The Last Time I Saw Paris

Table of Contents

 

 

“American money, Nazi skulduggery, British sangfroid, French passion—in
The Last Time I Saw Paris
, Lynn Sheene delivers more drama, romance and suspense than we’ve seen since the Paris Occupation in
Casablanca
.”

—Katherine Neville,
New York Times
bestselling author of
The Fire

 

“
The Last Time I Saw Paris
is an absorbing, suspenseful and delightful debut. Lynn Sheene has delivered a fantastic romantic thriller, which perfectly balances convincing historical research with page-turning thrills. It is an absolute joy to read.”

—David Liss, bestselling author of
The Devil’s Company

 

“Set against the backdrop of Paris during the Second World War,
The Last Time I Saw Paris
is a breathtaking tale of love, courage, intrigue and betrayal. Beautifully written and heartfelt, it is a thoroughly enjoyable and memorable read.”

—Pam Jenoff, bestselling author of
The Kommandant’s Girl

 

“
The Last Time I Saw Paris
glows with the faded but indomitable beauty of the city herself. Sheene’s research is impeccable, her writing lyrical, and in Claire Badeau she has created an unflinching heroine who haunted me long after I regretfully devoured the last page. Sheene is a powerful writer, and I cannot wait to read whatever comes next.”

—Rebecca Cantrell, award-winning author of
A Night of Long Knives

Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada

(a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)

Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia

(a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.)

Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India

Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, Auckland 0632, New Zealand

(a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)

Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196,

South Africa

 

Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

 

This is an original publication of The Berkley Publishing Group.

 

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

Copyright © 2011 by Hawkeye Sheene.

 

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

BERKLEY
^®
is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
The “B” design is a trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

 

PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley trade paperback edition / May 2011

 

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

 

Sheene, Lynn.

The last time I saw Paris / Lynn Sheene.—Berkley trade pbk. ed. p. cm.

eISBN : 978-1-101-51482-5

1. Socialites—Fiction. 2. Americans—France—Paris—Fiction. 3. World War, 1939–1945—France—Paris—Fiction. 4. World War, 1939–1945—Underground movements—France—Paris—Fiction. 5. Paris (France)—Fiction. I. Title.

PS3619.H45128L37 2011

813’.6—dc22

2010046281

 

 

 

 

Thank you to my wonderful husband, Ken Spalding, for his patience, support and never-failing joie de vivre; to my parents, who passed on their love of books; to my granddad, who revealed the lyrical beauty of the perfect word; and to Mohican Laine, a true friend who never doubted. I must especially thank Rochelle Staab, fellow writer and dear friend, who read every word of every draft—I am a better writer for it. I am immensely grateful to my agent, Kevan Lyon, who made it all happen, and Kate Seaver at Berkley for her enthusiasm and guidance.

C
laire Harris Stone breathed in the faint scent of roses from the courtyard garden below as her yielding body swayed to the strains of “In the Mood” drifting out the open French doors. The sounds of the orchestra inside her Manhattan brownstone blended with the late-night rumble of traffic along Fifth Avenue.

Buoyed by the Veuve Clicquot champagne, she felt as though she floated above her partner as their gliding shoes whispered against the balcony floor. He held her tight, his hands warming her body through her thin silk dress. Her arms were draped around his shoulders.

He was tall. That was nice. And he knew how to dance; even better.

“You’re dreaming, Claire,” von Richter said.

“Of you.” Claire opened her eyes.

He was nearing forty, she guessed. Slender, perfect posture, the polished manner of a European aristocrat. Dark hair slicked back, he had the tan of a denizen of ocean liners and Riviera beaches. A light trace of a scar on his chin, he said from a duel. Not what she expected, with all that she’d heard of Hitler’s rants about the Aryan race.

“Say something in German,” she said.

He spoke against her throat.

“What did you say?”

“I am going to remove—” His hands slid past her hips. “What is this, in English?”

“My stockings?”

“Stockings.” He tasted the word. “I am going to remove your stockings with my teeth.”

“But what would Russell say if you ripped them?”

“He can afford another pair.”

“Mmm.” She breathed into his shoulder, wishing for another drink. “Tell me about Berlin.” Anywhere but here, she thought.

“Berlin has its charms. Merkel longs to return. But Paris, that is the place. The clubs . . . Josephine Baker dancing, the Moulin Rouge, Pigalle, the women . . . Well, I won’t say what they do. Only the French take the pleasure of a woman’s body so seriously.”

