Medium-brown eyes looked up at him, lit by intelligence and humor. “My reputation precedes me.”
What had he said? “Pardon?”
“My name is Evelyn Brand, not Firebrand, despite what Mr. Norwood says.”
For heaven’s sake. “My apologies, Miss Brand. I assure you, the mistake was mine, not George’s.”
“No need to apologize.” The pleasure in her expression told him she’d probably repeat this story to all her friends.
“Please come in.” Fumbling for the remnants of his manners, he motioned her inside. “Would you rather go outside? The weather is chilly, but I enjoy it that way.”
“I do too, but I’d like to start in here. You can learn a lot about a person from his surroundings.” She shrugged off her overcoat.
Peter helped her and hung her coat on a hook. “All right, Miss Brand. What can you learn from my miniature graduate student office?”
At his bookcase she pulled out a few volumes. She cut a stylish figure in a gray suit and a red blouse with a red belt around her waist. Her hat had a man’s cut but with a feminine tilt, gray with a red bow. Even her shoes were gray and red.
Miss Brand slid a book back onto the shelf. “Your books tell me nothing that Nor—Mr. Norwood didn’t tell me. You’re studying the German language. But despite your recent arrival, everything is unpacked.”
This could be interesting. “I don’t procrastinate.”
“A Dictaphone?” She stroked the machine with the reverence it deserved. “What for?”
“My research. I’m—”
“Ah, your research. You’ll tell me about it in exceptional detail, I’m sure. But may I ask my questions first?”
He grinned. After the giggling junior year girls, Miss Brand was refreshing. “In my defense, I was answering your question.”
She chuckled. “You were.”
Peter leaned back against the wall and crossed his ankles. “Let the interrogation begin.”
“Your chair is beside your desk, not behind it.”
“I was meeting with a student.”
“And you prefer a non-adversarial role. May I?” Miss Brand gestured behind the desk.
“Be my guest. Watch out for the exploding cigars in the top drawer.”
She shot him a sly smile as she passed, dropped a red purse into his chair, and picked up a framed photograph from his desk. “Your family?”
“Yes.”
“Well, aren’t you all Aryan looking?” she said in a teasing voice, as she compared Peter to the photo. “All blond and—yes—blue-eyed.”
“One hundred percent German.”
“I’m 75 percent German, and I don’t look like that. Let’s see. You’re the third youngest of four boys. You look about ten in this photo. Have you always worn glasses?”
“I was nine, and I’ve worn glasses since first grade when I couldn’t see a thing on Miss Hathaway’s blackboard.”
Miss Brand squinted one eye at him. “Sometime between then and now, you broke your nose.”
Peter sucked in a breath, hearing again how that fist had crunched into his face, feeling rough hands shove him to the floor, seeing more rough hands beat his father to death, while Peter had lain there, too much of a weakling to save him.
“Fraternity brothers?”
Peter blinked and forced his focus onto the young lady, who held up a photograph of Peter with his three closest friends in their fraternity sweaters. “Yes. Now all of us are in Europe.”
“Nor—Mr. Norwood hasn’t changed.”
Peter stepped closer. “That’s Henning—Baron Henrik from Denmark. And Paul Aubrey runs an automobile factory near Paris.”
“That’s you.” She glanced him up and down quickly. “You’ve changed.”
Meaning he wasn’t a skinny weakling anymore. He’d made sure of that.
“You don’t have a Boston accent like my bureau chief.”
“I come from New York, the Albany area.”
“No picture of a wife or sweetheart. Either you’re unattached or you keep your wife’s photo at home, the better to lure pretty coeds.”
Peter heaved a mock sigh. “If only I were that scandalous. It would make a better story.”
“It would.” She scanned the office. “You’re very organized. Alles in Ordnung.”
Everything in order, as it should be. “Any more analysis, or shall we go for a walk?”
“A walk would be nice.”
Peter helped her on with her coat, slipped on his own coat and hat, and led her down the hallway. “Now it’s my turn.”
“Your turn?”
He squinted at her pointedly. “You’re from the Midwest, probably Chicago, judging by how you pronounce your Rs.”
Brown eyebrows rose. “Chicago born and bred.”
“You come from money, judging by your outfit.”
Miss Brand wrinkled her nose. “Well . . .”
“But you’re uncomfortable with being wealthy, which speaks well of your character, as does the fact that you chose a career rather than marrying your escort from your debutante ball.”
“I didn’t have a debutante ball.” She looked quite pleased about that.
Peter pressed a hand to his chest. “And your mother was sorely disappointed.”
Her mouth flopped open. “How did you . . . ?”
“Nor did you pledge a sorority.”
The hallway emptied into the atrium with its dark marble pillars and high white dome. Miss Brand’s heels clicked on the tiled floor, and she gave him a look both suspicious and admiring. “You could be a reporter, Mr. Lang.”
He bent in a small bow. “I’ll presume you mean that as a compliment and accept it as such.”
She laughed, low and melodic and not silly at all. “That’s enough. I’m here to interview you and to ask for contacts with other American students.”
“Happy to oblige. I’m teaching the German language course next semester for the junior year program. We have thirty-four exchange students.”
“Wonderful.” She climbed broad marble steps to the landing, pulling a notepad from her purse.
“Shall we find a bench?” He headed down the steps on the other side of the landing.
“I can walk and write.”
“Good. I’m a firm believer in fresh air and exercise.” He opened the door of the main building.
Unlike American universities with their sprawling, park-like campuses, the University of Munich had two long buildings facing each other across Ludwigstrasse, with a circular plaza in the middle. In the center of the plaza, a dozen students perched on the side of a large fountain, laughing and flirting.
Peter turned left on the path around the plaza. “I love how Germans are walkers and hikers.”
Miss Brand drew in a deep breath. “I like that too. My roommate and I go hiking in the Alps whenever I can tear her away from her music.”
“She’s a musician?”
“A flautist. A bit of a darling in the Munich music scene.”
“Not Elizabeth White?”
Miss Brand raised a smug smile. “I’ve known Libby since second grade.”