Sucking in her breath, Lillian glanced at him. At what she saw in his face her heart stampeded.
Before she could answer, before she could even begin to comply, the night exploded into chaos.
The sound of charging footsteps accompanied a blinding explosion of light from the barn as a trio of powerful searchlights switched on, catching them full in their beams.
“Halt!” Soldiers pointing rifles burst through the open doorway.
Frightened, Bruno whinnied and reared, jerking the rein from Paul’s hold as he bolted with a thunder of hooves. The blanket dislodged, revealing the slipping body of the pilot. Andre and Jean-Claude yelled and jumped aside to get out of the way.
Paul’s hands slammed into her shoulder, shoving her violently to the ground.
The soldiers opened fire.
“Ah!”
For Lillian, that one cry pierced the tumult like an arrow lodging in her heart. The voice was Paul’s. She saw him fall. He landed on his side on the muddy track, rolled onto his back. Bathed in the garish brightness of the searchlights, he writhed, ashen faced.
“No!” On hands and knees, she scrambled toward him. Blood stained his coat, spurted from a wound in his chest. “No!”
She reached him, saw at a glance that it was worse than bad. Snatching off her scarf, she tried to stanch the blood.
He looked at her, sucked in a shuddering breath. Already his lips were taking on a bluish tinge. She could feel the warm wetness soaking through her scarf and gloves.
No. No. No.
“Paul.” It was all she could say. A lump lodged in her throat. Her chest felt like it was caught in a vise. She pressed both hands down hard on his wound, praying that it would be enough to stem the bleeding.
“Lil.” His eyes closed, then opened again. Heart thudding, she leaned close to catch his words. “Last night—did you hear the owl?”
Horror turned her blood to ice.
“I—” There was no time for more. Rough hands closed on her arms. A trio of rifles were thrust in her face. Screaming, crying, fighting like a madwoman to get back to him, she was dragged away.
Chapter Three
“All right. You’ve had enough.”
Max’s low-pitched warning as he came up behind her spurred Genevieve into tossing back the champagne remaining in her delicate crystal flute like it was a shot of neat whisky.
“It’s never enough.”
His arm snaked around her waist. He yanked her back against him.
“Hey! You almost made me drop my glass.” Not bothering to struggle, she glared at him over her shoulder.
“Pull yourself together.” He spoke into her ear. His voice was harsh. They were alone in the hall, or he never would have grabbed her like that. In public Max always exhibited the deference that was due her as the star around which his life supposedly revolved.
“Let go of me.”
“What we’re doing here is too important for you to jeopardize it with your stunts.”
“Are you calling rescuing that child last night a stunt?” The outrage in her voice was in no way diminished because she had, of necessity, to keep the volume low. After Otto had taken her to Max—at an illicit nightspot in the place des Vosges—and left her in the car while he’d gone in to get him, Max had come out and climbed into the back seat, his grim expression making it clear that Otto had already briefed him about what had occurred. He’d taken one look at her face and obviously picked up on the desperate resolve with which she’d been clutching the baby. Instead of scolding her or launching into a diatribe about her foolishness in getting involved, he had been as soothing and reassuring as only Max at his best could be. And, just as she’d been certain he would, he’d known exactly what to do. He told her all about the Oeuvre de secours aux enfants, also known as the Children’s Aid Society, or OSE, even as Otto had driven them to a house in the Bastille. Assuring her that the clandestine organization had been set up by the Resistance for exactly that purpose and the child would be protected from the Nazis and well cared for until she could be restored to her family, he’d persuaded her to hand Anna over to him when they’d stopped in front of it and taken her inside. When he’d returned, alone, he reassured her some more as Otto drove them to the Ritz. Genevieve had spent the hours since not sleeping and not thinking about Anna or the girl or any of the associations the encounter had dredged up. Oh, and drinking.
“It was a good thing to do. It was also stupid. What if you’d been caught? Do you know what they would have done to you?” His breath tickled her ear. She could almost feel the movement of his lips against the delicate whorls. She could feel the firmness of his body pressed up against her back and the hard strength of his arm around her waist. She fought the urge to close her eyes—until she realized that her arm was wrapped on top of his, holding it as he held her. Instantly her arm fell away, and she stiffened into rigidity.
“I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”
“They would have arrested you. Then they would have tortured you. Do you have any concept of what torture is like? They might, for example, have begun by breaking your fingers, one by one. You’d give up Otto and me and the whole bloody network the minute they started in on you, believe me.”
“It didn’t happen, did it? So why are you worrying?”
“Because now you’re drunk. And that makes you a liability.”
“I am not drunk.”
“You stumbled over the carpet back there. There’s too much at stake here. We can’t afford any cock-ups.”
“I do my job.”
“And you need to keep doing it. No more haring off to rescue children. No more getting drunk. Just do what you’re supposed to do.”
“Since when do you get to dictate my every move?” She shoved at the arm wrapped around her waist. It wouldn’t have worked, but a waiter carrying a tray came around the corner just then—his attention fortunately on the tray’s load of freshly filled champagne flutes rather than the little drama playing out between her and Max farther along the hall—and, seeing him, too, Max released her.
Without another word, Genevieve walked on as if nothing had happened, deposited her empty flute on the tray as the waiter passed and grabbed another full one, more to annoy Max than because she really wanted it. Ostentatiously sipping at the champagne, she continued to make her way along the narrow hallway that led from the dressing rooms to the stage. Tall and intimidating despite the old injury that made him walk with a pronounced limp and the aid of an elegant black stick, Max lengthened his stride until he loomed beside her.
“Feeling full of yourself, are you?”