by Lynn Sheene
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1 - THE SOCIALITE
Chapter 2 - THE ADVANCE
Chapter 3 - THE CANE
Chapter 4 - THE OFFER
Chapter 5 - THE NEW BADEAU
Chapter 6 - THE WARNING
Chapter 7 - THE PRICE OF ELEGANCE
Chapter 8 - THE ESCAPE FROM PARIS
Chapter 9 - THE BETRAYAL
Chapter 10 - THE CHTEAU
Chapter 11 - THE NAZI’S MISTRESS
Chapter 12 - THE ESCAPE
Chapter 13 - THE CHOICE
Chapter 14 - LA VIE EN FLEURS
READERS GUIDE FOR
PRAISE FOR The Last Time I Saw Paris
“American money, Nazi skulduggery, British sangfroid, French passion—in The Last Time I Saw Paris, Lynn Sheene delivers more drama, romance and suspense than we’ve seen since the Paris Occupation in Casablanca.”
—Katherine Neville, New York Times bestselling author of
The Fire
“The Last Time I Saw Paris is an absorbing, suspenseful and delightful debut. Lynn Sheene has delivered a fantastic romantic thriller, which perfectly balances convincing historical research with page-turning thrills. It is an absolute joy to read.”
—David Liss, bestselling author of The Devil’s Company
“Set against the backdrop of Paris during the Second World War, The Last Time I Saw Paris is a breathtaking tale of love, courage, intrigue and betrayal. Beautifully written and heartfelt, it is a thoroughly enjoyable and memorable read.”
—Pam Jenoff, bestselling author of The Kommandant’s Girl
“The Last Time I Saw Paris glows with the faded but indomitable beauty of the city herself. Sheene’s research is impeccable, her writing lyrical, and in Claire Badeau she has created an unflinching heroine who haunted me long after I regretfully devoured the last page. Sheene is a powerful writer, and I cannot wait to read whatever comes next.”
—Rebecca Cantrell, award-winning author of
A Night of Long Knives
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This is an original publication of The Berkley Publishing Group.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
Copyright © 2011 by Hawkeye Sheene.
All rights reserved.
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PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley trade paperback edition / May 2011
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Sheene, Lynn.
The last time I saw Paris / Lynn Sheene.—Berkley trade pbk. ed. p. cm.
eISBN : 978-1-101-51482-5
1. Socialites—Fiction. 2. Americans—France—Paris—Fiction. 3. World War, 1939–1945—France—Paris—Fiction. 4. World War, 1939–1945—Underground movements—France—Paris—Fiction. 5. Paris (France)—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3619.H45128L37 2011
813’.6—dc22
2010046281
http://us.penguingroup.com
To my husband, Ken
To my parents, Jim and Joan
In memory of James Alfred Comstock,
poet and grandfather (1911–1983)
Acknowledgments
Thank you to my wonderful husband, Ken Spalding, for his patience, support and never-failing joie de vivre; to my parents, who passed on their love of books; to my granddad, who revealed the lyrical beauty of the perfect word; and to Mohican Laine, a true friend who never doubted. I must especially thank Rochelle Staab, fellow writer and dear friend, who read every word of every draft—I am a better writer for it. I am immensely grateful to my agent, Kevan Lyon, who made it all happen, and Kate Seaver at Berkley for her enthusiasm and guidance.
Chapter 1
THE SOCIALITE
Manhattan, New York. May 8, 1940.
Claire Harris Stone breathed in the faint scent of roses from the courtyard garden below as her yielding body swayed to the strains of “In the Mood” drifting out the open French doors. The sounds of the orchestra inside her Manhattan brownstone blended with the late-night rumble of traffic along Fifth Avenue.
Buoyed by the Veuve Clicquot champagne, she felt as though she floated above her partner as their gliding shoes whispered against the balcony floor. He held her tight, his hands warming her body through her thin silk dress. Her arms were draped around his shoulders.
He was tall. That was nice. And he knew how to dance; even better.
“You’re dreaming, Claire,” von Richter said.
“Of you.” Claire opened her eyes.
He was nearing forty, she guessed. Slender, perfect posture, the polished manner of a European aristocrat. Dark hair slicked back, he had the tan of a denizen of ocean liners and Riviera beaches. A light trace of a scar on his chin, he said from a duel. Not what she expected, with all that she’d heard of Hitler’s rants about the Aryan race.
“Say something in German,” she said.
He spoke against her throat.
“What did you say?”
“I am going to remove—” His hands slid past her hips. “What is this, in English?”
“My stockings?”
“Stockings.” He tasted the word. “I am going to remove your stockings with my teeth.”
