Behind The Mask

by Marianne Petit

  "You!" Her eyes widened with alarm.

  Before he could get a word in, she charged at him. Instinctively he tightened his stance. Dodging his outstretched arm, she ran down the stairs.

  What the hell? André pivoted and let his mind wrap around the thought that she was in his room dressed like a vision in white, then, his gait swift, he went downstairs. He found her in the kitchen. Shielding his mother with her body, she held a large kitchen knife in her hand.

  “Don’t you dare take one more step,” she threatened, her eyes wide, her body taut and tempting.

  Suppressing a grin, André held up his hands as though surrendering. So the claws could come out. His grin escaped. Interesting and a bit sexy.

  “Yvette. No. No.” Madeleine sidestepped her. “This is André my oldest. André what did you do to scare her so?”

  “Nothing, ma mère.” So, it was Yvette now.

  A stunned expression fell over her face, but she continued to grip the knife in her clenched hand.

  "You want to put that knife down before you hurt someone," he suggested.

  She dropped the weapon on the table. “Don’t laugh at me.”

  “I wasn’t.” André’s gaze inched its way over her body taking in every delicious curve. She was even more beautiful than he remembered.

  Madeleine took off her sweater and placed the wool over Yvette's shoulders, a move of modesty meant to shield his eyes from the pert, dark nipples enticing him through the lacy fabric of her dressing gown. Heat shot to his groin. His mother rapped him on the arm. How the hell did she know what he was thinking? His face heated.

  "You went into your room, didn’t you?” she said, her voice stern. “Next time I call, you listen. Yvette, child, upstairs."

  His mother hurried her away and André scratched his head. Well, this was an unforeseen scenario. What was she doing here? Had she somehow learned his secret and was here to turn him in? The last thing he needed was some snooping woman threatening the wellbeing of his family. Damn it. Until he found out what in the hell she was doing in his home, he’d have to keep her here and hope for the best.

  Suddenly exhausted, André sat and raked his hair.

  He thought about the way she had protected his mother when she thought him a German intruder and he smiled. Damned if she wasn’t starting to grow on him.

  ***

  André sat down for breakfast and waited impatiently for Yvette, or Eva, to join him.

  Thoughts of her had kept him tossing all night; that, and the lumpy sofa. How did she find out where he lived? Damn, she looked good last night. An image of her hair tumbling down her back and those dark nipples pressed against the flimsy nightdress flashed in his mind and once again, his body reacted.

  He stared mindlessly out the window. Has she looked in the closet? Is my cover blown? What the hell had his mother been thinking, putting her in his room, knowing his uniforms were there? As soon as he got the chance, they were out of there, hidden, posing no danger to anyone. He had to admit, standing there shielding his mother caught him off guard, so did the attraction that, even now, stirred a wanting he had no time for.

  Tossing thoughts of Yvette from his mind, he poured himself a cup of coffee and grabbed a piece of brown bread. Though food was getting scarce, the German officers had what they needed and he always managed to bring whatever he could home. At first, his mother protested, but he argued if she stood on line for hours she may lose her job, so she took what he offered with a silent nod.

  The hours women had to wait on line queuing was soul destroying. He could see fatigue and anguish on their faces. The thought of his mother standing in the bitter cold just to buy some Brussels sprouts, well… André sipped the steaming brew… it made being an imposter a little easier to swallow.

  He looked up as Yvette walked into the kitchen. “Good morning. I hope you slept well.” In his bed, he wanted to add, as an image of her laying tangled in his sheets with her hair all spread on his pillow and her sweet lavender scent, came to mind.

  “Fine, thank you.” Her curt answer broke him from his reverie and he was instantly annoyed with himself for being distracted.

  “Coffee?” He pointed to the pot on the stove. He had questions and she better have answers, good answers. He drummed his fingers on the table.

  She nodded, poured herself a cup, then sat across from him. “So you are the spy.”

