by Lisa Bingham
She gasped against him, but made no demurs. Rather, her own hands blazed a trail, down his chest and around to his back, pulling him so tightly against her that one of Michael’s toy pistols dug into her hips. Then, blushing, she realized it wasn’t a toy at all, merely the proof of Paul’s attraction to her.
To her.
Paul tore away, dragging his lips to her ear. “I’ve been wanting to kiss you like that for ages.”
“Really?” The word was a mere whisper of sound.
“Your brother has a family photograph on his desk at University. I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve stared at that picture, at the way you’re looking up at the camera laughing. I’ve wondered for the longest time what you’d be like in person.”
“Disappointed?” she offered boldly.
“No.” His eyes were intent in the moonlight. “No, not at all.”
He framed her face in his hands, his kisses growing less frantic and more deliberate.
“You amaze me,” he said as he explored her jaw, her temple, the curve of her ear. “You’re so beautiful, so full of life.”
For one instant, she felt a wave of shame at her deception, but she pushed it resolutely away. She was experiencing a swirl of emotions that she couldn’t have dreamed were possible—excitement, desire, need. Once Sara returned, she would be banished again to her role as an onlooker. And after this taste of true passion with Paul, she didn’t think she could ever settle for anything less from another man.
Because she wanted him.
She’d wanted him since the moment they’d first met.
His lips moved over hers. His body crushed hers against the tree and she wrapped her arms around his waist, clutching him tightly as if he were the only anchor in a hurricane. She could no longer think, she could only feel—his strength, his adoration, his passion.
When his hand cupped her breast, she gasped, leaning into him, needed more, more. In a few scant hours, he’d become her addiction and she couldn’t get enough.
Suddenly, he broke free, breathing hard.
“We have to go back.”
She stared at him in confusion. “Go back?”
He laughed softly. “In a minute. Maybe ten.”
Susan glanced over his shoulder. Heavens, they hadn’t been seen had they?
Paul gathered her against him, more gently his time.
“If we don’t go back, among people…” he took a shuddering breath. “We may not be able to stop.” When he looked at her, his gaze was rueful. “And much as I want to, I’m not about to make love to you up against a tree.”
An unbearable heat flooded her face and Susan quickly covered her cheeks with her hands.
“Come here.” Paul dropped his arm around her shoulder and drew her toward one of the iron benches. “We’ll sit. We’ll talk. Then…when I’m a little more…myself, we’ll go dance.”
Again, warmth scalded her cheeks. Sex in her family was not something bandied about casually. At sixteen, Millicent Blunt had handed the twins a pamphlet outlining the process and the workings of male and female bodies in only the vaguest terms. Susan had learned more from whispers at school than from her mother. But this evening, she’d been given a crash course in all that she’d only been able to imagine—and she was beginning to believe there was still so much more that she didn’t know.
They sat on the bench, but there was a bit of emotional space to their embrace as they gathered their wits about them. For some time, they didn’t talk—and to her surprise, Susan found that the silence was comfortable and inviting. With other boys, she’d invariably felt bound to fill any awkward gaps in the conversation. But this…
This was heaven on earth.
“What are you thinking?” Paul asked.
“That I like being with you.”
He smiled in a way that was at once reassuring and arousing.
“Does this mean that you’ll be my girl?”
“Yes,” she answered without hesitation, then realized she was speaking not for herself, but for Sara. And Sara already had a gaggle of male friends attempting to woo her.
Before Susan could temper her reply, a sudden whistle pierced the darkness. Startled, she looked up to see Matthew bounding from the alley. Impatiently, he motioned to them with his hand.
“We’ve got to get home.” There was a urgency to his tone.
Susan felt a cold wash of reality flood through her body. Had Sara arrived? Had Matthew somehow seen her?
“They just broke into the music to announce the Germans invaded Poland earlier today.”
Beside her, Paul grew still. For a week now, the news broadcasts had been heavily laden with references to Britain signing a Mutual Assistance Treaty with Poland. This could only mean…
England would soon be at war.
• • •
Sweet Briar, U.S.A.
It was some time later when Charlie felt RueAnn shiver beneath him.
Suddenly, he became conscious of the sun that was beginning to set and the gusting breeze that came off the water.
“You’re cold,” he murmured.
She started to shake her head, but he kissed her on the corner of her mouth. “Come on,” he whispered, loath to break the tenuous mood that wrapped around them like gossamer threads. “It’s going to get chillier as the sun begins to set.”
He kissed her again, softly, sweetly, trying to draw away, then kissing her again until he finally forced himself to put some space between them.
Rolling to his feet, he reached down to pull her up beside him. Tenderly, he helped her adjust her clothing, then surreptitiously fastened his own trousers. Then he wrapped his arms around her waist and kissed her in that hollow between her neck and shoulder.
“Charlie, I…I’ve never…”
“I know,” he murmured.
“I-I’m not the sort who—”
“Shhh,” he whispered into her ear. “I know.”
Wordlessly twining their fingers together, he drew her back to the house.