“But what would Russell say if you ripped them?”
“He can afford another pair.”
“Mmm.” She breathed into his shoulder, wishing for another drink. “Tell me about Berlin.” Anywhere but here, she thought.
“Berlin has its charms. Merkel longs to return. But Paris, that is the place. The clubs . . . Josephine Baker dancing, the Moulin Rouge, Pigalle, the women . . . Well, I won’t say what they do. Only the French take the pleasure of a woman’s body so seriously.”
Claire felt his fingers slide closer to her thigh. At least this one was a charmer. She rarely was so lucky with
Russell’s clients. She flirted and tempted, and then her husband came in for the business kill.
With one sure hand, von Richter guided her across the floor to the rhythm of the music. The other hand discreetly explored her, gliding across exposed skin from the nape of her neck to the leg revealed by the side slit in her gown.
“When is your husband going to join us?” He gestured toward the doors with his head. “Poor Merkel grows tired and impatient inside.”
She composed a pout and threaded gloved fingers through his hair. “You’re not having a good time?”
“I would prefer your husband never return, lovely. You are a sublime hostess, entertaining your guests until he arrives.”
“Yes, I am.” She pulled free, leisurely swatted at the hand reaching for the curve of her behind. She blew him a kiss. “I am going to check my stockings. Sharpen those teeth.”
As she stepped inside, Claire squinted at the glare from the glittering chandeliers. The thirty-two-piece orchestra dueled against chattering voices and clinking crystal. Men in tuxedoes and women in sparkling gowns chatted in clusters across the ballroom floor.
Arranging a polished smile, Claire advanced from the shadows. With an imperceptible flick of her hips, the glittering cream folds of her dress swept around her legs like a curtain of stars poured onto the white marble. All eyes in the room swiveled toward her. A sharp voice cut through the din.
“Claire, darling! You’re missing your own party. Where have you been?” Surviving exclusively on cigarettes and gossip, Margo Townsend’s rail-thin body was adorned in couture and dripping with jewels. She planted a dramatic kiss on Claire’s cheek, then leaned in to whisper. “Did you see Flora Foster? She brought a photographer with her. Drop Hitler a thank-you card for this one. Everyone is in Manhattan tonight.”
Margo was right. With Germany’s invasion of Poland last fall, State Department travel restrictions meant that only diplomats and journalists could travel to Europe. Everyone was in town this spring—and at the Stone mansion tonight. Claire scanned the room for Foster, the matriarch of the New York Times society pages. She’d written up Claire in her column a number of times in the past year, but a photo spread was a significant accomplishment. Russell ought to be pleased that his wife was the toast of Manhattan. Whenever the bastard showed.
A white-coated server glided by with drinks on a silver tray. Claire downed a glass of champagne and pressed through the dancing couples, smiling, kissing and maneuvering her way across the floor.
Flora was holding court in the corner, a lean brunette surrounded by admiring socialites gunning for a mention in the coveted first paragraph. “Ah, there’s our hostess.” Flora stabbed a long cigarette toward Claire’s necklace. “That piece is devastating! Cartier?”
Claire stroked the jewels with the tip of her finger. She loved their feel against her skin. Intricate spiderwebs of diamonds spun toward a glittering pendant that hung between her breasts. In the center, an enormous faceted diamond reflected dancing lights.
“What was the occasion for that sparkler, darling? Spill for our readers.”
The necklace had been a present from Russell for her twenty–ninth birthday this spring. A reward, and damn well earned, for her social climbing on his behalf.
“Kiss and tell? Never,” Claire said to twitters of laughter.
A gloved hand tapped her elbow. Her butler, Davis, caught her eyes, his lips pressed into a thin line. Irritation flashed through her. Had her ass of a husband finally called? She forced a smile, excused herself, and followed Davis into the hall.
“Did Mr. Stone telephone? How late is he going to be?” Claire didn’t know what she was going to do about von Richter if Russell didn’t show soon.
“No, Mrs. Stone. There is someone at the servants’ entrance.”
“Let him in.”
“He’s not invited, Mrs. Stone.”
“Well, have him tossed out, then.”
“I don’t know if that would be a good idea.” Davis leaned in, his voice dropping to a low murmur. “He purports to know you. Know you well.”
Her mind churned at all the possible ghosts outside that door. “Are you the only one he’s spoken to?”
Davis nodded.
“Keep it that way,” she said.
Claire stepped outside the kitchen door, Davis at her shoulder. A large dark figure stumbled up, smelling of bad whiskey and sweat. Broad shoulders strained at the tattered fabric of his jacket, spotted with food and drink and road.
