She gave thanks for the stern wind parting treetops, allowing the moon to occasionally light her path. As she tore through the brush, she gave thanks for the pants she wore that kept her unsteady legs from a severe whipping from underbrush. And, she thanked the Lord for a baker’s son, who had given her a knife she felt at her waistband.
When she came to a small stream and stepped into the frigid water, she knew from the crude map she memorized, she was on the right trail. Her feet frozen through her boots, she struggled up a steep incline. Panting, she stopped to catch her breath and to get her bearings.
The moon should be on her right cheek, she recalled. The wind slapped her squarely in the face as she glanced at the sky. She turned left. When she saw the road, relief washed over her. She stepped to the thoroughfare as the truck silently stopped. Across the way, her comrades snuck from their hiding place. Then—all hell broke loose.
***
Well, the trap is set, André thought as he darkened his face with charcoal and made ready to go to the designated pickup spot. The authorities had the wrong information. Hopefully, they were heading clear across town. His unit’s mission should go on as planned. And damned if that rat hadn’t taken the bait.
Géry. He played a hunch. Hoped he was wrong. But in the end his suspicions were right. André tucked his pistol at his side, then slipped a knife into his boot. He’d followed Géry after feeding him the wrong Intel and when he saw him hand the police the fake map, he knew who the mole was. Géry had known about the plane drop. Géry knew about Fry and the children and he was there watching as the police took Louise and her comrades away.
He hoped, after talking to the policeman, he convinced him the map Géry gave him was real. He prayed his own presence, as the head of the unit, put aside any misgivings the police might have. The same Intel coming from two people made it more likely they would follow up on the lead.
He learned one of Géry’s friends, in high places, was a member of Vichy. So, he paid the official a visit, swore his alliance to Pétain and was told a fat purse awaited him. He too could reap the same reward as Géry. Wham! Nail in the coffin. He didn’t understand Géry’s vendetta until he recalled Father Francois’s assumption that Géry was in love with Yvette. Géry probably arranged his beating. But why? Jealousy? Why show him a picture of a brunette? To throw him off track?
André closed the door and made his way up the stairs.
The good father also thought he loved Yvette when his feelings toward her were clearly… What?
André crossed the sanctuary and dipped his finger in the holy water.
Caring? Yes. Want? Definitely. But Love?
He’d deal with Géry later.
Right now, he had to help his comrades unload a truck.
***
The woods were still. Too still. As André walked briskly up the hill, an unsettling feeling settled in his gut. The frozen ground, despite his careful steps, sounded like crushed eggshells. The full moon peeking over the treetops not only cast his shadow on the ground, but gave away his location. He darted closer to the dense undergrowth and slowly slipped his gun free. His finger cocked and ready on the trigger, he edged closer to the street.
A dense cloud passed overhead, blanketing everything in pitch darkness. When the moon, once again, shone brightly illuminating the road, he stopped dead in his tracks. Blood. Splattered. Frozen in the dirty snow. No truck. No men. André’s thoughts bounced, hitting him from all directions. Am I late? He shone his flashlight on his watch. No. Where is everyone?
Movement across the way jerked his attention. He raised his pistol and aimed. Marcel, one of the new recruits, stumbled out of the woods. Without further thought, André raced across the road. “What happen?” When Marcel didn’t answer, he grabbed his shoulders and shook. “What went down here?”
“They are all dead.”
Cold dread clenched André’s chest. “What happened?” Again, he shook the stupor from Marcel’s face.
“I-- I don’t know. I was in the bushes…” Marcel averted his eyes, “peeing. I heard gunfire… shouting. I--I hid.”
“Was Géry with the group?”
“No.”
“Did he know the details of this mission?”
Marcel rubbed his forehead back and forth, digging in as if the answer lay hidden behind that look of disbelief. “We all knew.”
“Who changed the time?”
“Géry said you did.”
