Before the Dawn

by Candace Camp

  She almost had to trot to keep up with his long strides, and she stumbled a time or two. He walked her out of the prison and across the street to a shiny black limousine. A muscular chauffeur standing beside the car jumped to open the door for them. Philippe thrust Alyssa into the back seat and climbed in after her. The chauffeur closed the door and started the car.

  Alyssa glanced over at Philippe. “Have you sunk to this now? Joining the Nazis in torturing prisoners?”

  There was a flash of fire in his eyes, and she was gratified to see her barb go home, but then his face switched to that same smug amusement, and he said, “I’ve always found that pleasure is more effective than pain in getting what one wants.”

  She flushed at his words, but before she could think of anything wounding enough to throw back at him, his cold voice stopped her. “Good Lord, you smell like a peasant. I can see I shall have to clean you up before you’re of any use to me.”

  Up front she could hear the chauffeur smother a snicker. Alyssa scooted as close to the opposite door as she could, and Philippe turned his indifferent face away from her, watching the passing buildings. Nothing else was said the rest of the trip.

  Alyssa thought of the pill in her mouth and wondered what to do. She hoped that Philippe’s arrival meant she would not be forced to use it—surely, however despicable he had become, he would not turn her over to be tortured—but she didn’t dare get rid of her suicide pill or let him see it. If she was lucky, she would be able to slip it back into her hem when they reached wherever he was taking her.

  The limousine stopped in front of his apartment building. Alyssa clutched her torn dress tighter to her. She didn’t want to face the memories she knew that seeing his home would bring. But she had little choice. Philippe got out of the car and stepped aside with mocking courtesy for her to precede him into the apartment building. The place was unbearably familiar; tears welled in her eyes, and Alyssa struggled to hold them back. Philippe unlocked the door to his apartment and ushered her in, calling out, “Frau Heuser!” Alyssa glanced around. It was very much the same, and she was swept with sorrow. It was so dear. So lost to her.

  A slender middle-aged woman entered the room, dressed in a starched gray-and-white servant’s uniform without frills of any kind. “This is Frau Heuser, my housekeeper,” Philippe told Alyssa, and Alyssa wondered what had happened to Georges. She had always liked the man; perhaps he had been unable to stomach working for a traitor.

  Philippe turned back to the German woman. “Take the prisoner and make sure she has a bath. Then give her something else to wear and burn those rags. Be sure to rid her of whatever fleas and other vermin she’s picked up as well.”

  “Yes, mein Herr.” The older woman came up and grasped Alyssa’s arm, surprising her with the strength of her grip.

  “Oh, and Frau Heuser—” Philippe’s voice stopped them as they left the room. “Make sure she doesn’t have a chance to flee or pick up any sort of weapon, either.”

  “Yes, Herr Michaude.” She tugged Alyssa’s arm and marched her down the hall to the bathroom. Alyssa thought the woman seemed more like a soldier than a housekeeper.

  Frau Heuser entered the bathroom with Alyssa and closed the door behind them. She began to prepare the bath, turning on the taps and dumping in fragrant salts, before turning to Alyssa and saying brusquely, “Take off your clothes and get into the tub. I will be back with your new clothes.”

  The housekeeper marched out of the room, and as soon as the door closed behind her, Alyssa reached into her mouth and removed the L-pill. She picked up her dress and pulled the other two tablets from the hem as well. Philippe had told the terrible woman to burn her clothes, so she must find some other place to hide the pills. Quickly she glanced around the room. But where could she put them that Philippe might not stumble upon them? She opened the drawers beside the sink, and in the last one she found what she needed: a roll of white adhesive tape, such as one used on a bandage. Quickly she ripped off a piece and stuck the three pills to it, then opened the top drawer and taped the pills to the underside of the counter above it.

  Her heart pounding and palms sweaty, she moved away from the drawers. She had seen no straight razor, scissors or nail clippers in her search, nothing that could be used as a weapon. It was doubtless why Frau Heuser felt comfortable leaving her in here alone. Hopefully Alyssa wouldn’t need any of those things. However hard Philippe had become, she could not believe that he would hurt her. She drew a deep breath and sat down on the edge of the tub.