  Merde, she had looked. He straightened in his chair, his back rod straight against the seat. This was not good. “Why are you here?”

  Why hadn’t his mother hid his uniforms before offering up his room?

  “You didn’t answer my question,” Yvette stated flatly.

  “Nor do you answer mine.”

  The more people who knew his secret the more dangerous it became. He trusted his family, but this stranger sitting here… looking so damn beautiful… hell, what did he know about her? Nothing. She could denounce him. Hell; his whole family.

  “I had nowhere else to go,” she mumbled under her breath.

  “You don’t strike me to be the type of person who would just go off on her own without having every detail worked out,” he said, a bit too sarcastic.

  Her expressive eyes flashed with disdain. “Monsieur Rinaldo, you know me so well. Being a spy that must come from your training,” she replied, her tone matching his. “By all means, impress me with your skills.”

  A challenge? Ok, he’d play her little game. His elbow on the table, he rubbed his chin, contemplating what to say, then he leaned forward and looked her square in the eyes.

  “You have an air of sophistication about you, well dressed, expensive suit, so I’d say you come from money, so excuse me if I don’t believe you had no other recourse but to stay here.”

  She opened her mouth in protest, but he continued.

  “From the faint ink stains, you try so hard to scrub off your fingers, I’d say a writer. No. By the way you scrutinize my features…”

  She blushed.

  “An artist would be more likely,” he added. “Feisty, confident, probably the oldest sibling and by the way you ran to protect my mother, you are fiercely protective of your family since your father is no longer in the picture.”

  Surprise, then anger lit her eyes. She took a calm breath, then leaned toward him. “Your English accent is quite good. Oxford or Cambridge University? You are a good liar, so you are a perfect espionage candidate. It is obvious that you have seen your share of battle, but I do not think that is what makes you so detached. I would say someone broke your heart or you blame yourself for something. Yes, that’s it.” She sat back and crossed her arms. “Your turn.”

  He saluted her then leaned back in his chair. Not bad. He couldn’t fault her for seeing the truth. Hell, she might just be the perfect woman for his merry little group.

  She glanced down at her hands as though embarrassed by his interrogating stare and when she finally spoke, he understood.

  “My money was stolen. I had nowhere else to go so your mother was kind enough to invite me here.”

  He was good at reading faces. She was telling the truth. And there lies the problem, she wore what she was thinking on her face. Right now, it was shame and embarrassment. That was a dangerous trait underground.

  Guilt nibbled at the corner of his mind. Perhaps he’d been a little too hard on her.

  “Why did you stand me up?”

  Her question took him by surprise.

  “André!” His mother walked into the kitchen and went over to Yvette. “He was the man who left you waiting at the café?”

  Yvette shrugged and looked a little guilty at giving him up.

  “Oh mon dieu!” Madeleine threw up her hands. “What is wrong with you? Did I not teach you any manners?”

  Her question directed at him, André squirmed in his seat, an action that seemed to amuse Yvette. “I had no choice. There’s a war on, ma mère,” he growled.

  Yvette bit her lip suppressing a grin.

  Emba
rrassed by being reprimanded like a child, he pushed back his chair and stood. “I’m going out and I don’t know when I’ll be back.”

  “Monsieur Rinaldo wait!”

  Yvette’s words made him pivot.

  “I need your help.”

  ***

  As they stood outside, Yvette clasped her hands together. Should she ask André the question plaguing her since yesterday? Did she dare trust him? She glanced at him.

  Seeing him, standing in the doorway last night, her only thought was to protect Madame Rinaldo. The embarrassment she’d felt when realizing her mistake and then being ushered into his bedroom, clothed in nothing but her nightgown, had been humiliating. Knowing she slept in his bed evoked all kinds of licentious dreams and she woke up hot and edgy.

  “Now that I know you’re a spy--” she started.

  “For both our sakes I’d refrain from commenting on that.” His face remained impassive, despite the slight edge of his tone.

