Before the Dawn

by Candace Camp

  “She is your mistress?” he asked pleasantly. “Or is she free?”

  Paul glanced at him sharply, then grinned in a very male way. “She wouldn’t like the term. But, no, she isn’t free.”

  “Pity.” He gave the younger man a friendly smile. “Perhaps you’d better go to her.”

  His impassive face as he watched Paul make a beeline to Alyssa belied the writhing jealousy inside him. So she was sleeping with Paul. And the others? The Germans and Italians Betty had hinted of? No, not them; she would never—unless she had to. Would she go that far in this dangerous game he suspected she was playing? She was harder now, more cynical; he had only himself to blame for that. But Ian, damn him, was responsible for using her this way.

  Throughout the rest of the evening, Philippe kept one eye on Alyssa. It was easy enough after the dancing started, for she was on the floor every dance. Finally, after she had danced with several other men, Philippe went over to her and asked her formally for the dance. She was standing with several other people and could hardly refuse without causing talk, as he had planned.

  She smiled stiffly. “Of course.”

  He took her hand and led her onto the smooth wooden dance floor. She was like a mannequin in his arms. “Relax,” he said. “I don’t plan to ravish you right here on the floor.”

  “I didn’t think you did.”

  Alyssa had felt him watching her all through dinner and afterward. She managed not to even glance at him, but it hadn’t helped. She could picture him in her mind as clearly as if he stood right in front of her, and it made her stomach curl with excitement and helpless anger. Why did she let him affect her so? Why couldn’t she control her trembling, aching emotions?

  She couldn’t bear being in his arms as they danced. He was too close. It made her think of all the other times they danced, closer still. She could smell the familiar scent of his aftershave, feel the warmth of his hand through her dress. His body was so close to her, it would take very little for his arms to encircle her. Alyssa trembled, knowing that was exactly what she wanted him to do. She refused to look at him, knowing her eyes would roam to his mouth and he would see the hunger in her face.

  She wasn’t aware that if she had looked, she would have seen the same hunger stamped on Philippe’s face. In a low voice, he said, “I want to talk to you.”

  “Then talk.”

  “Alone.”

  “No.”

  “Why? Are you afraid of me?”

  She raised her head defiantly at that, as he had known she would. “No, I’m not afraid of you. I just can’t stand to be near you.”

  He did his best to stay impassive, but his mouth thinned ever so slightly and his fingers tensed on her waist. “Perhaps you would rather I talk to the French Ambassador about the games you and Chermé have been playing.”

  He admired her acting skill, her calm. There was no hint of alarm on her face, only a faintly puzzled raising of her eyebrows. “I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about.”

  “No? Then there’s no need for you to worry, is there?” The dance stopped, and slowly his arms fell away from her. He looked at her for a moment silently, then started to turn away.

  “No, wait!” Alyssa hissed. “I’ll talk to you.”

  He took her arm and led her off the dance floor and down a hallway. Finding a small, empty waiting room, he pulled her inside and closed the door after them. He turned to face Alyssa. She crossed her arms and stared back at him defiantly.

  “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Alyssa Lambert, girl spy,” he went on scornfully. “This is serious, Alyssa. It’s not a game, not a play.”

  “I didn’t say it was.”

  “Leave it alone.”

  “I don’t know what makes you think that I—“

  His mouth twisted. “I heard a lot of things about you tonight. Such as that you’re having an affair with Paul Chermé. That you have a decided preference for Germans and Italians. That the only Englishman you speak to is some man named Blakely who pursues you diligently despite your repeatedly giving him the cold shoulder.”

  Alyssa did not answer, and his eyes burned even more brightly.

  “I’m not a fool. I know your opinion of those people. I know why you’re socializing with them. Why you might feel compelled to—damn it, Alyssa.” Jealousy twisted up and through his fear for her safety, so that the two became impossibly entangled. “Was Chermé lying? Are you sleeping with him?”

  “I’ll sleep with whomever I choose. It’s none of your business.”

