want Philippe to see her looking bad, as if she’d been pining away for him.
They reached the ambassador, and Paul introduced Alyssa to him and his wife. The ambassador presented Alyssa as if she were a great prize to the man beside him. Philippe.
Philippe took her hand. She hoped he didn’t feel the quiver that ran up her arm at his touch. Alyssa forced herself to look into his face. He seemed a little tired, as if the journey had been too long, and there were new lines on his forehead. He looked more than a year older. He also looked incredibly good to her.
Alyssa felt the familiar warmth spreading through her. Just from seeing him, from feeling his hand on hers.
“Ah, but Mademoiselle Lambert and I have met before, haven’t we?” His voice was calm and light, with none of the nerves that affected her. He raised her fingers to his lips and kissed them lightly.
“Yes,” Alyssa managed to get out. “It’s nice to see you again, Monsieur Michaude.”
The line moved on, and he released her hand. She and Paul walked into the large reception room where drinks were being served. “You know Philippe Michaude?” Paul asked, surprised.
“Yes, we met in Paris last year. I was there visiting my father.”
“He makes you nervous?”
Alyssa nodded. “A little.”
“Why?”
Alyssa shrugged. “Would you get me a drink, please? I’d really appreciate it.”
Paul quirked an eyebrow at her abrupt change of subject, but said only, “Of course. What would you like?”
“Anything. Gin and tonic. Tom Collins.”
Paul moved off to get her a drink from the bar. Alyssa rubbed her bare arms. It was drafty inside the huge, high-ceilinged room. But the cold she felt came from nerves. Never in her wildest dreams had she imagined that she would see Philippe again. It had been a shock, like meeting someone you thought was dead. But what had frightened her most had been her response. Everything in her had leaped up with joy at the sight of him. She wanted never to let go of his hand. She wanted to feel that well-remembered mouth on hers, those supple fingers on her skin.
She shivered. This was insane. How could she feel this way, knowing what he was? She had battled her love for him for months now and thought she was winning. Yet in one instant, all her hard months of work fell to pieces.
She couldn’t love him, Alyssa assured herself. She couldn’t love a man like that. What she felt when she saw Philippe was nothing more than shock and a sudden rush of desire. Even that was bad enough. She felt cheap and debased at her undiminishing longing for a man she should despise. Whom she did despise.
Long masculine fingers grazed her bare shoulder and arm. Alyssa stiffened. She knew the touch even before he spoke. “Hello, Alyssa. You are as beautiful as I remembered.”
Alyssa was careful to arrange her face into haughty, unwelcoming lines before she turned to look at Philippe. She slipped away from his hand. “We haven’t anything to say to each other.”
“Probably not. I confess I wanted only to look at you again.”
Her knees melted at the sound of his low, seductive voice. How could she have thought that other Frenchmen sounded anything like him? Her lips were dry, and she longed to wet them with her tongue, but she was determined not to let him see that he made her nervous. Alyssa glanced toward the bar, hoping to see Paul coming to her rescue, but he was still caught in the crush.
“Who is your friend?” Philippe asked, following her gaze.
“Just someone I’ve gone out with a time or two.”
“You have lost your aversion to Frenchmen who deal with the Nazis?”
His remark sent a new kind of fear through her. What if he became suspicious of Paul, knowing how she felt about the Nazis and those who helped them? Philippe might tip off his German friends to what Paul was doing.
She shrugged, careful to keep her manner cool and unconcerned. “It’s different when you think yourself in love with the person. Now I know better. I’d never lose my heart to another one like you. I use Paul to occupy my time.”
His mouth quirked. “And is he aware that’s his place in your life?”
“I’ve never asked him.” Her voice indicated vast unconcern.
“I could almost feel sorry for the man.”
“I’m sure that would be a most unusual feeling for you.” She wanted to gaze at him forever, to slide her finger across his chin and jaw. She knew exactly how his skin would feel, smooth from a recent shave. Alyssa looked away to hide the desire in her eyes, and her glance fell on Betty Haskell.
She made a motioning gesture toward the woman, and as Betty drew near, reached out to take her hand. “Betty! I was just telling Monsieur Michaude how interested you are in French architecture.”