Her own personal nightmare, in the flesh. The champagne fuzz in her head burned away. She forced the words past the dread gripping her throat. “Davis, please go inside and attend to our guests.”
He frowned, his gaze on the man.
“Now, Davis.”
“Yes, Mrs. Stone. Ring the bell should you require anything.” He pulled the door shut behind him.
The visitor’s sour mouth turned down as he examined Claire. “My, my Clara May. Don’t you look fancy.”
“Bernard. What do you want?”
“I saw you in the paper, read about your fancy sham pedigree and your rich husband.” He sneered at her thin dress, the creamy skin that glimmered in the moonlight. “I got a little something for you.”
Her jaw clenched. She’d had plenty from him and his sweaty obsessions years ago. She reached for the door.
“It’s a letter from your family. Your real family.”
Claire crossed her arms in front of her. It wasn’t possible. Not after eleven years.
Bernard pulled out a tattered envelope and flashed rotted teeth in a caricature of the smile he plied on her father’s doorstep years ago. “I’ve carried it a long way. Maybe you could spare a little something for my effort?”
She examined him. A bum, but there were vultures inside who would pick his story apart. And a goddamn reporter and photographer. “Fine. I’ll be right back. Don’t speak to anyone.” She turned toward the door.
He grabbed her arm. “I don’t believe you, Clara May. You have a habit of leaving me behind. I remember where you keep your money.” His gaze fell to her breasts.
Claire yanked her arm free. The bastard was right. Old insecurities died hard. She fished out the folded bills tucked in her cleavage. Bernard snatched the money, his face greedy. Claire slipped the letter inside her dress.
He leered at her and rubbed a dirty hand against his crotch. “I still got my Studebaker. I’ll give you a ride anywhere you like.”
“Get out.”
He crowded her against the door, his bulk blocking out the night. The stench nearly overwhelmed her. “That’s a pretty necklace you got. You wouldn’t want anyone in there to find out what you really are, Clara May Wagner. I might just go tell them where you come from.”
A latch clicked behind them.
Russell Stone towered in the doorway, cigar clenched in his mouth. Going on fifty, his powerful physical presence made him look younger. His silk tuxedo didn’t disguise the hardness won from the street. “Who’s this, Claire?” Russell’s eyes were on Bernard.
“You the husband? I got something to tell you about this one.”
Russell took a deep pull on his cigar as he stepped between them. In one movement, he flicked the cigar into the darkness and swung a meaty fist at Bernard’s jaw. The man crumpled onto the sidewalk, blood pouring from his face. With the toe of a polished shoe, Russell flicked him off the bricks and into the grass.
A gasp came from the doorway where Davis stood wide-eyed.
“Clean up this mess, Davis.” Russell reached for Claire.
His grip dug into her arm as he led her toward the party. She struggled to build a lie. A friend of her eccentric uncle’s. A charity case. A crazy drunk.
“Take the Germans to my study. I want them softened, understand? I’ll give you an hour.” He straightened her necklace and prodded the diamond pendant with a thick finger; the force pushed Claire back a step. “Take better care of that.”
Claire hid a wince
as he jerked her through the doorway.
Flora met them just inside the ballroom. “Oh, how wonderful. Mr. Stone has arrived. We must have a photo of the darling couple.” A smile and a flash.
Russell’s hand enveloped Flora’s thin fingers in greeting. “Mrs. Foster, we are so pleased you joined our little soiree tonight, hosted by my talented and beautiful wife.”
Claire offered her cheek for a perfunctory kiss from the adoring husband.
As Flora walked away, Russell faced Claire. He stroked her lips with skinned knuckles. “That grifter called you Clara May Wagner. Funny you responded, isn’t it, Claire Harris? Or maybe I should call you Clara too?” His hand moved down her arm, stopping to dig a thumbnail into the soft skin inside her elbow. She flinched. “Maybe you need to join him in the gutter, huh?”
Her throat constricted as she watched him stride into the crowd at the center of the ballroom. Russell didn’t tolerate disloyalty from any of his crew. Not at all. She picked a glass from the silver tray of a passing waiter and took a long drink, allowing the cold bubbles to wash the knot down her throat. His dealings with the Germans would take a few hours. She’d find a way to cover this up. She had to.
Von Richter and his business partner, Heimler Merkel, stood together near the fireplace, heads bent together in conversation. If von Richter was the playboy, Merkel was the accountant. A grey little man in his sixties, silently noting every gay laugh, kiss and toast. Claire imagined a tally sheet in his breast pocket. Bottles of champagne, twenty four.
A partygoer in a tuxedo wobbled over to the fireplace to face von Richter. Holding himself up with an arm slung across the mantel, he swung an empty glass in his free hand.