  Philippe grabbed her arms, and his eyes bored into hers. “Don’t you realize what a dangerous game you’re playing? What they might do to you if they suspect you’re spying on them? What it will do to your soul to consort with them, to beguile and charm and smile into their faces?”

  Alyssa jerked away from him. “You’re being ridiculous. I’m not spying on anyone. I can’t imagine what it would accomplish, anyway.” She whirled to face him, her face cold and hard. “No one cares. England is doomed; Americans can’t be bothered. Everyone is like you—chasing their own interests. No one values honor or goodness anymore. And neither do I. I’m not the naïve, idealistic woman you knew. I should thank you for waking me up to reality. The world as I knew it is over. We are sinking into oblivion, and I intend to grab every bit of life I can before we go down.”

  He made a derisive noise. “Nice little bit of acting, but I don’t believe you. You don’t give up without a fight.”

  “No? Well, I do now. I learned, Philippe; I learned it at your hands. Never count on anyone; they will always let you down. Everyone can be bought; the only difference is the price it takes. I’m not playing the fool anymore. Not for you, not for anyone. Least of all for some pie-in-the-sky ideal. I’m looking out for me.” She slapped her hand against her chest. “I am going to have fun, and to hell with you and to hell with the rest of the world.”

  “And that is why you’re sleeping with Chermé? To show the world how tough you are?” He drew closer. “To show me how little I meant to you?”

  “You don’t mean anything to me.” Alyssa snapped, moving back.

  “Ah, I see. That must be why you daren’t be close to me. Because I am nothing to you.” His voice dropped. “It cannot be because you fear what you’ll feel if I touch you.” He raised his hand to touch her cheek.

  Alyssa stiffened. “I don’t feel anything for you but loathing.”

  Phillipe leaned closer, gazing down into her deep blue eyes. He heard the soft catch of her breath, but she didn’t move away. This was madness. He knew it, and yet he could not resist. He kissed her.

  Softly, tenderly, he opened her lips to his with a teasing tongue. She shuddered and melted against him. Philippe groaned, and his arms slid around her. It had been so long since he had felt her softness in her arms; for months his body had ached to feel her again. Among all the other agonies, that had been the sharpest.

  His mouth was avid on hers, as if he could consume her, and her mouth answered with equal hunger. He felt her breath in his mouth, against his face. He felt her heat against his skin. It seemed to him as though he could feel her very blood inside his veins. His hands roamed her body.

  Her fingers dug into his shirtfront. She pressed up into him, her breasts flattening against his chest. He ran his hands over the curve of her buttocks and down her slim thighs, bunching up the fabric of her dress, blindly aware of nothing but the need to feel her skin beneath his fingertips. His fingers slid up the smooth silk of her stocking and onto the flesh above, and his hand trembled on her skin. He parted her legs with one of his and Alyssa pressed herself against him, her fingers digging into his hair.

  For the first time in months, Alyssa felt alive, awash with desire, pure hunger without mind or memory. She ached to hold onto the moment. It could have been a day in Paris almost a year ago. The room could
have been Philippe’s, the long window open to the sounds of Paris and the gentle May breeze, instead of a waiting room in an embassy in Washington, the windows closed against the chill of a March wind.

  But it wasn’t. She knew it wasn’t. It was here and now. And she and Philippe were not lovers any longer but people fighting on the opposite sides of a war. He was a man without scruples. A man she hated.

  Disgust flooded her, and Alyssa twisted sharply out of his hands. Philippe’s eyes opened dazedly, his arms suddenly empty. “What? Alyssa.”

  “No!” She turned away, hastily tugging at her skirt. Tears filled her eyes. How could she have given in so easily? How could she have responded to him like that? Like an animal, a mindless animal.

  “Please.” His voice shook a trifle. It was husky and rich with desire. He came up behind her, his hands reaching out to touch her shoulders. “Let me love you again. Just for tonight. No one will know. There’s no one and nothing we’ll hurt. One time, for a memory to keep me human.”

  She jerked away from his touch. Her voice was raw with tears. “Leave me alone. I don’t want anything to do with you. Just leave me alone!”

