The Unsung Hero

by Suzanne Brockmann

  Not just ice. Ice and Cuban rum. It went down like sugar candy. And after a few glasses, even the idea of spending the rest of his life with the childishly selfish Jenny had seemed positively grand.

  Charles awoke with a start, with Luc Un’s foot jabbing him sharply in the side as the Frenchman muttered something dark he didn’t quite catch. The meaning was unmistakable, though—you bum.

  The two Lucs and Henri and Jean-Whoever—Claude or Pierre or maybe even another Luc, who could keep them straight?—were all still darkly unhappy with Charles for making them learn how to darn socks. In truth, Charles had done nothing. He’d merely made sure he was busy and working every chance he got. It was the only way he had to fight the Nazis—by freeing up Cybele and the other women so that they could do more dangerous work. Which, he told himself, was fine with him. If he had a choice, if he couldn’t be shipped safely back home, then he’d stay here in this kitchen, thanks, right until the end of the war.

  He was much faster with his needle now—not as fast as Cybele or Dominique, true, but certainly the fastest among the men.

  Joe had been next. Charles hadn’t been at it for more than a day before Joe had picked up a needle and joined him.

  Trying to earn points with Cybele, no doubt.

  As far as Charles could tell, Joe had earned only one of Cybele’s luminous smiles.

  No kisses.

  Charles was the only one who’d received that particular prize.

  Of course, Cybele had been careful not to be alone with him since then. And that was a good thing, he reminded himself.

  He’d entertained her with stories about Baldwin’s Bridge—but only when Joe was around to act as interpreter. And chaperon.

  Now Joe, he was a piece of work. He was so quiet, you’d almost forget he was there. But the beans and fresh greens on the table at dinner were courtesy of Joe. And whenever there was an uproar in town, whenever the Germans had a truckload of supplies stolen out from under their noses or a train was derailed in the night, whenever downed American pilots mysteriously escaped Nazi capture, well, chances were that was courtesy of Joe, too.

  For all their differences, Charles liked Joe. He respected Joe.

  And he didn’t need his degree from Harvard to know that Joe was in love with Cybele.

  It was a wondrously pure, worshipful love. The kind that a woman like Cybele Desjardins deserved. A saintly love. An honest, respectful, humble, and true love.

  There was no doubt about it—Joe would do anything, anything for her if she so much as asked. Yeah, he would lay down his life for Cybele.

  Who had kissed Charles a week ago.

  Now, Charles had kissed a lot of women in his relatively short life, and on a scale from one to five, with five being that greatest number of inches an enthusiastic woman’s tongue could go down his throat, that tiny little kiss had been a solid zero.

  Not a single tongue had been involved. It was nothing. Zilch. It was the kind of dry, dutiful kiss he might bestow upon his elderly maiden aunt. It was completely platonic. It was . . .

  Christ, who was he kidding? That kiss had been anything but platonic. It had trembled with emotion and barely contained passion. It had been a promise—the very slightest whisper of a promise, true, but a promise of paradise, for sure.

  He’d thought about that single, tiny kiss for hours, days. He’d spent more time dreaming about it than any other kiss he’d ever partaken of in his entire life.

  And when he wasn’t thinking about that kiss, he was thinking about Cybele’s eyes. Eyes that a man could lose himself in for an eternity. Eyes that saw so much, that knew so much. Impossibly beautiful eyes.

  And her mouth. Graceful lips, full and moist. Slightly, charmingly crooked teeth she didn’t try to hide when she smiled.

  And yes, he’d thought about her body plenty, too. The slight curve of her hips beneath her skirt, the oversized dresses that both concealed and revealed her less than ample breasts. Compared to Jenny, she had the body of a boy. Or at least he’d imagined she did. He’d spent a hell of a lot of time imagining.

  God help him, but he wanted her. He ached for her, he burned for her—Jenny and Joe be damned.

  “Guiseppe!” Dominique burst through the kitchen door. She lunged for the man sitting across from Charles at the kitchen table, crumpling to her knees in front of him, erupting in a whispered explosion of undecipherable French.

