The smell of sweet freesia mingled with the night’s gentle breeze. Kat gripped the wrought-iron handrail, the cool metal a relief against her warm palms. She dropped her chin to her chest. If appearances didn’t need maintaining, she’d drop her cheek down to the smooth rail for a brief respite from the abomination of merrymaking behind her while the people of the country cowered in terrified submission to their oppressors. And her sister in the middle of it all.
An ache groaned up inside of her. How wrong she’d been to imagine a tear-streaked Ellie falling into her arms with a desperate plea to whisk her back home. Back by Tuesday—wasn’t that what she’d said to her parents as they waved her off at the train station last Saturday morning? Her naivete had crashed down around her ears with the starry-eyed look from Ellie. Her sister was in pure bliss, like a fawn unaware of the prowling wolves.
A knot twisted in Kat’s stomach. Father would be furious if she gave up and allowed the family name to be smeared through the German mud. He’d never trust her to accomplish his purposes again.
Taking a deep breath, she lifted her head. She’d dreamed of visiting this city of lights with its tree-lined avenues, museums, and smoke-filled cafes, but tonight the magic was doused beneath blackout curtains. Except Ellie’s, of course. An eclipse couldn’t shadow her sister’s sparkle. It was a trait Kat had failed to grasp when weighted with the responsibility of family duty, but one that whispered wistfully to her. Perhaps when the war was finally over and Ellie safely at home, she could come back and enjoy the city in her own time. No rules and no one else deciding which parks she should stroll through or how many crêpes she shouldn’t eat. Pure bliss.
Metal twanged.
Kat peered over the rail to the empty street below. The cobbled gray thoroughfare was deserted, with every window shuttered and door locked tight. Even the mice had succumbed to Nazi rule after dark.
Scuffling. More metal slapped, like something heavy hitting a wall. Kat leaned farther over the rail, inching sideways down the balcony as the scuffling drew closer. Her pulse pricked. What if one of those legendary sewer rats had escaped in search of midnight delicacies? Like the cave-ripened brie perched on the edge of Ellie’s buffet table.
She wiggled her toes. Velvet Ferragamo pumps were the wrong footwear to take on a rodent.
“You might want to stand back.”
Kat jumped. “Who’s there?”
A large shadow swung over the balcony and dropped next to her. She screamed.
“Shh! You’ll wake the neighbors.”
A second scream caught in Kat’s throat as she stumbled back into the rail. The shadow leaped forward, catching her around the waist. Her hand flew up and struck hard.
“Ow!” Pain shot through her fingers.
“Careful of the buttons, lass. They’ll leave you smarting.”
Pulse careening, she shoved against the dark mass in front of her. “Unhand me at once, you . . . you prowler.”
“‘Prowler’?” The r rolled off his tongue in a muted burr that kicked her pulse in a completely unexpected way. The securing arms fell away on a loud snort of laughter. “Hardly.”
“Who are you? What are you doing here?” She inched away, stretching her fingers out in hopes of finding a loose rail or forgotten champagne glass to clobber him over the head with. “If it’s money you want, you should know I have nothing more than a hankie and tube of lipstick in my handbag, and the guests inside have undoubtedly lost all spare coins in their drunken haze.”
He shifted, blocking her view of the people inside. And their view of her. “I’m afraid you have me mistaken for someone else.”
“Who else but a man with sinister deeds in mind prowls rooftops in the middle of the night and scares women alone outside?” Her fingers brushed a potted geranium.
“I’ve been called many things, but sinister is a new accusation. Besides, if I’d gone out burgling, I would have worn something more accommodating.” He stepped into the shallow glow of the sconce by the doors. Tall, with dark hair combed to the side and a clean, angular jaw, he was dressed in a black dinner jacket that accented his thick shoulders. He pointed to the bow tie at his throat. “See?”
Her heart tripped. Fine jackets and starched white shirts were nothing more than a required uniform in her social circle, but this man wore them with a jagged edge of danger. As if they didn’t quite fit.
Her fingers curled over the lip of the pot. “A new breed of thief. Easy to slip among the guests while you rifle their pockets.”
“Lass, I think you’ve been out here in the dark too long. Your imagination has run amok.”
As he reached for the door, she grabbed the pot and hurled it. He ducked as it sailed an inch over his head and crashed against the wall.
He swung back to her, dark eyebrows slashed together and eyes wide. “What in blazes do you think you’re doing? I didn’t scale the side of a building to be taken down by a bucket of dirt.”
“You can scale right back down or I’ll scream for the police. There are close to forty German officers in there who would love nothing more than to”—she peered around him to the party still swinging inside, all hope of rescue dying—“ignore my cries for help as they spiral into a drunken waltz.”
“Aye, I can see that.” He brushed dirt off his shoulder and nodded as two uniformed men swung a laughing woman back and forth to the lively tempo inside. “Personally, I don’t think you need their help. Your aim is quite lethal on its own. Too bad you’re out of ammo.”
Ignoring the knowing smile in his voice, she bent her knee and raised her foot back to grab a velvet pump. “Don’t count on it.”
“Before I get a shoe or hairpin or that chair over there thrown at me, allow me to introduce myself. I’m Barrett Anderson, owner of the Blue Stag.” He gave a short bow. “So you see, as a businessman I have little use for picking German pockets when they can come to my club and hand over the money willingly.”
“How enterprising of you.” The panic surging within her ebbed. She lowered her foot. “A little far from home, aren’t you, Mr. Anderson?”
“A little farther than Berkshire, for certain.” A dark eyebrow raised in acknowledgment. “Same as our hostess.”
“What a coincidence.”
“Sisters aren’t coincidental.” At her look of panic, he gave a short laugh. “You look alike, same upper accent.”
No point in denying it. Half of Paris’s Gestapo was inside. “So you’ve met Eleanor?”
“Briefly. I doubt she remembers. It was a New Year’s party.”
“Was there champagne?”
“Of course.”
“Then no, she doesn’t remember.” Kat pressed her fingertips to her throbbing temple. The night had turned from horrendous to excruciating, and now this man had thrown in an unnecessary tangle. “However did you get up here?”
“Drainpipe. I would’ve come in the door, but there was a woman greeting her guts in the potted flowers just outside the building doors. Thought it best not to interrupt.”
She glanced over the rail to judge the impressive feat. What else did this mystery man have up his sleeve? “Very considerate. Might I ask what you’re doing here? Most Brits have packed up and left the city by now.”