  Alyssa ran from the room, slamming the door behind her. Philippe started after her, but stopped at the door. He sighed and leaned his head against it. She wanted him as much as ever, but she hated him, too. She would never make love to him again. She was lost to him. He had lived with that knowledge for almost a year now, and he would simply have to continue to live with it. His hand clenched into a fist, and he crashed it against the door. The door shook in its frame. He wanted to smash something, to destroy the room around him. But he knew that what he really wanted to destroy was the prison he had built for himself. And there was no way he could.

  *****

  Alyssa fled to the women’s powder room to hide from Philippe and compose herself. Shakily she washed the tearstains from her face and combed her hair as best she could with her fingers. There was nothing she could do to hide her flushed cheeks or the swollen look of her passion-bruised lips. She’d left her handbag in the ballroom, so she had no makeup to help hide the results of Philippe’s kisses. She smiled a little at the attendant; she hadn’t a coin to give her either. Alyssa left the restroom and went to find Paul.

  When she told him she wished to leave, he was immediately concerned and accommodating, and they left as soon as he retrieved their coats. Alyssa was quiet all the way home, confirming his assumption that she wasn’t feeling well. He chattered on about her health and springtime colds and the cures his mother had used until Alyssa thought she would scream. All she could think about was Philippe. The magic of his touch, the fire of his kisses. No other man could arouse a spark in her, but Philippe had only to kiss her to set off a conflagration. Why was she like that? Why did she let him have such power over her? What was the matter with her that she couldn’t feel that way about someone decent? She felt low and cheap.

  Philippe had guessed immediately what she was doing, dating Paul and the others. If he told the French Ambassador or, worse yet, the Germans, it would mean the end of Paul. She had no doubt that Philippe would be happy to get rid of Paul. He had obviously been jealous at the idea of Paul’s sleeping with her. But surely he could not have become that hard, that wicked. He had warned her about the danger to her—would he really turn around and give up Paul to the enemy, knowing that it would reveal her part in it, as well? After the way he had kissed her?

  She said good-bye quickly to Paul when their cab reached her door, and was grateful that for once he didn’t try to come inside. She slipped inside the darkened house and turned on the hall light. Her father was out this evening, probably working late at the office. She started up the stairs.

  Suddenly a shadowy figure loomed up in the doorway from the kitchen, and Alyssa froze.

  “Don’t worry,” a soft English voice came down the hall. “It is I. I thought it better to enter by the rear door.”

  “Ian!” Alyssa cried out and ran to throw her arms around him. Surprised, he stumbled a little, but hugged her back. Alyssa stepped back to look at him. “What are you doing here?”

  “Business. A rather important conference I had to attend. I won’t bother you with the details.”

  Alyssa grinned. “You mean you wouldn’t trust me with them. Come in. Sit down. But what were you doing in the kitchen? How did you get in?”

  “I let myself in, I’m afraid. Sorry to frighten you, but I thought it best that no one see me calling at the front door. I picked the lock on your back door and waited for you in the kitchen. Why don’t we return there? No reason to have the drawing room lights on.”

  “Yes, of course. Could I get you anything to drink? Or eat?”

  “A spot of tea would be nice, thank you.”

  “Coming right up.” Alyssa linked her arm through his, and they walked back into the kitchen. “I’m so happy to see you. Tell me, how is Jessica? And Claire and Ky? How is London? I read about all the destruction every day in the papers, and it wrings my heart.”

  “London is surviving. There are signs up now on the walls of collapsed buildings reading ‘London Can Take It.’ And apparently she can. As we all seem to be able to. Jessica is holding steady. She finished top in her class and now works with us. Ky is alive and in one piece, which means that Claire is happy. She continues to drive an ambulance, and there are times when I think she means to save the entire city by herself. She never gets enough rest.”

  “What about Alan? Has Jessica heard anything?”

  Ian shook his head sadly. “No. His name hasn’t appeared on any list of prisoners from the Germans. That’s not conclusive, of course. His name could have been omitted, or he could have been picked up by a friendly French fisherman and be hiding out in France. But it’s not likely, and the longer the time that passes, the less likely it seems. Jessica accepted Alan’s death a while ago, but there will probably always be some small glimmer of hope.”