  Undecipherable to Charles, that is. Joe seemed to get what she was saying, his face tightening, his eyes suddenly hard.

  He stood up, issuing orders rapid-fire. Charles could only make out some of the words. Market basket. Egg money.

  Luc Un was the only other man in the house. The others had strayed too far the night before and hadn’t been able to get back before dawn. But now Luc went one way, Dominique the other, gathering the market basket and the carefully hoarded egg money Cybele kept hidden in her wooden gardening shoes.

  Joe found his hat and headed purposefully for the door.

  Charles pulled himself clumsily to his feet. “What’s happening?”

  “The Germans have shot Andre Lague. They’re searching his house. Dominique fears that Cybele’s there, that she’ll be arrested, or—” He opened the door. “I’m going out to find her. To warn her.”

  Out. Into town. In broad daylight.

  Was he nuts?

  Charles grabbed the cane Cybele had given him and hobbled after Joe. “There’s four of us. We can each head in a different direction.”

  Joe turned to give him a disbelieving look. “You’re not going out there. What if you’re stopped? You don’t have any papers.”

  “Neither do you.” Charles knew for a fact that Joe’s papers hadn’t yet been replaced. He’d overheard Cybele—the forger that they’d used in the past had been arrested. Cybele was trying to get hold of the supplies needed to do the work herself.

  “If she was at Lague’s, she could well be dead already,” Joe said harshly.

  “And if she wasn’t, she might show up there at any moment,” Charles countered, “and give herself away. I can help find her.” He pushed past Joe, out the door, into the bright sunshine for the first time in weeks.

  The sky was brilliant blue, sheer perfection. Cybele could not be dead. Not on a day like today. God couldn’t possibly be so cruel.

  But Cybele had whispered to him that the sky had been a beautiful shade of blue on the day her husband and son had died.

  Joe took off his battered hat and jammed it onto Charles’s head, covering as much of his blond hair as possible. “If you’re captured, she’ll never forgive me.” He shot off some orders to Dominique and Luc, who dashed away. “I’m heading to the Lagues’. You should stay here in case she comes back.”

  “Her friend.” Charles hobbled after him, whispering, suddenly aware he was speaking English. American English. Out on the street in Nazi-occupied Ste.-Hélène, France. “Marlise. The one who’s about to have a baby. Cybele said something this morning about bringing her fresh spinach from your garden.”

  “In French,” Joe hissed. He didn’t stop. “Only in French. Marlise lives above the bakery. The bakery. Bread. Baker. Go there and come right back. Do you understand me?”

  “Oui.”

  Joe pointed up the street. “That way. God help us all if you’re caught.” And then he was gone, moving faster than Charles could manage, leaving Charles alone.

  But not completely alone.

  Holy God. There were people walking toward him, on the opposite side of the street. Two older women. One man in a dapper business suit, its cut straight from a Paris showroom.

  Charles hunched his shoulders in the ragged shirt he was wearing, lowered his head, and, his heart pounding, hobbled past.

  None of them looked up. None of them called out to him, or challenged him in any way.

  The sidewalk was uneven, the cobblestone street in dire need of repair. He tried not to stare like an American tourist at the ancient stone buildings. Many of th
em were crumbling, yet they still had a fairy-tale air to them, a European magic, as if there should be a sign out in front of each, boasting “Cinderella slept here.”

  It was harder to walk up the hill than he’d anticipated, every step sending flames of pain through his leg. But that was a good thing. It counteracted the glacier of fear that threatened to turn his circulatory system into a solid block of ice.

  Finally he was there. At the bakery.

  Marlise lived above it, Joe had said. Looking up, Charles could see windows above the storefront. But there was only one door—the one leading into the shop.

  He heard them before he saw them. The clatter of feet on the street that could only be made by German army-issue boots. The hair on the back of his neck stood straight up, and he turned. Four Nazi soldiers in full uniform. Heading straight toward him. Or maybe toward the bakery. He didn’t wait to find out which.