  Reaching over to turn off the faucets, she cast a longing glance at the water, filled with sweet-smelling bubbles. How long had it been since she’d had a scented, frothy bath? Months and months, not since she’d left the United States. It seemed wicked to accept Philippe’s luxury, but she longed so to be clean. She felt filthy and contaminated from the odorous dirt of the prison, the vile touch of Gersbach’s hand.

  She hesitated for a moment, then rose and began to undress. After all, if she didn’t, Frau Heuser was likely to put her in forcibly. Alyssa sank down into the soothing, scented water and leaned back, resting her head against the rim of the tub. For a long time she simply lay there, soaking. There were three little roses of soap, pink, blue, and yellow, sitting in the silver soap tray. Alyssa picked one up. She’d had nothing but the roughest of soaps since she’d come to France. She sniffed the rose and closed her eyes, remembering other days, other long soaks in the tub. There had been times when Philippe walked in while she bathed and knelt beside her, rolling up his sleeves, and soaped her body all over. Then, with equally close attention, he had rinsed every vestige of soap from her skin.

  Just at the thought her abdomen tightened. Alyssa straightened, blushing, and dragged her mind away from her treacherous memories. She scrubbed the soap harshly over her skin, trying to rub away the stench and grime of the Cherche-Midi and to subdue by force the emotions that plagued her.

  When she had finished soaping and rinsing her body, she dipped her hair back in the water and washed it. To her surprise, the door opened, and Frau Heuser came in, carrying a bottle. Alyssa gasped and tried to cover her nakedness. “What are you doing in here?”

  “I will wash your hair.”

  “I’ve already shampooed. Please leave.”

  The older woman shook her head. “You haven’t washed it with this.” She poured some foul-smelling concoction into her hand and began to rub it into Alyssa’s hair and scalp.

  “No! Stop it! What is that?”

  “Herr Michaude said to. He wants no lice or fleas in his bed.” Frau Heuser continued imperturbably with the scrubbing.

  Alyssa’s cheeks burned with humiliation. She wasn’t sure which was more embarrassing—the idea that she was infested with vermin or the woman’s assumption that Alyssa would share Philippe’s bed.

  Finally Frau Heuser stopped the torturous scrubbing of her head and rinsed out Alyssa’s hair with a pitcher full of clean water and pulled the plug.

  “I take it my bath is through,” Alyssa commented dryly, rising. Frau Heuser held out a large, sinfully soft towel to her, and Alyssa took it, quickly wrapping it around her. As she dried off, Frau Heuser left again and returned with a filmy blue garment over one arm. In her hands was a mirrored cosmetics tray, bordered with silver. On it lay a silver-back brush and comb, two atomizers and a tiny bottle of perfume, several lipsticks, various pots and bottles of cosmetics.

  Alyssa took a step toward the tray, drawn by the display of feminine luxury she had known all her life until the last few months. She hadn’t realized until that moment how much she missed them—the scent of expensive perfume clinging to her skin and clothes; the rich smoothness of creams, the beauty-enhancing touches of mascara and lipstick, the glossy shine of painted fingernails against a smooth hand.

  Surely it wouldn’t hurt, she thought, to style her hair attractively and put on makeup and perfume. After all, there was no more reason to hide her looks; the Gestapo had f
ound her. Frau Heuser held out the pale blue peignoir she carried, a soft confection of gleaming satin and delicate lace. Alyssa slipped her arms into it and pulled it closed, tying the soft belt that was the only fastening. She looked at herself in the mirror. Her hair tumbled to her shoulders, wet and tangled. Her skin was dewy and flushed, her eyes bright. The robe caressed her skin, not quite clinging, but lovingly outlining the rich curves of her body. The V of the neckline cut across her white skin and tantalizingly showed the shadowy cleft of her breasts. She looked like a woman of wealth, beauty, and sensuality. Like a woman kept by a powerful man.

  Alyssa’s expression hardened. There was no way she would be that. Philippe still wanted her physically; he had proved that a year ago in Washington. No doubt that was why he had brought her here from the prison, thinking her gratitude would put her in his bed. That was what the peignoir and the enticing tray of cosmetics were for—to look good for him, to enhance the prize he had captured today. Well, she’d be damned if she would play along with his game. The cosmetics could stay right where they were. She wouldn’t go a step out of her way to appear pretty for Philippe Michaude.