  “Poor Jessica.” Alyssa sighed and lit a match, turning up the knob on the stove to light the burner, and set the teakettle atop it. She came back to sit down at the small table across from Ian. She studied him in the overhead light. He looked older and more tired. She supposed they all did.

  “How are you?” he asked, surprising her.

  Alyssa shrugged. “All right. Everson tells me I’m getting rather good at digging out information.”

  “I didn’t mean your job; I’ve seen the results of your work, and it’s most impressive. But I meant you, personally.”

  Alyssa shrugged and didn’t meet his eyes. “I’m okay.” She sighed. “No, actually I’m not. Not professionally either. Something happened tonight that worries me. I don’t imagine you know, but when I was in France, I met a man. He was—well, I fell in love with him. But when France fell, he stayed and cooperated with the Germans.”

  “I had heard some of the story from Jessica.”

  “I saw him tonight. He’s part of a delegation of businessmen the Vichy government has sent here to talk to American businessmen. Apparently he heard I was dating Paul and had been seeing a lot of German and Italians. Of course, he knows my views on the war, so he became suspicious. I spun him a tale about just having some unbridled fun, but I doubt he believed me. What if he tells the ambassador about Paul?”

  Ian’s brows rose. “Do you think he will?”

  “I don’t know. He’s. . .not the man I thought I knew. He may tell somebody, but on the other hand, he may hold it over me. And I don’t know what to do in either case.”

  Ian sighed. His eyes were sad as he reached over to pat Alyssa’s hand. “I wouldn’t worry about him. We’ll take care of him, I should think.”

  Alyssa’s head snapped up. “Don’t kill him! You wouldn’t do that, would you?”

  “No, no. We won’t do anything like that. What I meant was that he’s probably open to a bribe. After all, it’s profit that put him with the Nazis, not principle. Correct? I imagine a bit
of money will keep his mouth shut.”

  Alyssa looked doubtful. “You think so? He’s not a poor man.”

  “I suspect he won’t object to being slightly richer. He thinks only of himself; he has no cause or beliefs.”

  “You don’t seem very concerned about it.”

  “I’m not. I think you will be safe from this particular man. With everyone else, though, you watch your step.”

  “Yessir.” Alyssa smiled and gave him a snappy salute. The teakettle went off, and she jumped up to pour the boiling water over the leaves in the teapot.

  Ian watched her. There were times when he hated himself. He played with people’s lives. Separated them, hurt them. He knew it was for the general good. For everyone’s survival, in fact. What was important was that England and democracy survive. Still, there were times when the sacrifices seemed too hard. He shook his head. He couldn’t sit here feeling sorry for himself or the people who worked with him. He had countenanced worse things than what had happened to Alyssa Lambert and Philippe Michaude. He imagined he wouldn’t hesitate to do worse things yet.

  *****

  The following afternoon, a frail old gentleman made his slow way down the street. A plain wooden cane supported his steps, and he was stooped over. He had bundled up against the brisk March wind with an overcoat, a hat pulled low on his head, and a heavy muffler wrapped around his throat. Above his mouth was a small white mustache, and white hair peeked out from under the hat at the temples. Wire-rimmed spectacles perched on his nose. He turned the corner and shuffled through the entrance of a small, modest downtown hotel. He took the elevator to the third floor and stepped out, carefully bracing a hand against the elevator door. Slowly he walked down the hall and around the corner, stopping at the room directly across from the doorway to the side stairs. He bent to unlock the door and went inside.

  Straightening, he stretched his back and strode across to the window, tossing the cane onto the bed as he went. The hat, muffler, and coat joined the cane on the bed, revealing a head that was covered with reddish-blonde hair everywhere except the temples, and a face and form that were more middle-aged than old. The room had been rented the day before by a Mr. Cranston, a young man with a Midwest accent who was neither the old man nor the middle-aged man hidden beneath.