by Candace Camp
In the guest room, Stephen thought of Jessica amid the chintz and frills of her girlhood, pulling on her nightgown. Would it be cotton and chaste, sprigged with flowers and buttoned to her neck? Or satin and lace, cupping her breasts and hinting of the shadowed nipple and the triangle of hair below. And would the curls that tangled there be the same bright red-gold as the hair on her head? He bit back a groan and jerked the covers up over his head. It was going to be a long night, he could tell. He should never have come. He wouldn’t have left for the world.
*****
When Alyssa awakened, she was alone. The light through the window curtains was fading; she must have slept several hours. There was a sheer gown spread across the foot of the bed, as well as the satin robe. Alyssa slipped on the gown. It was made of blue satin trimmed in fine champagne-colored lace, and the front of the bodice was almost entirely lace, which did little to conceal her breasts. Rather, she thought, the hint of concealment made them more alluring.
Quickly Alyssa covered the gown with the matching peignoir. She wondered what woman had left the set of nightclothes here or whether Philippe had simply bought them to accommodate whatever woman chanced to be in his apartment on any particular night. Alyssa didn’t know which idea made her feel worse. Clearly, for all his avowals last year in Washington that he loved her still, he hadn’t stayed away from other women.
Alyssa padded to the window in her bare feet and opened the curtains. The windows were open in the afternoon heat, and she leaned out and looked down. It was a two-story drop that would be sure to break her legs at least and no handy fire escape or even a rain gutter, as there had been at Jules’s apartment. She sighed. The only possibility of escape was through the front door, and she suspected the chances there were none.
Alyssa walked to the door and tried it; to her amazement, the knob turned. She stuck her head out into the hall and saw why there was no need for locks. Philippe’s chauffeur was seated in a straight-back chair on the opposite wall. He jumped to his feet as soon as the door opened.
Alyssa smiled half-heartedly and explained that she needed to use the bathroom down the hall. He nodded and watched her as she went into the bathroom and closed the door. A cursory examination was enough to tell her that there was no chance of escape here, either. There was one transom-type window high in the wall, but it was too small for her to squeeze through. Sighing, she opened the drawer where she had put her pills and reached into it. There was nothing attached to the underside of the counter above.
Frantically, she ran her hand all over it, then pulled the drawer out and scrabbled through it to see if the pills had fallen into the drawer. She checked the top again, and finally she had to accept the obvious truth: Her pills were gone. Philippe must have found them and taken away what little weapons she had. She sagged against the counter, fighting the waves of hopelessness that swept through her. Now she didn’t even have the comfort of ending her pain if it got bad enough. It was all she could do not to cry.
Alyssa returned to the bedroom and locked the door. It was pointless, of course, for they could get the door down one way or the other, if necessary, and she had nowhere to go. Still, it made her feel safer and more in control of the situation. She went the large easy chair in one corner of the room and sank down into it.
She couldn’t give up, she told herself. It was imperative that she escape. She must let headquarters know that Dragon had been captured. If Dragon was not the Duke himself, he must be the liaison to the man—there would, after all, be an extra layer of concealment between their informer and the members of the network. That made his capture just as dangerous to the operation, for Dragon would know who the Duke was, perhaps the only man in France who did so. At the very least, he knew enough about how the Duke gave him the messages that the Gestapo soon would be able to ferret out the identity of that all-important spy.
Then there was the matter of the traitor. Unicorn. It had to be him. Dragon could have been betrayed by someone in his group who had been arrested by the Nazis the other day. But, while one of them might identify Dragon as the leader of the Rock network, none of them could have known when and where he would be meeting Alyssa. Dragon hadn’t even been aware of Alyssa’s existence until after that raid.
There were a few members of Dragon’s group left, but it seemed unlikely that Dragon would have revealed his plans to any of them, given that those captured might reveal the other members of the group. After all, he had turned to his cousin Allegro, a trusted family member, when he needed a new radio-telegraphist.