That Bastard. André clenched his fist. Then, Marcel’s words hit him. Yvette! His heart raced. Blood drained from his face. “Where are my men?” André asked calmly, refusing to contemplate the idea Yvette had been among them.
“The ones from the truck dumped their bodies into the back of the van like yesterday’s garbage.” Marcel’s face paled. He clenched his gut and leaned over like he was going to empty his stomach.
Steeling himself for the answer, his next question would bring, André gave him a few moments to gather his composure. “Did you see Eva?”
Silence hung between them like a guillotine’s blade about to fall.
“I… Who?”
“Eva, the blonde. Did you see her?” Anxiety hardened André tone, quivered his voice.
“I think so.”
“What you mean you think so?” he bellowed, frustrated. Control no longer mattered as trepidation clawed its way out. “Was she here?”
“Yes. Across the way.”
“Did you see her leave?” Dear God, say you did. André’s heart pounded as he waited on Marcel’s next words.
“I saw her go down and then I--”
André’s mind blanked.
“I couldn’t look anymore,” Marcel concluded.
No. Prove him wrong. André spun on his foot, ran across the road, knelt and searched the ground for anything, a shoe, a hairpin, anything that solidified Marcel’s words. He refused—refused to believe… prayed he found nothing; nothing and she laid tucked safely in her bed. His hands empty, relief sank his shoulders. He closed his eyes, gathering his composure.
When his breathing calmed, he straightened. “Go home. We are all goo…”
Out of the corner of his eye, a patch of white, partially hidden beneath pine needles and foliage, caught his attention. His fingers shaking, he bent and unearthed his handkerchief, the one he had given Yvette.
The world around him began to lose focus. The enormity of what had happened brought André to his knees, even as dull reasoning insisted this was one big mistake.
He stared seeing nothing but her smile—hearing nothing but her husky voice. Through a cloud of misting emotions, he saw her tending to little Tanya, her laughter, her tears and the way she looked at him with love shining in her beautiful green eyes.
Not again. His sobs came. Hard. Inconsolable. Cutting through the stillness, echoing in his ears. Then, an ache of loss, pierced his soul so strongly he felt ill. I’m too late. Not again…
André felt a movement at his side, but didn’t care. When Marcel removed the gun clenched between his fingers, he wanted to yank his weapon back and put a bullet between his own eyes.
He stood, feeling like he was on stage, looking out into the darkness and seeing nothing. His mind numb, one name stood out loud and clear—Géry. That son of a bitch was as good as dead.
André found the strength to turn and walk away. His body seemed detached from his brain as he stumbled through the forest.
Why hadn’t he told her he loved her? He did love her. He knew that now; now that it was too late. Regrets attacked blinding him as branches swat his face and cut his flesh. She was what he had been longing for and never found. She snuck into his heart, breaking down the wall of resistance. She made him feel hope. The future, he’d tucked away, withering unattainable dreams, had begun to blossom because of her determination, her gentle caring and her love.
Vaguely aware of his surroundings, not caring, where he put his foot down, or if the enemy still lurked in the woods, he dragged himself through the river.
<
br /> I’m never going to see her again. Pain gripped his heart. He fell to his knees. Never going to hold her. Kiss her.
Water soaked his skin, stinging like a bee, reminding him he lived though he felt dead inside. He couldn’t breathe. Didn’t want to. He wanted her warmth; longed to kiss her slender neck pulsating with life. He wanted… His head drooped and the sound of his loud gut wrenching sobs cut into the snowy silence. Dear God, he wanted her back. Why? Why did God punish him?
Unkind fate reminded him of past mistakes, of another woman who lay dead because of him. Guilt wormed its way up from a dark clouded place of his mind, and hatred invaded like poison ivy choking, spreading its tentacles like a disease across his mind.
