Behind The Mask

by Marianne Petit

  The cobbled pathway began to ascend a steep slope lined with tall, whitewashed rust and tan buildings, a pallet of pastels and textures under sunlight and shade. Chimneys of varying sizes, atop rows of red-tiled roofs, fragmented the clear blue sky like a jigsaw puzzle.

  Along the shop-lined street, women waited patiently to buy food, clutching ration cards like they were made out of gold. As she walked, she noticed the stares of people who sat in the cafes or stood by an open shop door. Strangers in town never went unnoticed, and she prayed no one followed her. A woman stood on a stone step with a broom in her hand. As Yvette passed her by she stopped sweeping and eyed her with suspicion. She could feel her cold gaze boring into her back as she headed, with an edge of anticipation, toward Rue du Chariot, the street she had been told her grandpère’s friend resided.

  Very soon, she would fulfill her promise and this dangerous mission would be over. The thought quickened her steps.

  The apartment was on the third floor and she looked up to the window where a flower-box of wilting flowers lined the sill. The windows were closed, despite the oppressive heat, the lace curtains drawn shut. It appeared as if no one was home. A suffocating sense of panic seemed to tighten her throat. She knocked. No one answered. She knocked again, this time more frantically. Please be home. She prayed her instincts were wrong and her mission would end here and now.

  “It won’t do you any good pounding on the door like that.” Two window panes over a woman, with a white scarf covering her curly gray hair, sat by an open window.

  “Monsieur DeParc, is he home?” Yvette yelled up.

  “No.”

  “When, when will he be home?”

  “He’s gone, like all the others,” she replied, her tone gloomy.

  Yvette felt as though someone kicked her in the knees. She leaned into the building for support. “I must find him.”

  The old woman must have heard the desperation in her voice, she leaned out the window and pointed down the street. “The baker’s son knows everything.” That said, she pulled in the shutters with a thud, leaving Yvette to contemplate her next move.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ANDRÉ BUTTONED HIS WHITE shirt, grabbed his hat hanging on the hallway stand and glanced into the mirror. Happy to be home and in civilian clothes, once again, he bounded down the stairs into the street and got into his car.

  His next assignment was to recruit a group of resistance fighters for the newly formed resistance network, the Mouvement de Libération Nationale. The rendezvous, in Lyon, was in the back room of a bakery at fourteen hundred hours sharp. He was to meet up with a man named Jacques, the baker’s son.

  As André rounded the corner, he noticed a pretty blonde walking into the bakery. He’d recognize those gorgeous legs and the sway of those sensuous hips anywhere. The blonde. Despite his reluctance to see her again, his body jumped to life. This was not good. Not good at all. If she recognized him… He parked and glanced at his watch. The rendezvous time was close. He had no choice but to go in and hope she didn’t pay him any mind.

  André squared his shoulders and strolled into the bakery. Glancing around, he noticed two women stood around talking, and the blonde was nowhere in sight. Odd. He was sure the woman from the train had walked inside. Seeing no one behind the counter, he walked through a door which led to a hallway, he figured ended in the storage room. In the dimly lit room, two figures stood close, in whispered debate. The man held out a knife. Without further thought, André bolted through the door and wrestled the man to the ground. He heard high-pitched snippets of stop, imbecile and a few French obscenities, that made no sense. When he had the knife in his hand and the man pinned to the ground, André looked up into beautiful green eyes that sparkled with anger.

  “You fool. Imbecile. What do you think you are doing? Monsieur Rupert, êtes-vous bien?” She offered him her hand.

  “Bien. I am well.”

  André relinquished his hold, stood and studied the man on the ground. Other than covered in sawdust his opponent was indeed fine. He held out his hand. Rupert accepted his assistance, stood and dusted off his white apron.

  “Jacques Rupert?” His contact? André realized he misjudged the entire situation. He handed the knife back to the baker’s son. “Je suis désolé.”