Only Allegro and Unicorn were with Alyssa when Dragon told her where and when he would meet her the next day. And Allegro was Dragon’s cousin. A family member could, of course, betray one, but how much more likely was it that a stranger would?
But, no, surely Unicorn couldn’t be a traitor. He was her friend; he’d helped her escape when the Nazis broke in and captured Jules and the others. But, looking back on it, wasn’t it suspicious that Unicorn had been with the others in the living room but was the only one who had managed to run away? The Gestapo could have let him escape so that he would be free to join and entrap other resistance groups. Yes, he had taken Alyssa along, but he more or less had to if he didn’t want to reveal his betrayal. Besides, two of them escaping would raise less suspicion among the freedom fighters.
It all made a terrible sense. A radio-telegraphist would have been a valuable asset for Unicorn; they were in great demand. Any group would jump at the chance to get one. Because she was an American and a telegraphist, her identity was easy to verify, and once she was accepted as genuine, her companion would be more or less taken on faith.
Just as important, Alyssa would trust him. She thought of how insistent Unicorn had been that he accompany her to that first meeting with Dragon and how easily she accepted his excuse that he wanted to protect her. She hadn’t even thought about how unusual that behavior was among the secretive freedom fighters. Working separately was one of their firm beliefs.
And her trust would make it far easier for him to discover the vital information a radio-telegraphist received. She thought of Unicorn going to his bedroom the other day while she talked in the parlor with Faith and the landlady. Dragon’s book had been lying in her unlocked bedroom. It would have been easy for him to read the message and realize he had stumbled on the Duke himself, or the person closest to the Duke.
Alyssa shivered. Dear God. She had betrayed England’s brightest hope in France!
Guilt swamped her. It was all her fault. Because of her, Unicorn had been easily allowed into Allegro’s group. She had let him come with her to that meeting. Worst, her carelessness with the book had exposed Dragon to the traitor. How could she have been so easily deceived? That Unicorn was obviously practiced and had deceived many others besides herself was no excuse. She had been around him almost constantly, she should have noticed something! After all, she was an actress; you’d think that would make her more qualified to recognize another’s acting.
But sitting here and bemoaning what had happened would not help anyone. What would be of value would be to escape Philippe and warn headquarters. But how, with no exit possible out the window and either Philippe or the chauffeur watching over her all the time? Her strength wasn’t a match for either of them. Perhaps she could find some sort of weapon in the bedroom and use it against Philippe when he returned, but then she would have to make it out the front door past the housekeeper and the chauffeur. And she would have to at least hurt Philippe with the weapon—could she do it?
If by some miracle she made it out of the apartment, where would she go? What would she do? She was sure that the Gestapo had seized her transmitter from their apartment, so she would have to find a resistance group who would believe her and let her use their transmitter. She knew from experience how long that could take. It seemed impossible.
Still, she had to try. Alyssa began to search the room for a weapon. She could find nothing, not even a letter ope
ner in Philippe’s desk. The best she could do would be to hit him over the head with a heavy object such as an ashtray or one of the lamps, but it seemed unlikely that she could take him by surprise with one of them. And could she do it? How could she pick up something and smash it into Philippe’s head, even to escape?
The doorknob rattled, followed by a loud knock.
“Who is it?” Alyssa called. She certainly wasn’t going to open it if it was Gersbach standing outside.
“Frau Heuser!” came the irritable answer. “Open this at once. Herr Michaude will not like you locking the door.”
Alyssa opened the door, and the housekeeper puffed in indignantly, carrying a large tray of food. She set the tray down on the table and marched out without another word, pointedly leaving the door open. Alyssa made a childish face at the empty doorway and sat down at the table. Suddenly she was hungry again. The food was lacking in style and too heavy, but it was plentiful and tasty, and Alyssa ate eagerly.