Géry was going to pay for what he did.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
RAIN? WHEN HAD IT STARTED to rain? She remembered cold, dark woods, gunfire, and the screams… Yvette covered her ears. So many screams…
Her line of vision, swollen by the horrific scene unfolding before her eyes, Yvette un-tucked her head from her arms and looked up. Water pelted her face, splashing her face and she squinted trying to see. Through a dreamlike fog, thoughts began to take shape. Showerhead. Bathtub. Wet clothes. She dragged her gaze down to her sodden sweater and for the first time felt the wet fabric of her pants plastered against her skin and the heaviness of wool against her breasts. Water spilled over the high tub flooding the tiled floor, traveling out the door. She didn’t care. Her head lobbed back down.
They were dead and she could do nothing but watch. Everything played like a rewound motion picture; comrades falling, shots pelting, men filtering from the woods, men jumping from the back of the truck, their guns raised.
In the distance, she heard a voice cry out her name. Like an antidote, the familiar voice drew her from her drugged stupor. She became aware of being lifted out of the water by muscled arms. Words of endearment laced with concern and wracked with emotional relief filtered past the numb ache in her heart.
André?
Her arms flailed out and she struggled against his hold, not wishing anything to do with him. But the effort too draining, she gave into her fatigue.
He laid her on the bed and wrapped a blanket around her and she let him, too tired to care. When he pulled the heavy comforter over her and tucked a strand of her wet hair behind her ear, she closed her eyes wishing him gone. When he lay beside her and gathered her into his arms, she leaned into him because it felt so right.
Tomorrow… she thought, her mind too weary to fight, tomorrow I will tell him to go away. Tomorrow…
***
The rising sun brought about a world of possibilities, as André watched the gentle rhyme of Yvette’s breath. He still could not believe he lie here beside her; couldn’t believe she was alive. He gently brushed a finger across her cheek proving to himself, he was not dreaming. Hair curled at her neck and shoulders. Afraid to close his eyes, afraid he’d wake up and be alone, he had gotten no sleep and stared at her with eyes that felt full of gravel.
After going to the police and learning a blonde woman was among the dead, he found himself standing in front of her hotel room, unsure how he’d gotten there. All he felt was a need to feel her presence. He remembered thinking maybe this was one big horrible mistake and she would be inside waiting for him. He’d been oblivious to the fact that the door had been ajar. All he remembered was the cold, lack of life in the empty room. Then the soft drizzle of water seeped into his stupor. He found her, sitting in the tub, fully clothed, hugging her knees. Water pooled onto the floor and sprayed down over her head. It took him a moment to regain his senses… to believe. But when he cradled her in his arms and pressed her against his chest, life once again had purpose.
He’d put her to bed and when she finally slept, afraid she’d catch a chill, he removed her wet pants and sweater, wrapped her in blankets and lay beside her. Though he sensed she did not care for his company and knew when she awoke, she would think the worst of him, think he’d taken liberties no gentleman dared take, he refused to leave her side. He understood the pain in her eyes. The dull lifelessness that seemed to look through him had gutted him. But there was something else, a look he couldn’t grasp, a feeling, a sense of distance that didn’t stem from what he knew she’d witnessed. Maybe it was confusion; maybe it was something else; but that sadness, or…
André rubbed his eye. Repugnance. She was withdrawing from him. He felt her reluctance to his touch, though she’d had no strength to push away from his embrace.
Morning light filtered through the lace curtained window and danced upon her hair. Shadows kissed her face. Maybe he was crazy. Maybe imagination played havoc with his thoughts.
She shivered and he drew her closer, cradling her head in the crook of his arm. The feel of her against him, the warmth of her side, pressing into his reminded him of how close he had come to never being able to hold her in his arms again. He swallowed a tight lump of emotion and toyed with a strand of her golden hair.
Whatever her feelings were, he would set her straight. Tell her the three words he knew she longed to hear.
He watched her eyes flutter open, then widened; felt her body grow taut.
“No!” She pushed away from him and sat up, the sheet clutched against her throat.
“It’s not what you think,” he said.
“Get out.”