Claire felt his fingers slide closer to her thigh. At least this one was a charmer. She rarely was so lucky with Russell’s clients. She flirted and tempted, and then her husband came in for the business kill.

With one sure hand, von Richter guided her across the floor to the rhythm of the music. The other hand discreetly explored her, gliding across exposed skin from the nape of her neck to the leg revealed by the side slit in her gown.

“When is your husband going to join us?” He gestured toward the doors with his head. “Poor Merkel grows tired and impatient inside.”

She composed a pout and threaded gloved fingers through his hair. “You’re not having a good time?”

“I would prefer your husband never return, lovely. You are a sublime hostess, entertaining your guests until he arrives.”

“Yes, I am.” She pulled free, leisurely swatted at the hand reaching for the curve of her behind. She blew him a kiss. “I am going to check my stockings. Sharpen those teeth.”

As she stepped inside, Claire squinted at the glare from the glittering chandeliers. The thirty-two-piece orchestra dueled against chattering voices and clinking crystal. Men in tuxedoes and women in sparkling gowns chatted in clusters across the ballroom floor.

Arranging a polished smile, Claire advanced from the shadows. With an imperceptible flick of her hips, the glittering cream folds of her dress swept around her legs like a curtain of stars poured onto the white marble. All eyes in the room swiveled toward her. A sharp voice cut through the din.

“Claire, darling! You’re missing your own party. Where have you been?” Surviving exclusively on cigarettes and gossip, Margo Townsend’s rail-thin body was adorned in couture and dripping with jewels. She planted a dramatic kiss on Claire’s cheek, then leaned in to whisper. “Did you see Flora Foster? She brought a photographer with her. Drop Hitler a thank-you card for this one. Everyone is in Manhattan tonight.”

Margo was right. With Germany’s invasion of Poland last fall, State Department travel restrictions meant that only diplomats and journalists could travel to Europe. Everyone was in town this spring—and at the Stone mansion tonight. Claire scanned the room for Foster, the matriarch of the
New York Times
society pages. She’d written up Claire in her column a number of times in the past year, but a photo spread was a significant accomplishment. Russell ought to be pleased that his wife was the toast of Manhattan. Whenever the bastard showed.

A white-coated server glided by with drinks on a silver tray. Claire downed a glass of champagne and pressed through the dancing couples, smiling, kissing and maneuvering her way across the floor.

Flora was holding court in the corner, a lean brunette surrounded by admiring socialites gunning for a mention in the coveted first paragraph. “Ah, there’s our hostess.” Flora stabbed a long cigarette toward Claire’s necklace. “That piece is devastating! Cartier?”

Claire stroked the jewels with the tip of her finger. She loved their feel against her skin. Intricate spiderwebs of diamonds spun toward a glittering pendant that hung between her breasts. In the center, an enormous faceted diamond reflected dancing lights.

“What was the occasion for that sparkler, darling? Spill for our readers.”

The necklace had been a present from Russell for her twenty–ninth birthday this spring. A reward, and damn well earned, for her social climbing on his behalf.

“Kiss and tell? Never,” Claire said to twitters of laughter.

A gloved hand tapped her elbow. Her butler, Davis, caught her eyes, his lips pressed into a thin line. Irritation flashed through her. Had her ass of a husband finally called? She forced a smile, excused herself, and followed Davis into the hall.

“Did Mr. Stone telephone? How late is he going to be?” Claire didn’t know what she was going to do about von Richter if Russell didn’t show soon.

“No, Mrs. Stone. There is someone at the servants’ entrance.”

“Let him in.”

“He’s not invited, Mrs. Stone.”

“Well, have him tossed out, then.”

“I don’t know if that would be a good idea.” Davis leaned in, his voice dropping to a low murmur. “He purports to know you. Know you well.”

Her mind churned at all the possible ghosts outside that door. “Are you the only one he’s spoken to?”

Davis nodded.

“Keep it that way,” she said.

 

 

C
laire stepped outside the kitchen door, Davis at her shoulder. A large dark figure stumbled up, smelling of bad whiskey and sweat. Broad shoulders strained at the tattered fabric of his jacket, spotted with food and drink and road.

Her own personal nightmare, in the flesh. The champagne fuzz in her head burned away. She forced the words past the dread gripping her throat. “Davis, please go inside and attend to our guests.”

He frowned, his gaze on the man.