When she was finished, she set her tray down outside her door and returned to the large easy chair across the room. There, with nothing to do or think about, it was hard to keep the memories at bay and harder still to deny the longing that filled her at the thought of Philippe. She wondered where he was and when he would return. She wondered if he would try to seduce her. She couldn’t give in to him. She tried to gird herself to face him, to thwart him. She laid elaborate, doubtlessly impossible, plans to incapacitate him and slip out of the house in the night.
Rather anticlimactically, the hours crept by and Philippe didn’t return. Boredom, coupled with days of tension and lack of sleep, weighed on her, and she went to bed. But she found she could not sleep; the thought of the bulky chauffeur lurking in the hall kept her too on edge. Finally, she heard the sound of the outside door opening and closing, then the low murmur of voices. Philippe had returned. It shouldn’t have been reassuring, but strangely, the knowledge made her relax, and she slipped into sleep.
*****
Alyssa drifted awake from a warm, contented sleep. She lay with her cheek against smooth skin—the feeling, the scent, the warmth sweetly familiar. Philippe. He must have joined her in bed sometime during the night; she could hardly believe it hadn’t awakened her. Her head was nestled on Philippe’s shoulder, her arm thrown across him and their legs intertwined.
Alyssa’s eyes flew open as their position registered in her brain, and she jerked up to a sitting position. Philippe awoke and smiled at her, his face drowsy and unguarded, in that moment so much the man she had fallen in love with. He curled a hand around the back of her neck and pulled her down for a kiss.
His lips were warm and soft. It wasn’t a demanding kiss or a passionate one, but one of gentle affection. It shook Alyssa more than anything else could have. She drew back shakily and stared at him, not knowing what to do. He gazed at her for a moment, then his face shifted and changed. He pulled inside himself, and the lined world-weary mask was in place again.
Philippe swung out of bed and stood up. He was naked, and Alyssa’s eyes ran involuntarily, hungrily down the muscled curves of his back, buttocks, and legs. She sucked her breath in when she was the long swoop of a reddish scar across his lower back.
“What’s that!” She gasped.
Philippe turned and looked at her with mild questioning. “What? Oh. The scar? A few of your friends gave that to me about four months ago.”
“What?”
“Some loyal Frenchmen tried to assassinate me for my sins.” He pointed to a small puckered pink scar on his right arm. “This was a present from a poor marksman. It’s fortunate that those who hate me are amateurs.” He pulled on his dressing gown, covering the scars.
Alyssa swallowed. She was suddenly cold as ice. She had known that he was hated, even that there had been an assassination attempt on him, but the sight of his scars made it real. She didn’t care, she told herself. She shouldn’t care. The fate of Philippe Michaude should be nothing to her. But she couldn’t deny the fear that clutched her insides.
Philippe left the room. When he returned sometime later, his hair was wet and there was a damp towel flung around his shoulders. His chest and feet were bare, but his legs were now encased in blue trousers of the finest silk. He carried a pitcher of steaming water, which he poured into the bowl of the antique shaving stand near the window. He preferred to shave here, looking out on Paris, and Alyssa couldn’t count the number of times she had lain lazily in bed and watched him shave. It had been an intimate ritual between lovers. Just the sight of Philippe lathering his face started a hot little ache between her legs.
Alyssa moved restlessly, crossing her legs beneath the sheets. Damn him! Why did he still have to be so appealing? Why did her treacherous heart ache at the signs of care upon his face? To cover her emotions, she commented lightly, “Your traitorous dealings seem to be telling on you. You look older.”
“Perhaps I’ve been pining away for you.”
Alyssa frowned and got out of bed, pulling her robe on over the flimsy gown. When she looked up, she caught him watching her, and she blushed. Though he didn’t move, his eyes were avid, hungry; she felt almost as if he had touched her. Alyssa glanced away quickly.
“Don’t you have any other clothes for me to wear? Surely you keep a more extensive wardrobe for your female visitors than this.”