  “You are right,” she nodded. Being seen with him was dangerous enough without broadcasting she knew his secret. Someone might think she was in cahoots with him. “Knowing what I now know, clears up the oddity of our train encounter, for I see that you are not-- let’s just say, comfortable in that uniform. But I must ask where your allegiance lies.”

  His penetrating gaze fixed on her. “And how will answering this personal question help you?”

  “Before I can ask what I came out here to ask, I must know if I can trust you,” she insisted.

  He remained silent, a moment, as though choosing his words with care, then he sat on a stone step.

  “I remember the day Mussolini sided with Hitler,” a weary expression heaved Andrés’ face. “My mother cried. My father clutched the newspaper, then crumpled it and threw the paper to the floor…” His voice, a velvety mix of warmth and masculinity, had a raspy, breathless quality she found very sexy. “I never felt so betrayed and ashamed of my heritage.”

  Yvette stared into his blue eyes. “You are Italian?” No, he was too fair. Gérald, on the other hand, now that she thought about it, had the dark coloring of an Italian. God, no wonder Gérald had looked so angry when she’d blamed the Italians for the mess her country was in. She had pretty much condemned his heritage.

  “My Grandfather, on my father’s side, came from Northern Italy,” André said, patting the space beside him.

  Blond hair and light eyes aside, André had piano hands, long, thin fingers, he waved around as he talked, a telltale sign she should have recognized as Italian.

  She sat on the small step, her thigh a little too close to his, her hip touching his, and she had to force herself to listen to his question.

  “Have you read the latest garbage the Boche shove down our throats? We shall overcome because we are stronger. What rubbish,” he said, the annoyance in his tone a clear contradiction to the stoic look on his face. “We will win because it is not possible that God will allow killers of women and children to be the victors.”

  Realizing the French uniform would be his color of choice, Yvette felt relieved. Not all Italians side with Mussolini, Grandpère had said. It seemed he was right.

  “How good a writer are you?” André studied her with questioning eyes.

  “True to your assumption earlier, though I am hardly any good at it, I fancy myself an artist, not a writer, though my grandpère was a published one.”

  “A well written rebuttal to the trash plastered all over town is what is needed in these trying times. A writer with such a talent would be in high demand,” he said. He put his hand on her knee and her heart jumped, catching her off guard.

  Yvette forced her mind away from the feel of his palm pressing a warmth against her skin and thought about her grandpère and the printing press.

  “And more than likely that brave soul would be killed for the effort.” She picked up his hand, her pulse spiking, and placed his palm where it belonged, on his own leg.

  His gaze careened into hers and her heart seemed to clench. “Certain risks are involved when one seeks justice against tyranny. Without risks and those who are willing to stand up for what they believe is right, where would that leave us?”

  His words seemed to hang between them, making her uncomfortable, making her wonder.

  “I do not see France as a weak people giving into dictatorship. I see a France of strong-minded men and women, like yourself, willing to stand up and resist,” he added.

  “Strong patriotism did little good for my grandpère,” she said, wanting to agree with his idealistic preaching, but unable to get the acrid smell of a fired pistol and the warm blood gushing through her fingers out of her mind.

  “So you agree with Vichy France? We should sit back and take an attitude of wait and see?” His brows rose in question.

  “No! The thought of foreign invaders telling us what to do repulses me. But I fear I do not share my grandpère’s or your courage. In the end, dead is dead.”

  “Did you deliver the note he gave you?” he asked.

  Yvette’s mouth dropped open. “What? How?”

  “I deduced, from your comments, your grandpère, a valiant patriot, handy with his pen, gave you a message of sorts?”

  Her posture stiffened. “Did you know… on the train?”

  “I guessed as much.”

  She stared, unable to grasp that he’d known her secret from the onset and had chosen to stash her in the train’s toilet.

  “Then you are indeed courageous.”

  Courageous? Was he kidding? Did he say that just to get her to help him?