  “Apology accepted. One can never be too careful or too suspicious in these trying times.” Jacques turned toward the blonde. “This is--”

  “A friend,” she interrupted in perfect French and André realized she didn’t want to tell him her name.

  They shook hands. The touch of her cool, soft, skin against his palm sent heat through his limbs. He pulled his hand away and studied her closely, wondering if she recognized him.

  She wore her hair up, and once again, he wondered how it would look cascading down her back. Her waist, he figured, would span his hands. And her slender hips… his gaze slid lower, would fit nicely against his. Damn. He chided. He had no time for such feelings. His gaze snapped back up.

  What was she doing back here? Did she know Jacques’s brother worked underground? Was she involved? She wore no beret, the insignia worn by some fighting against tyranny. But then not everyone thought it safe to display their alliance.

  “I was just insisting the Mademoiselle protect herself,” Rupert said, interrupting André’s thoughts.

  “I have no need for such a weapon,” she insisted.

  “And there you would be wrong Mademoiselle,” André said, agreeing with Jacques.

  “You look familiar?” she said in French.

  “A common face, I assure you. I apologize if I interrupted a meet--”

  “No. No meeting. Just… we share a mutual friend," she said.

  She appeared flustered. Whatever she was doing here, whatever the reason, this was not a daily occurrence for her. Could that friend be Jacques’s brother?

  André glanced at his watch. He was supposed to report to his superiors by sixteen hundred hours and he had already wasted time with nothing gained.

  “Are you sure we haven’t met?” she asked.

  “Certain.” What a shame he had to lie. Truth was, for some odd reason, she intrigued him. Getting to know her a little better intrigued him, which wasn’t smart, which jeopardized his position and jeopardized her life.

  “I was hoping to get a fresh baked baguette today.” André stepped in front of Jacques.

  The code words for I need to talk to you sparked interest in Jacques’s eyes. He grinned. “I’ve been saving a nice crusty one for you.”

  “I’ll wait until the mademoiselle and you are finished.” André nodded and stepped into the hall.

  After a few brief words, he noticed that she took the dagger and slipped it under her coat.

  As she walked past him, their eyes met and instant heat sliced through him. This woman was a danger he did not need. But damn, just watching that luscious derriere walk away might be worth the risk.

  ***

  It was him!

  Yvette clutched the dagger hidden beneath her coat, a coat not needed on this warm August day, but worn to hide the message sewn under its lining.

  She didn’t care what he denied. He was the German who had saved her life. She’d never forget that face or those dangerous eyes. What games did he play? Was Jacques in danger? She turned toward the back room. What if Jacques has no idea that her savior, now dressed as a civilian, was a German soldier? Yvette bit her lip, debating what to do. Rationalizing it was too dangerous to linger, she left the shop arguing she didn’t know Jacques, but he seemed like he could take care of himself. Besides, what could she do? She certainly wasn’t going to use that weapon he gave her.

  The news that Jacques had no knowledge of her grandpère’s friend was disheartening, but he gave her the name of a man who might be able to help.

  She stood on the sidewalk and glanced up and down the street.

  “Ah Grandpère. Now what am I to do?”

  After weeks of tangled trails, that led to more co
ntacts, who pointed her to other contacts, who might know of Monsieur DeParc’s whereabouts, she was growing tired of this treacherous game; a game that led her down dark alleyways that thrust her upon men she didn’t know; men, like that blue-eyed devil inside who she could not trust.

  Merciful Lord, he must have followed her. Why was he out of uniform? Did he know about the message? Was he a German spy gathering information on unsuspecting citizens? A wave of nausea rolled through her body. She pulled her coat tighter against her stomach.

  An air raid siren wailed.

  Her thoughts halted and survival instinct kicked in. She ran back inside the bakery, her pulse pounding in her ears as loud as the sharp alarm. She collided into a well-developed body. Strong hands grabbed her and pulled her down under the counter. His arm circled her waist. She recognized the subtle musk with a hint of leather she remembered from the train, a pleasing scent that made her want to move closer.