“I doubt there’s electricity.” He reached for the light switch. It clicked ineffectually. “As I feared. But I’m sure we have water and firewood aplenty.”
Twisting the tap, he confirmed his suspicions. “We could start a blaze in the grate and rustle up some candles.”
Left unsaid was the fact that he was assuming they would still be here once it became dark.
When she offered no protest—and indeed appeared a bit relieved—he pressed the possibilities even farther.
“I bet there’s a coal-fired hot water heater somewhere…”
Again, she didn’t protest. Instead she asked, “Is there a basement? Isn’t that usually where they put such things?”
He led her to a door on the far end of the kitchen where earlier he’d seen a set of wooden stairs. Moving carefully down into the dim space, he was grateful for narrow windows at foundation level that provided faint illumination. As soon as they reached the dirt floor, he saw the squat shape of a boiler furnace and beside it the coal-fed water heater.
“Aha!” he walked through the aisle of homemade cupboards filled with bottled fruit to investigate the heater, its controls, and the small mound of coal still heaped beneath the chute.
“Here, will this help?”
RueAnn handed him a box of matches.
“Where did you find these?”
She pointed to one of the shelves that his aunt used to store home preserves.
“There’s a stack of candles and matches over there as well as tinned meats and vegetables.”
Charlie rapped the water tank with his knuckles. As near as he could tell, it was full. “See if you can find some kindling.”
“I saw a bundle of newspapers over there.”
“That’ll do.”
She brought him the papers and he quickly wadded up a few pieces and placed them in the empty chamber of the water heater. Then he rolled the rest of the papers into tight logs that he placed on top of the crumpled squ
ares.
Touching a lit match to the corners of the papers, he tended the flames, adding little chunks of coal, then larger and larger bits until he was satisfied with the heat being generated.
“It shouldn’t take too long,” he remarked, brushing his hands off as best as he could. “Grab some of those candles and take them upstairs.” Glancing out the window, he felt a pang when he saw the lengthening shadows. “I’ll be along in a minute. I’ve got to get more firewood. I think I saw some next to the tool shed at the end of the garden.”
He waited until she had gone before hurrying back outside. After a quick look around, he loped toward the ramshackle building, melting into the shadowy interior as the last few rays of sunshine hissed on the distant horizon.
Squinting into the darkness, he waited for his eyes to adjust until, finally, at the far end, amid moldering piles of clay pots and abandoned tools, was a small, compact shadow.
“Jean-Claude!”
The little Frenchman hurried toward him, his hand extended. “Charles, mon ami.” He lowered his voice to the barest of whispers. “We do not have much time.”
“Were you followed?”
“I do not think so. But I do not want to take more chances than necessary, eh?” He withdrew an envelope from his suit pocket. “My contacts in Europe have collected some alarming information which I have copied down for you here. It is imperative that you deliver it to London as soon as possible.” Jean-Claude took a large handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow as Charlie withdrew the papers. “The Nazis have been gathering top scientists all over Europe.”
“What kinds of scientists?”
Jean-Claude shrugged. “Most are physicists, chemists, and propulsion experts.”
“Where are they being taken?”
Jean-Claude pointed to map folded between the papers. “Somewhere here.” He pointed to a spot circled in red near the border between Austria and Germany. “Several of my associates have noticed a great deal of activity near the town of Hausburg. That is all I can tell you.”
Nodding, Charlie slipped the papers back into the envelope and from there into the breast pocket of his suit jacket. “I’ll see that my superiors receive this information.”
“Très bien.” Jean-Claude hesitated, then added, “I wondered, if I could ask of you a favor.”
“Of course.”
The man drew another envelope from his pocket, hesitated, then handed it to him. “This is a personal matter. A bit of insurance on my part.”
Charlie frowned.
“I have reason to believe that a handful of close business associates are anticipating a day when the Germans may begin amassing against Western Europe.”
“Do you really think it will come to that?”
Jean-Claude frowned. “Haven’t you heard? They attacked Poland only this morning.” Jean-Claude tapped the second envelope. “This list is a copy of six fellow businessmen that I have reason to believe are already forming economic ties with the Germans. I have managed to obtain certain documents proving this to be so.”
“Do you want me to pass this on as well?”
Jean-Claude shook his head. “No, no. Not yet. The list is useless unless war is declared and these men continue to collaborate with the Germans. Keep it safe for now. Until I have further need of it.” His eyes grew grim. “It may prove the means to bring my family to safety if need be. But take great care. Not all of these businessmen are French. To be found with these documents could be dangerous for you.”
Charlie nodded. “Consider it done.”
A sad smile tipped Jean-Claude’s lips. “Then I will bid you adieu, mon ami.”
They shook hands—and for a moment, Jean-Claude clung to him a moment longer than necessary. Then he released his grip and settled his hat on his head.
Charlie offered him a half salute and began backing toward the door. He’d only taken a few steps when Jean-Claude stopped and called out, “Charles?”
Charlie paused, one brow lifting.
“Be quite careful as you return to Washington and begin your journey home, mon ami. I was not followed until I contacted you.”
“You think you’re being tailed?”