  “You hint I may be of help in this battle, even though it is clear to me, I am not good at playing games, be it for a good cause.” Defending her honor, her patriotic duty, riled her temper, stemming she admitted, from guilt. She always thought of France as her home and now felt like a coward turning her back on a country she loved. But helping terrified her and no matter what he said, she had no intention of doing anything but going home.

  He looked like he was going to argue, then whatever he was thinking disappeared behind a blank stare. “Yes, perhaps I spoke in haste.”

  Relieved, he would no longer pressure her, her posture relaxed. “Monsieur Rinaldo, the message I was carrying made no sense and I was hoping you might decipher its meaning.”

  “You are better off not knowing.”

  “Not you too.” She jumped up and began to pace. “I am quite aware of the danger. I’ve spent weeks running down one dark corridor or another. I’ve encountered beggars and thieves. I’ve starved and… and…” she pivoted, facing him. “I must insist you tell me.”

  “Are you looking to get yourself killed?”

  “You don’t have to raise your voice.”

  He took a deep breath and calmly exhaled. “It is not wise to go around asking strangers to decipher dangerous messages.”

  “I know that. Are you telling me I can’t trust you either?” Panic constricted her chest, though she told herself she was being foolish.

  “Sit.” He patted the step.

  She settled down beside him, trying to shut down the little voice in her head wondering way he didn’t answer her question.

  “I have to know what I risked my life for. I have to put the question to rest.”

  He looked hesitant, then nodded. “I will give it a try, but only if you call me André.”

  His soft tone and the seductive way his name rolled off his lips was so improper, too familiar for people who’d just met, yet she nodded and despite herself, she felt no disgrace at crossing etiquette’s boundaries.

  “It said something about grapes rotting on vines, bringing them in and ripe wine.

  “That was an important message. You did a great service.”André’s smile took her back a moment; it softened his face, made him less intimating and raced her heart.

  “Tell me; please.” She had to know so she could understand why her grandpère had been so insistent. He knew the dangers she would face.

&
nbsp; “There are many people, poets, authors, artists, like yourself who, through no fault, other than their work is now deemed in opposition to the Third Reich, hide in fear of arrest. Escape routes have been set up to funnel families, our British allies, scientists and the likes, out of the country. Many of the Jewish denomination and Germans, Polish, who have lived among us as our friends, hide in fear. Your message is a signal stating it is time to bring them from hiding and that the route out of the country is set.”

  Dear Lord. She’d held the lives of others in her hands? Heat spread across her chest forming a knot. She pressed her fist between her breasts and rubbed. It had taken her weeks to get that message delivered. What if she had been too late? What if someone on that list had been found in hiding and killed because of her tardiness?

  “Yvette?” André placed a gentle hand on her arm. “Are you all right?”

  “I am not a writer, but perhaps I can be of another service.”

  ***

  Thoughts of what she could do for him, dissipated with a single tear that glistened in her eye. Get your head out of the gutter, André chided himself. If she got this upset over a conversation, was she really a good candidate for the network?

  “I do not know what I can offer.” She sniffled and dug into a purse, he recognized as his mothers, looking for something and came up empty. “But I am sure there must be something I can do to help you.”

  A dot of mascara ran under her eye and he controlled the urge to brush his finger against her cheek. Her husky emotion-filled voice lifted a small edge of his hardened heart. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a handkerchief and handed it to her.

  “What makes you think I have any connections with the resistance?”

  One had to remain detached in this nasty business. Lives were at stake. One had to be on guard at all times. Weakness would not be tolerated if they were to succeed. Her soft side could get her killed.

  She wiped her eye. “I just thought--”

  “You were wrong. I just spoke about patriotic duty. It would be wise for you to return home. The streets are very dangerous.”

  Sunlight picked up the golden-red hues in her hair. His gaze found its way to her mouth. Painted a dark, inviting red they seemed to challenge him to kiss her. The thought caught him off guard. He stood up, needing to put distance between the sudden desire to hold her.