  Her gaze careened into his. “Sir, kindly remove your arm.”

  “Does it offend you?” he asked, his voice as smooth and cool as glacée.

  “Yes.” Liar. With all the noise and commotion outside, his strong embrace felt comforting.

  “Are you sure? It’s not safe, even in here.” His voice a mere whisper near her ear caused her heart to flutter.

  It occurred to her that English planes occasionally destroyed factories in this area so the sighting was most likely not a German attack.

  “I am quite sure.” It was probably safer outside, she mused. She turned her head from his intense stare and glimpsed toward the window, but to her irritation, her gaze traveled back to his charismatic face.

  One brow rose as though he debated whether or not to comply. Slowly he slipped his arm free, his fingers deliberately brushing a little too intimately against her, causing her skin to quiver.

  Angling her body away from him, her gaze cynically raked him. As a dabbler in the fine arts, she routinely studied many a male specimen with detached emotion. There was nothing detached about her emotions now as she stared into clear blue eyes, so intense in their color, it almost hurt to look into them. On the other hand, she reasoned, perhaps the powerful gaze was a deterrent to rebuff one from looking too closely. She sensed those eyes had seen a lot of suffering. Pain had carved its way over the magnificent canvas of his features. A faded scar notched out a bit of hair from his brow. His nose looked like it had met a fist more than once. A swath of wavy hair fell casually on his forehead.

  Her heart raced like a sprinting horse. She tried to convince herself, her out of control emotions stemmed from the commotion beyond the window, but knew it to be a lie. Looking at the inherent strength of his face fluttered her heart on a different level than the blaring sirens.

  She pictured him sitting by her window in just the right light, she with her paints, him breathing ever so slowly as he sat perfectly still while she took to memory every defined muscle. She would start with his face, draw a square, then paint the pronounced forehead, chiseled cheekbones, that strong jaw with the small cleft, and the nose that sat a little too crooked…

  “You two safe over there?” Jacques’ question snapped Yvette from her dreams.

  “We are fine,” the mellow voice responded beside her.

  Dear Lord! Had she been staring? Her cheeks flushed. Amusement creased his firm, sensual lips. The stirring of attraction she felt moments ago rushed through her, replaced by exasperation and disgust at herself. She inched further away from him. “Why did you save me?”

  “It would have been a shame to see one as beautiful as you chained in irons,” he said, the boldness in his eyes direct and piercing.

  She stared at the small cleft in his jaw and felt her pulse kick the side of her neck.

  “Do not be ridiculous,” she snapped, reigning in her spiraling emotions. This man, regardless of his good looks, was the enemy. “Why did you hide me in the powder room?” The thought that anyone in Hitler’s army was anything less than a tyrant was unfathomable. They were monsters the whole lot.

  His demeanor placid, she detected a slight scowl tightening his face. “Orders are to maintain control, not rape and torture women and children.”

  “Well, at least there is honor among thieves and murderers.” She thought about her grandpère and all those children who lost their lives when Paris had been bombed. “And cowards.”

  His face stoic, a tiny vein bulged at his temple, giving away his annoyance. “Being the gentleman that I am,” he said calmly, “I will overlook that statement, for I believe you to be a lady under the strain of our current situation. Since I am without a weapon, rushing into the street against a British attack would be foolish. And in answer to your first question, just because I wear the German uniform does not mean I am without compassion.”

  Yvette considered his words. Could it be he had no desire to fight for Hitler? Perhaps he had no choice. Many a soldier followed orders without heart in the cause.

  Completely aware that he was staring at her, and feeling a little guilty by her biting words, she decided the least she could do is be civil.

  “I am sorry for that ugly remark. You did, after all, save my life. I am grateful for your kindness, even if you were only following orders,” she said, unable to help herself from sounding sarcastic.

  “Woman, you try my patience.” Deep in thought, he studied her a moment. “Don’t let what a man wears on the outside fool you into thinking he is something he is not,” he said softly.

  What did that mean?

  “I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced.” He held out his hand. “I am André. And you are?”