“I swear Yvette nothing happened. You were drenched, I had no choice. I worked fast.” Ok, so that was a lie, but he felt a little guilty marveling at the firmness of her breasts and the way her dark nipples pressed against her lace see-through bra, if that counted for anything. It had been hard not to notice the way her slender waist spanned his hands. And, lord help him, he tried not to let his gaze fall to the triangle of blond hair pressing against her wet matching pink undergarment. It wasn’t like he could have closed his eyes.
As if noticing she was half-naked for the first time, she glanced down. Her eyes widened, her spine stiffened and her cheeks grew red. “You… you… you’re a cad, a traitor.”
“Traitor? What are you talking about?” Now it was his turn to stare at her, confused. Perhaps the trauma of last night played with her reasoning. “I know what you’ve been throu--”
“You have no idea.” She skirted to the edge of the bed and, dragging the sheet with her, she stood. “How could you?”
“I was there. I understand.”
“No.” she shook her head. “No. You don’t.”
“They were my friends too.”
“Friends? She looked at him like a wild woman with crazed eyes. “Is that how you treat friends?”
He stared back, not following, not grasping her anger.
The sheet dropped from her hands and despite his confused state of mind, his body responded to the sight of her intoxicating body showing every curve through her lacy undergarments.
She grabbed a pillow and before the hunger in his body could get to the point where only a cold shower could ease the torment, she began to beat him with a series of feathered blows to his chest.
“You betrayed us all. I hate you. I hate you.” Her eyes filled with shimmering tears.
Her relentless pounding hammered her statement into his consciousness. He stood and caught her wrists midair. “You think--”
“Let me go. I want nothing to do with you.”
He yanked her arms down and pulled her against his chest, the only barrier between them a downy pillow. Her fingers clutched the fabric like a lifeline.
“My God. Yvette. I would never betray my team.” Hurt by her lack of trust he felt his temper rise. “Have I given you any cause to doubt my allegiance to my men, to you?” His fingers tensed against her arms. “How can there be any doubt in your mind that I wouldn’t do everything in my power to protect those I care about. I love you damn it!
“I’m so sorry… I…” Her brows crunched and the expression sliding across her face was one of confusion. “You love me?”
He sighed; he hadn�
�t meant to blurt out his feelings in a moment of anger. He planned on wrapping his arms around her, planting kisses against her slender neck and whispering the truth, that until the moment when he’d thought he lost her, resonated deep in his soul.
“You heard me.” He understood how the burden of living under war made a person leery, hell, he saw mistrust in the eyes of those he passed on the streets, but he couldn’t grasp her belief that he would betrayed his team.
“I did hear you,” she whispered, the fight drained from her limbs. “I also heard you tell the gendarme about our plans.”
André shook his head. “And you assumed the worst.” Her mistrust cut like a knife.
“I’m sorry.” Sadness clouded her eyes. She meant what she said.
“Did it ever cross your mind that I gave him false Intel?” Despite her remorse, annoyance crept into his tone.
“Yes. It’s just… Louise. You--”
“One of our comrades denounced Louise and I used that information to give credibility to my Intel, which was a false place and time.”
“Who?” Her brows crunched with puzzlement. “Who is the mole?”
“Not now. Later, when I have proof.” He dragged in a deep breath. “I can’t believe you thought me capable--”
“I’m sorry.” She sighed. “I guess old wounds really don’t die.” Her gaze fell. “I’m so sorry.”
He tipped up her chin. She meant it. He could see the truth in her eyes, in the sorrowful expression. How could he stay angry looking into those beautiful remorseful eyes. “Trust me. The man--”
“I do,” she said sincerely.
“Not the uniform. Not the spy. Me.”
She nodded. “I’ll never make that mistake again.” She dropped the pillow and planted kisses on his collarbone, across his jaw, then pressed her lips against his mouth. “So, you love me.”
His resistance crumbling, he gathered her into his arms and feverishly answered the kisses she wholeheartedly bestowed upon him.
She was what dreams were made of. His dreams.
God, he was the luckiest man alive.
Behind The Mask Page 32