“Oh, yes.” Betty glowed at the chance to talk to the handsome Frenchman. “And French furniture.”
“French clothes. French art,” Alyssa added lightly.
Betty chuckled, and Philippe managed a smile. “Yes,” Betty confessed, smiling. “I’m quite a Francophile.”
“If you’ll excuse me,” Alyssa put in quietly. “I’m sure you two will have a thousand things to talk about, and I must find Paul. He promised to bring me a drink, and now I’ve lost him.”
“Of course,” Betty agreed happily.
“Mademoiselle Lambert.” Philippe inclined his head slightly toward her. His eyes followed her as she made her way across the crowded room.
Philippe had felt a jolt clear through his body when he’d seen her enter the door on Paul Chermé’s arm. Alyssa was a vision, her hair wind-tossed, her cheeks flushed, the fur collar turned up to frame her face softly. He’d wanted to sink his hands into the luxurious fur and pull her to him, to kiss her until neither of them could think anymore.
“Lovely girl, isn’t she?” Betty prompted.
“Yes, indeed.” Philippe flashed the woman—what the hell was her name?—a charming smile. “As it seems all American women are.”
Betty dimpled in acceptance of his compliment, and they watched Alyssa reach Paul and tuck her hand into his arm. Paul turned to her, and they smiled at each other. Philippe’s stomach knotted. She didn’t smile at Paul as if he meant nothing to her.
But she couldn’t have fallen in love with someone else so soon, could she? Philippe had seen the hint of sadness in her eyes, the sorrow he knew he’d put there. It made him hate himself, yet he couldn’t deny the bittersweet flood of relief to know that she had truly loved him. Perhaps she loved him still. He would be a kinder, more noble person if he wished she was over him. He should hope that she found a new love, one worthy of her. But nobility was poor comfort when he saw her smile at Paul Chermé. He didn’t want her to love anyone but himself.
“Mademoiselle Lambert also seems to favor the French,” he commented to Betty, hoping his voice was light.
Betty chuckled. “So it seems. Before Paul came along, she played the field. She’s left a trail of broken hearts all over Washington. But now Paul is the man she’s seen with most often—although I would say that two or three others are not completely out of the running.”
“She is a flirt, then?” He smiled as if he found the subject amusing.
“Yes
…” Betty answered slowly. “Personally, I like Alyssa. I ignore the gossip I hear. Ugly rumors—this city is always full of them. But I think she’s what you say—just a flirt.”
“Rumors?”
Betty made a dismissive gesture. “Well, you can imagine what they say. That she does more than flirt. There are even people who point out that she has an excessive fondness for the Germans, Italians, and French. As if she were secretly a Nazi. I think it’s just that she avoids the British embassy because that young man there pursues her so. Everyone knows she’s not interested in Blakely—except him, of course. Who can blame her for liking European men better than Americans? I have a certain fondness for European men myself.” She glanced up at him archly, but her expression was wasted on Michaude, who stared straight ahead, his jaw clenched.
At dinner Philippe was not seated near Alyssa, since he was one of the honored guests who sat with the French and German ambassadors, while Alyssa was relegated with Paul to the area of the junior embassy employees. But he watched her, paying scant attention to his companions, and thought about what Betty Haskell had said.
Later, when the interminably long meal was over, he kept watch over Alyssa’s date, waiting until at last Paul left Alyssa talking with a group of women and wandered over to the bar. Philippe eased himself in behind Paul, and struck up a conversation with him. Paul, obviously flattered by an important guest’s attention, was eager to talk. After a few minutes, Philippe saw Alyssa break away from her group, which gave him the opportunity to introduce her into their conversation.
“I think your lovely companion is looking for you.” Philippe nodded his head in Alyssa’s direction.
Paul followed his gaze and smiled.
“She is a beautiful woman,” Philippe went on, his eyes now on his companion, who was gazing at Alyssa. He could see the desire spark in the other man’s eyes.
“Yes, isn’t she?” There was the smugness of possession in Paul’s tone, and Philippe had to clench his teeth to keep from jerking the young man up by his lapels and warning him to stay away from Alyssa.