  “Ma petite, trust no one,” Grandpѐre had said.

  “Eva.” She ignored his hand.

  He scratched his neck. “Do you have a last name?”

  “Just Eva, will suffice.”

  “Just Eva it is then.” Her name rolled lazily off his lips like a seductive wave. His brows arched with question or amusement, she wasn’t sure which.

  She inhaled sharply. Her heart pounded foolishly. Hot tension sizzled under the banner of danger. A bomb could drop on them and her only thought was that his eyes had softened to light lavender.

  Once again, disgust shoved away attraction and she concentrated on a crack in the stone counter under which they hid.

  She could feel the heat of his gaze touching her, invisible fingers stroking, filling her with uncomfortable warmth, a steady gaze beckoning her to look at him.

  Uncomfortably aware this man beside her could be dangerous, she glanced back. His aloof, yet at the same time stirring gaze and a sense that he knew the effect he was having on her stiffened her spine. “Sir, you have my gratitude.”

  “What do you suggest?” The sensual allure of his soft-spoken tone, captivated her, then his licentious proposition hit her.

  “Pardon?” Yvette’s pulse leapt with uncomfortable anticipation.

  “I saved your life twice--”

  “Once. The second time I was hardly in danger from the baker’s son.”

  “Agreed. But I am thinking, as dangerous as your situation was when we first met on the train and given the peril placed upon me…” he tapped his lip, debating, “dinner would be a fine way to show your gratitude.”

  “I hardly placed you in any danger.” The word arrest flashed through her mind. “Am I in danger now, or do you toy with me?”

  “I assure you Mademoiselle that when I play with a woman there will be no need to question me.” His gaze locked on hers and his lips parted ever so slightly.

  “This conversation is quite inappropriate.” Heat sealed her cheeks.

  “I apologize if I misread you.”

  Mortified, she inhaled sharply. “I’ve… you…” Yvette’s cheeks heated. She had been staring, feeling things no decent woman should feel with a complete stranger. Dear Lord. She couldn’t fault his words. “No. Dinner is out of the question.” She would never break bread with the enemy.

  ***


  André needed to make sure whether Eva had just met Jacques, or if she was involved with the underground. The fact that she thought him to be German presented a problem, and he certainly couldn’t tell her otherwise. He guessed he could just ask Jacques, though he doubted he’d tell him the truth. Secrecy was imperative and, in most resistance groups, members only knew three people in their unit in case they were arrested.

  Noticing the way she had seductively observed him, moments ago, he decided a little companionship over a croissant and a cup of coffee could prove interesting.

  “If not dinner, perhaps breakfast,” he insisted.

  “Thank you, no.” She brushed her hair away from her neck, her fingers gently skimming her flesh. The inviting suggestion dared him to touch her.

  He could feel her repulsion mixed with repressed attraction. For some crazy reason her interest, pleased him; for some crazy reason her disgust toward him bothered him. The thought to set her straight and spill his guts filtered through his mind.

  “You know, the streets are filled with peril. You never know who is watching. It would be a pity if someone were to turn you into la gendarmerie.”

  Her face paled. Everyone feared the French police.

  “Especially when one is hiding something under a pile of newspapers. Meet me tomorrow morning at ten, at the Café le Bergé,” he insisted.

  Her incredible eyes widen with fear and André felt a stab of guilt prick his chest.

  “Sir, you leave me no choice.” She smoothed down her pristine skirt that needed no flattening. Even under these unfavorable circumstances, crouched and uncomfortable, she conveyed feminine poise and grace.

  Three short blasts of the siren indicated the air raid was over.

  Eva stood like a queen rising from her throne, though he suspected the need to put a great distance between them was churning in her mind. She never looked back as she gracefully walked out the door.

  André shook his head. This assignment was just a pack of lies, jumbled together with a lot of secrecy and mistrusts and tied together with more lies.

  He turned to Jacques, who now stood behind the counter. “I understand you are harboring a fine bottle of Calvados.”