  A narrow alley separated the building from the one next door. He didn’t slow down or speed up. He just kept on moving, as if that alley had been his intended destination. Dear, sweet Jesus. What if instead of helping Cybele, he led the Germans directly to her?

  There was no door along the side of the building, and he went around to the back.

  Again, there was only one door, and it belonged to the bakery. It was ajar, the fragrant scent of fresh bread floating out of the kitchen. He hobbled up the steps, and inside, and . . .

  And there was Cybele. Sitting in the kitchen with a heavily pregnant woman.

  The woman, Marlise, made a small squeak of surprise as he stepped through the door without knocking.

  “I’m so sorry—we have no work today,” she said. “Nor scraps to spare—”

  Cybele’s eyes widened only slightly at the sight of him. She stopped Marlise with a hand on her arm. “He’s a friend of mine,” she said quietly. “I think it must be urgent.”

  Marlise turned away, as if she didn’t want to see and remember his face.

  “A cup of water for my friend,” Cybele said, her eyes still on Charles’s face, “and then we’ll go.”

  Marlise pointed to the sink, and Cybele quickly washed out a cup, then filled it with water.

  Charles realized he was dripping with perspiration. He wiped his face with the sleeve of his shirt, then took the cup, his fingers briefly touching hers. Her hand was trembling.

  “Merci,” he started to say as he handed the cup back to her, but she put one finger to her lips.

  Cybele set down the cup, then led him back out the door, watching, ready to reach for him if he had trouble on the steps.

  She was silent as she led the way farther into the alley, away from the bakery door. But then she turned to face him.

  “I know this can’t be good news,” she whispered. “So don’t try to make it bearable, Charles.”

  His name was melodious in its French rendition, soft and sweet on her lips.

  “Just say it,” she begged him.

  So he did. “Andre Lague is dead. Shot by the Nazis.”

  She closed her eyes, drawing in a deep breath. “And the children?”

  “I don’t know,” he told her. “I didn’t hear anything about any children.”

  “Andre and Mattise were hiding over a dozen children—Jews and Gypsies—in their attic.”

  There was no way those children could have remained undiscovered. Not with the Nazis searching chez Lague. He knew that, and she knew it, too.

  She was still trembling despite her attempts to steady herself and he couldn’t help it. He put his arms around her, pulling her close. She clung to him, and he was astonished by both her softness and her strength.

  He heard his cane clatter to the ground as the entire world seemed to slow, as the earth itself seemed to grind to a halt.

  She fit against him so perfectly, he wanted to weep. Instead he breathed in her sweet scent, closing his eyes as he felt the warmth of the sun on his face, as he felt his heart pounding.

  Andre Lague was dead, but Charles was alive. And Cybele was alive, too.

  He lifted his head to look down at her, at the way the sunlight shimmered on her eyelashes, the way it lit her delicate nose and cheeks.

  Her eyes looked bruised and a little dazed, as if she weren’t quite certain where or even who she was. She searched his face in surprise as he gazed at her, and he knew, at this moment, he was unable to hide anything he was feeling. It was all right there, in his eyes.

  His fear, and his intense relief at finding her safe. His grief and his anger over the death of her friend. And all his smoldering, selfish desire, his petty physical needs. His weaknesses and his self-disgust, his very knowledge that to kiss her the way he wanted would be wrong. It was all there for her to see as surely as if he’d been stripped naked.

  He saw something wild flare in her eyes, and she stood on her toes, pulling his mouth down to hers as she hissed, “Kiss me! Quick!”

  She nearly knocked him over, pushing him back against the brick building, out of the sunlight and into the shadows. She had turned to fire in his arms, her mouth burning his, her arms entwined around his neck, one leg encircling his, the softness of her thighs open to him as if she wanted . . . As if . . .

  Charles pulled her tightly against him, filling his hands with the soft curve of her rear end, angling his head to kiss her harder, deeper. Dear God. He found the edge of her skirt as well, as he kissed her again and again. Reaching up, he ran the palm of his hand against the silken smoothness of her thigh.