“Perhaps. Or perhaps, mon ami, it is you.”
• • •
A niggling disquiet caused Charlie to pause at the car before returning to the house. Opening the boot of the Model A, he reached into his side pocket, then frowned when he drew out a packet of envelopes tied with a pink satin ribbon.
“What the hell?” he murmured, then remembered. When RueAnn had stormed from the theater, he’d found them on the floor. Eager to catch up with her, he’d thrust them into his pocket until he could give them back to her.
But looking at them now, at the neatly tied ribbon, the ever-so-faint scent of perfume clinging to the paper, he felt an inexplicable stab of jealousy. They were love letters, he had no doubt.
And yet…
She’d been a virgin until today.
Refusing to think along those lines, Charlie unlocked his valise, burying the ribbon-wrapped envelopes along with Jean-Claude’s documents deep in the inner pocket of his luggage. Then he relocked everything and returned to the house.
The rooms were eerily silent as he stepped inside.
“RueAnn?” he called out, but received no answer.
Climbing the stairs, he made his way through the second floor, then up to the third. The moment he scaled the last step, he could see a faint glow seeping into the hall from the doorway at the far end.
Of course. The Belvedere tower.
He crossed the remaining distance as quietly as he could, not wanting to startle her—and yes, worried that he might find her crying or unsettled.
Instead, he saw that a fire snapped in the grate, warming the bedroom with its redolent glow. Somewhere, RueAnn had found sheets and blankets and made the bed, dragging another blanket onto the floor where she sat.
“I thought I’d lost you,” he murmured.
“No.”
Suddenly unsure of himself, he slid his hands into his pockets and stepped into the room.
“I should have known this was where I would find you. A princess in her tower.”
She shook her head. “I’m no princess. I’m…me.” She smiled shyly. “I hope you don’t mind. I took a bath while you were out, then borrowed one of the nightdresses that I found in the cedar cupboard. It was so clean and crisp. I don’t think it’s ever been worn…”
She stood and Charlie stood rooted to the spot, unable to speak. Her hair tumbled in wet waves around her shoulders—and with the too-large nightgown, she should have appeared childlike and small. But there was nothing childish about her. He swallowed as the light pierced the worn cotton. Her shape was limned so clearly by the glow, she could have stood naked before him. The crocheted yoke slipped down her shoulder, the lattice-like design playing peek-a-boo with one rosy nipple. And when she moved toward him, Charlie found it difficult to breathe at all.
Wordlessly, she reached up, unfastening the buttons to his shirt. His trousers. Then she pushed the clothing away, leaving him naked and trembling.
On fire.
Taking his hand, she pulled him toward the bed.
In doing so, the nightgown shifted again and he hissed when he saw a network of scars crisscrossing her back.
“What’s this?” he asked, his fingers trembling as he traced them.
She froze at his touch, then glanced over her shoulder. “War wounds,” she murmured.
Then, before he could ask her more, she took his face in her hands and kissed him.
For a woman who’d been so innocent mere hours before, she’d learned quickly, plunging her tongue into his mouth, dragging her hands down his back, and pulling him to her. Her skin was warm and damp, smelling of soap and woman and…
Roses. She still smelled of roses.
All coherent thought fled, leaving him mindlessly centered on one thought, one need. Making love to this woman.
They tumbled onto the bed together, heedless of whatever lay ahead. There was only a hungry meeting of souls and bodies and mouths.
Charlie couldn’t remember ever being this overwhelmed by a woman. There was no conscious awareness of anything outside the velvety texture of her skin and the sweetness of her mouth. For a moment he forgot everything—his upcoming deployment, his submerged fear, his hasty trip to America. There was only this time, this place, this woman.
And then, she was arching against him, begging him for the release he’d given her mere hours before, and he couldn’t wait any longer. Settling between her thighs, he plunged into her, again and again, until he felt her begin to implode before allowing himself his own rush of pleasure.
While from out of the darkness came the booming accusation.
“Fornicator. Fornicator!”
Dearest J.,
Rebel Mae Patroni had only been in our home a few weeks when there was a shift in her demeanor. She began to assume an arrogance that I wouldn’t have thought possible from someone so placid—especially since she came from circumstances far simpler than our own.
The change confused me. Suddenly, Rebel Mae was the one giving orders. She told me when to go to bed, what to wear, how to act. She even began paddling me when I disobeyed, rather than telling my father about my naughtiness when he came home.
Worse yet, she began to treat my mother with an air of disdain. Not that she was outright disrespectful. No, it was more a sly manipulation, such as insisting that Mama rest in bed so often that Mama spent more time in her room than anywhere else.
Once, when I arrived home from school early, I caught Rebel Mae wearing lipstick—lipstick! My father would have tanned my hide if he’d caught me wearing “the mask of Babylon.”
But it wasn’t the makeup that made me grow to dislike Rebel Mae. No. It was the fact that when she bent to put biscuits in the oven, something flashed gold and red from a chain between her breasts. Catching my stare, Rebel Mae quickly buttoned her blouse and told me to change my clothes for chores—but not before I was sure I recognized the object.