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

frail body flew backward; the door shook against the hinges with the force of the blow. The fur hat skittered across the sidewalk as the man collapsed onto the cobbles. Blood turned the grey slush under him into a dirty copper brown. Kicking at the hat, the officer led the men into the café.
    Claire released the handle of her cart and leaped forward. Attendez , wait, someone called behind her. She didn’t. She couldn’t. Dropping to her knees, Claire peeled off her scarf and pressed it against the wound.
    He looked up to her, cloudy eyes gleamed over the pallor of his face. “Ha.” His voice was raspy. “I nearly brought that batârd down.”
    The old man was fighting back the best way he could. He may well have fought the Germans twenty years before in the Great War. Even here, bleeding in the frozen slush, he was a proud French soldier. Claire blinked back tears burning behind her eyes and smiled. “You fought a good battle today, Monsieur.”
    He choked on a reply, his breath a thin wheeze. Claire looked up for help.
    Across the street, the soldiers guarding the hotel were staring, guns at attention. Everyone else had disappeared except for one of the men who warmed himself in the café’s heat. Even he had retreated back into the building’s shadows. He watched beneath a cap pulled low over his eyes.
    “Help us. He needs to get to a doctor,” she said.
    His bearded face remained expressionless as he scrutinized her. He finally turned away, cigarette clenched in his mouth, gaze on the street. Biting back a curse, Claire turned to the old man. His grimace faded as he let out a long, hoarse sigh. His rigid body went slack. He was gone.
    Claire sank back into the slush, feeling its bite as it soaked through to her legs. She heard panting, realized it was her breath. The cane rested half off the curb. The handle was ivory, goldrimmed, an elaborate dog’s head. Claire reached, felt the cold surface press into her skin.
    Coarse laughter echoed from the café. A moment’s amusement for them, she realized. The fear and anger she felt for the old man, the German soldiers, the constant struggle for life in this tortured city blazed together. She leaped to her feet, cane clenched in her fist, and strode for the door.
    A strong hand grabbed her shoulder and yanked her back. The man in the shadows—the connard who hadn’t lifted a finger to save the old man—was dragging her away from the café. Claire elbowed him hard in the ribs as he pulled her into an alley.
    He cursed and let go. Under the sandy beard, his face was sculpted with sharp cheekbones and deep-set eyes. Those eyes. The English bastard that insisted Laurent send her away. Thomas Grey.
    “You sorry—” Claire gripped the cane and swung it toward his head.
    Grey caught the ivory handle. “Claire? What are you doing here?”
    “You stood there and let—”
    “There was no help for him.” He tossed the cane across the alley.
    She shoved hard on his chest. “You watched an old man die on the street.”
    “I watched an old man be murdered. We both did.” He caught her hands and pulled her face close to his. “Tell me, Claire. Now. How were you in Hôtel Emeraude?”
    “You don’t get to ask me questions.” She jerked herself free.
    Harsh shouts rose from the direction of the restaurant. A truck engine rumbled. Grey motioned for her to stay put with a finger pointed at her face, then leaned his head out into the street. He grimaced then bit words off in his mouth. “Just go. Right now.”
    “I need to get my cart.”
    “No. Leave it. Go.”
    Claire brushed by him and peered into the street. A truck had brought more troops. They were filing into the restaurant. The sounds of breaking glass echoed off the stone buildings.
    Grey tugged on her arm. “You—”
    “Just shut up.” Claire turned into the darkness of the alley and stalked away from the restaurant, away from everything.
     
     
    T he banks of the Seine forced her to turn. She walked