  He felt her fingers on the buckle of his belt, and his heart nearly stopped. Did she want? . . . Was she going to? . . .

  He heard it then, the sound of leering male laughter, and he broke free from Cybele’s kiss to see three German soldiers looking out at them from the open bakery door.

  Cybele pulled him back to her, kissing him again, her eyes open for a moment as she looked at him. And he understood.

  She’d known the soldiers were there from the start. This wasn’t real. She wanted the Germans to think they’d met here in this alley for a sexual liaison, rather than to discuss the devastating death of their comrade in the Resistance.

  This wasn’t real. His relief was mixed with a rush of disappointment so strong, he knew that if she’d actually unfastened his pants, if this hadn’t been pretense on her part, he would have made love to her right there in that alley, without any thought to who might be watching, without any thought to the child they could well conceive.

  And without any thought to Joe, who loved her, or Jenny, his wife, to whom Charles had vowed to be faithful.

  But it wasn’t real, and no matter how badly he wanted Cybele, he couldn’t have her. All he had were these next few moments, this period of make-believe until the Germans tired of watching.

  So Charles kissed her.

  Not fiercely, as they’d kissed just seconds ago, not hungrily, not that explosive wrestling match of lips and tongues that had made him ache with wanting to thrust himself deeply and just as savagely inside of her.

  No, this time he kissed her slowly. He made his lips soft and he took her mouth gently, almost lazily—but much more thoroughly than before.

  This time he took his time and tasted her, memorized her.

  Loved her.

  She melted, somehow managing to nestle herself even more completely against him.

  He knew he should have been ashamed—there was no way she could miss his arousal. Her friend was dead, and here was Charles, clearly ready for a quick roll. He deserved a slap across the face for his insensitivity. But she didn’t pull away. She just held on to him, kissing him slowly, sweetly, until long after the Germans had gone back into the shop.

  Finally she stepped back, and he let her pull free from his arms. He stood leaning against the bricks with his eyes closed, waiting for her to speak. Dreading what she might say.

  He heard her ragged breathing as she tried to catch her breath, heard her clear her throat. “Please, Charles, forgive me—”

  “Don’
t.” He opened his eyes as he sharply cut her off. “You know damn well I don’t need an apology from you. I sure as hell have no intention of telling you I’m sorry, because I’m not.”

  “En français,” she whispered, glancing toward the bakery door.

  He couldn’t say what he needed to say to her in French. He didn’t know the words. But then again, he probably didn’t know the words in English, either.

  He refastened his belt and picked up his cane, silently cursing the pain in his leg. Funny how he hadn’t noticed it at all with his hand up Cybele’s skirt. He didn’t know which was more awkward and unwieldy, his stiff leg or the fact that even now he was still almost completely aroused.

  Maybe now she’d finally realize he wasn’t any kind of hero.

  “We need to get you home, back safely inside,” she told him, trying her best to sound normal, as if mere moments ago her tongue hadn’t been in his mouth, as if her body hadn’t been warm against him, as if her very soul hadn’t touched his. Moving painfully, he followed her out of the alley. “Then I’ll go to Lague’s—”

  “That’s too dangerous,” he told her harshly. Jesus Christ, did she want to die?

  She didn’t meet his eyes. “I’ll be careful.”

  “If you’re going, I’m going, too.”

  “That’s crazy!”

  “Exactly.”

  She was clearly dying to say more, but there were other people on the street, and Charles’s French was too awful. They went down the hill as quickly as he could manage, through the front gate, and around to the back of the house. She all but pushed him through the kitchen door.

  “Joe’s already gone there, looking for you,” he told her. “Let’s wait for him to return before—”

  “Those children,” she said. “Two of them were mine.”

  Two of them were? . . .

  “They were staying here,” she explained. “In my attic. Two girls. Simone and little Rachel—she’s only four years old. But then, after you arrived, the weather was so hot, and I was afraid your being here would put them in danger. . . .” She was trembling again. “I sent them to Andre’s, to assure their safety.”