Free The Last Time I Saw Paris by Lynn Sheene Page A

her hands. Under Madame’s tutelage in the little flower shop, Claire somehow become inspired—driven. The labor was a challenge, the product ephemeral. But this simple art had become her barricade against the growing darkness.
    She swallowed the lump in her throat. Of all the flattery laid on her over the years, this odd little man touched her. “Oh, please, Monsieur, your praise is too much.”
    Leluc blushed and busied himself with unlocking a metal box on his desk. He popped the lid open and counted out bills. With the smallest grin, he added several more to the pile. “For your talent.”
    “Merci.” She kissed his cheek and slipped the money into her coat pocket, smiling as he escorted her out the back entrance.
     
     
    T he empty cart bounced behind Claire as she nearly skipped along the alley behind the hotel. She squeezed the francs in her pocket. Her mouth watered. Without proper identification, she couldn’t get a ration card. Without a card, she couldn’t legally buy food. Georges was sweet and slipped her what he could from the store. Madame Palain brought breakfast and sometimes dinner too, but Claire knew Madame was making a great sacrifice. She doubted either ate much when they weren’t sharing a meal. They both had lost more weight than they could spare, and the worst of winter lay ahead. This would buy food for them both. A demi-kilo of black-market butter. A chicken, perhaps. If she had enough, potatoes. She would need cooking fuel, as well.
    She paused, a careful glance on avenue Montaigne. No cars, no sweeps, but a line had formed in front of the Théâtre des Champs-Elysées for an early show. An afternoon’s warm diversion for a lucky few. Claire turned onto the sidewalk, adding up the dinner’s costs in her head for an evening’s diversion for herself and Madame.
    The strong whiff of chocolate and warm pastries stopped her in her tracks. A café, Claire saw as she turned, displaying dessert in a large window. She paused next to the doorway, letting her gaze wander over the tables inside while she knocked the icy muck off her shoes. There were white tablecloths, real china. Rows of pastries, fruit. Judging by the location, maybe even real coffee. It was warmer next to the door; a couple of men bundled in worn coats leaned against the wall nearby, pilfering the faint heat. Claire riffled the bills in her pocket.
    Just inside the café’s doorway, an elderly Frenchman tugged a heavy wool coat over bent shoulders. He noted Claire’s desiring expression through the window and glanced down at the chocolates. A small smile, then he pursed thin lips and shook his head, as if such sweets were too decadent, not to be tasted. He pulled on a thick fur hat, tipped it at Claire and reached a frail hand for a cane.
    In the window’s reflection, Claire watched a party of German SS officers leave the Hôtel Emeraude. Their heavy jackboots cracked against the icy sidewalk as they marched toward the café. An officer, high ranking by the insignias on his jacket, paused behind her. His eyes flicked over her from muffled head to foot, dismissed her as nothing.
    The café door opened, the Frenchman set the foot of his cane onto the sidewalk before him, as if testing his next stride. The officer didn’t spare the man a glance and shouldered into him. The cane slid in between the Nazi’s striding legs and tangled. He stumbled, windmilling his arms to catch his balance as he slid over the icy walkway and landed hard on his back.
    Movement on the street froze. The soldiers guarding the hotel entrance, the men loitering in front of the restaurant, the people passing by. Even the chatter from inside the restaurant was silenced as if a switch was turned off. The old man’s eyes widened in shock, his mouth dropped open. The Nazi lunged to his feet, brushing at the filthy slush soaking his uniform.
    In one motion, the officer pulled a pistol from inside his jacket and fired a bullet into the old man’s chest.
    The