  Alyssa grabbed the comb and brush from the tray and worked the tangles out of her hair, then left it wet and hanging. She dismissed the rest of the tray with a contemptuous glance, not even applying lipstick to give color to her mouth. She glanced down at the seductive peignoir. “Isn’t there anything else to wear?”

  Frau Heuser shook her head firmly. “Herr Michaude put that out, and that is what you will wear.”

  “Of course,” Alyssa blew out a short breath. “Then I suppose I’m ready.”

  The housekeeper led Alyssa out of the bathroom and down the hall into Philippe’s bedroom. Everything inside Alyssa quivered when she entered the familiar room. She walked over to the window, crossing her arms across her chest and fighting the sweet memories that flooded her. Velvet dark nights in the bed; lazy, sultry afternoons; the faint breeze through the open windows; the scents and sounds of loving; Philippe’s skillful fingers on her skin.

  She sat down, then realized she was sitting on the bed and jumped up again immediately, as if she’d been burned. She glanced at Frau Heuser, who observed her with indifference. Alyssa lowered her arms to her sides and faced her, chin thrust out pugnaciously, determined not to let the woman witness the signs of her distress.

  The door opened, and Philippe entered, carrying a tray, which he set down on a large lamp table. He dismissed Frau Heuser with a nod, and she left the room, closing the door after her. Alyssa glanced at the tray. There were two plates, each adorned with a yellow, fluffy omelet flecked with green herbs, a plate of light golden croissants and small pats of pale yellow butter pressed into rosettes, a pot of deep red strawberry preserves, and two steaming cups of aromatic, sweet French coffee, laced with cream. She turned her head away quickly so she wouldn’t have to look at the tempting food, but she couldn’t escape the delicious odors. Her stomach rumbled, and her mouth watered. It had been over twenty-four hours since she’d had anything to eat—and months and months since she had eaten food this delicious.

  Philippe pulled over two chairs. “Come and eat. This is bound to be an improvement on prison fare.” When Alyssa stayed stubbornly where she was, he added, “Georges made this omelet especially for you. His feelings will be hurt if you don’t eat it.”

  So Georges was still here. Alyssa remembered the last time Georges had whipped up one of his special omelets for them, the night after they had first made love. She set her teeth against the bittersweet memory. “If he still works for you, I doubt he is capable of feelings.”

  Philippe sighed. “Come! Even martyrs are allowed to eat, you know.”

  Alyssa sat down. She did have to eat, after all. The food would build up her strength, make her think better. But she also knew that such kindness was often another trick used by the Gestapo. First fear and intimidation, excruciating pain, and then an officer who was kind, who fed one and healed one’s wounds. With such a person even the strongest-willed people were apt to talk, especially about their childhoods or some unimportant thing in the past. And that sort of innocent remark was often what the Germans needed, the kind of thing that headquarters asked about when they tried to establish whether a transmitter was being used by the enemy.

  But Philippe already knew thousands of things about her; he wouldn’t have to seduce her into taking about her past. Alyssa dug into the meal, ashamed of the way she was cramming down the food, yet unable to slow down. It was too good, and she was too hungry. She kept her eyes lowered, embarrassed to look at Philippe, watching his hands instead. His fingers were curled around his coffee cup, and Alyssa saw with a jolt that they trembled slightly against the eggshell-thin china.

  Her eyes darted to his face, fear sweeping through her. Was he ill? Philippe was watching her, an expression of infinite sorrow and pain on his face. Alyssa laid down her fork. Was he ill? Her eyes ran over him. When she first saw him at the prison, she had noticed only how clean and handsome he appeared. But now that she looked closer, she saw that his face was thinner, and there were faint dark circles beneath his eyes. Two deep permanent lines slashed across between his eyebrows, and grooves that had not been there before were etched around his mouth and eyes. There were even touches of gray hair in his temples.