“I have no female visitors in this room,” he responded quietly and turned back to his shaving.
Alyssa glanced at him, startled. “You can’t expect me to believe that,” she retorted, her eyes narrowed.
He shrugged. “Believe what you like.”
“What about the women you procure for your Nazi friends? Surely you try out the merchandise first. What about the woman I saw with you that day?”
Philippe frowned as he set down his razor and wiped the remains of the lather from his face. “Who? Oh. Geneviève?”
“I suppose. The woman you were kissing on the steps in front of a house.”
“Jealous?” He raised one eyebrow mockingly.
“Don’t be absurd. I don’t envy any woman sleeping with filth.”
“Yet you once slept with the same filth and seemed to enjoy it.” Philippe crossed the room with long, quick strides, stopping only inches away from her. “Or have you conveniently forgotten that?” His voice was harsh, and his eyes flamed.
“I only wish I could forget it!”
“Do you? Do you really, Alyssa? Do you hate to recall how my skin felt on yours?” He laid his hands on her shoulders, sliding across the glimmering satin with the lightest of caresses.
Alyssa felt the shock of his touch all the way through her. She wanted to speak, to stop him, but her mouth was too dry to utter a sound, and her limbs were heavy and weak.
“How my lips touched yours? How you responded to me?” Philippe’s hands slid down her arms, and he pulled her slowly to him. His head bent, and Alyssa stared into his eyes, unable to look away. His mouth touched hers, hot and sweetly familiar. She smelled the faint scent of his shaving soap, felt his arms sliding around to enclose her; his chest hard against her breasts. It was forbidden. It was heavenly.
She made a soft noise of confusion and regret—and surrender. She pressed upward, opening her mouth to him, seeking the joy she had lost long ago. At her movement, he shuddered, and his arms tightened convulsively around her. He was suddenly, fiercely out of control. Desire, long pent up, pounded in him, thick and hard and unreasoning. Time and place were gone. Gone, too, all gentleness and savoring. There was only hunger—immediate, craving, insatiable.
His lips ground into hers, and his tongue plunged into her mouth. His hands slid over the slick satin, moving it against her skin. He wanted to tear the garment from her, wanted to sink into her softness. He changed the angle of their kiss. His every breath was difficult, shallow. He couldn’t get enough of her. He couldn’t have her quickly enough.
Alyssa moaned and twisted against him. She yearned to feel
his hands upon her naked flesh. She couldn’t think, only feel. And she wanted him. The sky could have fallen in, and she still would have had to have him. Like a relentless wall of water, her passion swept her onward. She clung to him, scratching her nails down his back in silent urging. She moaned his name, and felt his answering groan against her mouth.
Philippe shoved down her robe and gown, not noticing the slight sound of ripping, not caring. Her breast were bared, and his hand came up to claim them. Her nipples hardened and pressed against his hand, pebbly in contrast to the silken smoothness of her breasts. He lifted her up and took one nipple into his mouth, stroking it with his tongue. Alyssa writhed and dug her fingers into his still-damp hair. She moved her legs restlessly against his, encountering the frustrating cloth of his trousers.
“Please,” she cried softly. “Please.”
His mouth went to her other breast, loving it with the same devouring haste. Alyssa felt as though she were burning. Dying. She wrapped her legs around him, squeezing him to her, and felt a primitive satisfaction at the great tremor than ran through him. Philippe raised his head and let her slide slowly down so her feet touched the floor, their bodies touching at every point. His hands went to the fastening of his trousers, and he quickly removed his clothes.
His eyes never leaving her, he trailed his fingers down her stomach and into the cleft between her legs, touching the thick moisture of her desire. Alyssa twisted and thrust against his fingers as they renewed his knowledge of her. She moaned helplessly as he found the hard morsel of flesh that was the center of her passion, and the sound stirred him past all reason and restraint. He lifted her, his arms beneath her buttocks, and braced her against the wall. He came into her.