He didn’t try to stop her, as he’d promised. But he couldn’t resist saying, “I’m not like Jacques.”
She paused, half into the darkened hallway. Turned her head without actually looking at him. “I know. But I’m still likeme.”
A moment later, she was gone. And he wondered if he’d ever see her again.
Twenty-Two
EIGHT MONTHS LATER
9 SEPTEMBER 1942
MARSEILLE, FRANCE
“You know,” Marguerite said as she leaned against the exterior wall of the bistro Alliance had bought four months ago, “we could go inside one of these evenings. Sit at a table while you pretend you don’t want to see him.”
Zelie ignored her friend and edged a few inches closer to the window. It was, as she’d instructed it to be on Wednesday evenings, open. Not to let the sea air in on a sweltering summer night, but to let the music out.
When she’d used some of the funds from England to buy another business to use as a cover for Alliance, she’d opted for this bistro because she and Marcel had never come here. And yet what had she done? Bought a piano for it. And then sent a message to him to report there on Wednesdays to meet with Rivière. But she was here, more often than not. Out of sight. Because whatever she’d claimed, she needed it. Those stolen moments, the reminders of why the fight was worth it. A few minutes of peace each week as she listened to him play.
Of course, the peace was a lot more peaceful before Marguerite had arrived in Marseille with all her infuriating prodding.
“Could we at least put chairs out here?”
Breathing a laugh, Zelie rolled her head to the side to glare at her friend. “You don’t have to come.”
“And you don’t have to refuse to see the man you’re in love with just because you’re stubborn. But alas. Here you are in the alley, so here I am with you. Because I’m such a good friend.” Marguerite blew out a long stream of smoke.
Zelie batted it away. And didn’t take up the argument. What was the point? When Marguerite had shown up at her door in the small hotel closer to Toulon than to Marseille that was her new headquarters, the first thing she’d done was wrap Zelie in a tight embrace.
And the second thing had been to point a finger at her nose and say, “That man is in love with you, and you’re an idiot if you’re turning him away.”
Zelie had tried to play the fool about what man Marguerite meant, but her friend had rolled her eyes. “Perhaps the one who hunted me down in Paris and told me in no uncertain terms that I had to come to Marseille before you completely shut yourself off? Perhaps the one who had such concern in his eyes when he said you’d closeted yourself away in your hotel room and never said more than a few words to anyone? Perhaps the man who begged me to come be your friend because you wouldn’t let him be one anymore?”
For good reason. She couldn’t trust herself around him, as she’d so disastrously proven. It was enough to hear him play in the alley. Just as it was enough to look at the stars every night and send her love to Blaise and Elise.
A lie, on both counts. But one she couldn’t afford to call herself on.
That had been in April. She’d expected Marguerite to headback to Paris long ago, but instead she’d stayed on as Zelie’s personal courier, traveling all over Free France for her, from sector to sector. She was good at it, able to talk herself out of any situation with her innocent appearance and easy chatter.
“Couldn’t we at least go up to the back room?”
Although the chatter had its drawbacks too. Zelie sighed. “Go ahead.” She checked her watch. Twenty minutes until they were to meet Léon, who’d just arrived back in France from Algiers. Every time she met with him, she had to fight down her anger at his bringing Navarre into the conspiracy.
But MI6 loved him. Loved having his perspective. Loved all the connections he’d made in North Africa. Bringing him into the fold had pleased her handlers more than anything else she’d done since Navarre’s arrest.
Her friend put out her cigarette. “That’s all right. I prefer to see your face while he’s playing. You get this dreamy expression—”
“Oh, stop.” Laughing, she presented her back to Marguerite, resting her shoulder against the sun-warmed orange stucco of the building.
Her reasons for never wanting another romantic entanglement hadn’t changed. Her resolve, on the other hand, wavered far too often.I love you, Zelie, but it doesn’t come with strings.Nothing to create a tangle, he’d claimed. Just there, whenever she needed him.
She hadn’t meant to test him, had intended to let his infatuation die its natural death. Her own feelings she could keep tamped down, stored safely away. She’d thought. But three times now, she’d slipped. Been where she’d known he’d be. Let him see her. Let the warmth of his smile, the light in his eyes wash over her. Let the magnet of his presence pull her closer.
Three times, she’d meant only to exchange pleasantries and had instead ended up in his arms, kissing him senseless.
Not his fault—he’d promised not to kiss her again, not tomention that first one, and he hadn’t gone back on his word. Not untilshedid, and then he held her tenderly, kissed her passionately.
And, when sense returned and she cursed herself and pulled away, he always gave her that knee-melting, dimpled smile and let her go.