  “Philippe!” Alyssa started to rise from her chair, in that instant the war and their relative positions driven from her mind. She knew only a woman’s instinct that the man she loved was in pain, that he needed her, that she wanted to soothe and heal him.

  Philippe’s nostrils flared, and he jumped to his feet, his chair shooting back. “Sit down and eat!” he ordered roughly and strode away to the window, pulling out a pack of cigarettes.

  It had been getting harder and harder for Philippe to do the work he’d sworn to do even before he’d discovered Alyssa was in France. Ever since he’d first caught a glimpse of her in Paris, it had been nearly impossible. And that was before she’d been captured. Now… now it was pure agony.

  Yesterday, when he was sitting outside the Gestapo headquarters waiting for Schlieker and saw Alyssa being led to the car in front of him, his heart and lungs had stopped. He knew what would happen to her, what might already have happened to her, and he’d been cold and sick with dread. It had taken every ounce of willpower he possessed to regain his calm and coolly remark to Schlieker later that he thought he knew the girl and could perhaps ease from her the information they desired.

  There had been murder in his heart today when the prison matron led Alyssa out. She had looked so pitifully dirty and unkempt. He knew how the humiliation must have scored her soul, particularly with him witnessing it. He’d wanted to scoop her up in his arms and smother her with kisses, assure her that he would protect her, but that would have ruined any chance she had of escape. Instead he’d had to be harsh and cool toward her; it wouldn’t do to have Walther or Frau Heuser reporting that he was smitten with the woman.

  He had to keep Alyssa at arm’s length in order to save her life and preserve the fight that meant so much to both of them—whether she ever knew it or not. He could do it; he’d done far worse things. But the one thing he could not endure was her compassion.

  Alyssa plumped back down in her seat, flooded with shame. How could she have felt concern for him? How could she have let him see it? It was no loss to her if he was sick or plagued by conscience. He was as much her enemy as the Nazis and she should be glad if he was in any way debilitated.

  Keeping her eyes down, Alyssa attacked the food left on her plate, shoveling it in. When she was finished, Philippe laid a hand lightly on her wrist. “Would you like more?”

  Alyssa looked at him; his touch was soft, almost a caress. He didn’t appear to be mocking her now. She put down her fork, knowing she would make herself ill if she continued to eat. Pulling away from his touch, she folded her hands in her lap and gazed down at them. Philippe continued to stand over her. “Were yo
u treated badly in prison? Did they—do anything to you?”

  Sarcastically Alyssa retorted, “Why, no, it was just like the George V.”

  “This is not a game, Alyssa, where your good looks and snappy repartee will get you out of any difficulty. You’re facing death and torture! Nom de Dieu! Don’t you realize what Gersbach would do to you? What if I hadn’t happened along yesterday and seen you?”

  She didn’t reply, just glared up at him, struggling to think of a sufficiently venomous reply. But before she could speak, the door to the hall burst open. Alyssa jumped, and Philippe whirled around. The doorway was filled by a squat man stuffed into a dark suit. Gersbach. Alyssa tightened all over, her stomach squeezing in fear. He looked furious, and behind him loomed two large, armed men.

  Chapter 19

  “Well, Herr Gersbach,” Philippe said pleasantly. Alyssa noted that he moved slightly in front of her, and she was grateful for his presence, however cowardly the urge was. “Come in. What brings you here this morning?” He made a gesture toward the remains of the meal. “Would you care for breakfast? I’ll ask Frau Heuser—“

  “I don’t want any breakfast,” Gersbach interrupted impatiently. “I came for the girl.”

  Philippe perched on the arm of Alyssa’s chair and looped an arm around her shoulders, casually possessive. Alyssa stiffened, embarrassed at the flood of sensations that swept through her at Philippe’s touch. Even after all that had happened, even with her mind railing against it, her body wanted him. And his gesture was clearly meant to state to the other man that Philippe intended on keeping her for himself. “My guest?” he asked lightly. “I’m afraid that’s impossible.”

  Gersbach’s face congested with rage. “Impossible! How dare you say that to me? How dare you take her? She is mine!” The German’s eyes ran down Alyssa’s body, taking in the soft satin that curved over her breasts. Alyssa was glad she was sitting down so that the table covered everything but her upper torso.