See, I told you I'd be quick!

You know what I'd like in return? Some reviews. Fo realz, yo. I LOVE reviews. And I'll love you if you give them!!

Quickly, I want to just thank Loboscha for the help with German in the last chapter. It was VERY much appreciated. I've edited it, so it should be okay.

Enjoy and REVIEW!!!


It wasn't until Louis had drug me through three successive songs that I started to think perhaps he had been waiting around the entrance for me specifically and I simultaneously started to bemoan my foolish flirting. Of course, he could no more sense my disdain than he could read my head, and I had to excuse myself for a prolonged trip to the powder room before he'd take his hands off me.

When I returned to the dance floor, I saw that Louis was mercifully preoccupied by another girl, this one a German movie star, Eva Von Something-or-other. Sighing in relief, I found my way outside to the patio, eager to smoke a cigarette and unwind under the beautiful night sky.

I spotted a few men near a fountain, some of whom I knew, none of whom were in uniform, and decided that I shouldn't keep completely to myself all night. Utilizing a trick I'd learned almost immediately upon coming to Paris, I sat down in a chair and held an unlit cigarette between my fingers, a clear invitation for the men to approach me and lend me a light and a conversation.

Making sure not to even glance their way once my cigarette was in place—French men absolutely loved being ignored and American men loved it because French men did—I formed my expression into a mask of boredom and waited.

It took perhaps five seconds before I heard a lighter click and the tobacco started to burn. I looked to my left, expecting a dapper young man, smiling at me slyly.

Instead I found myself gazing into twinkling blue eyes.

I caught myself just before instinct would have taken over and caused me to flee as fast as I could in the opposite direction, instead taking a calming puff on my cigarette in an effort to make my undoubtedly horrified expression seem natural and disinterested.

"Merci, monsieur," I thanked him for the light, my voice wavering slightly as I glanced towards the boys by the fountain, all of whom looked as though they'd been about to approach me, but were now backing off. I wished they would come back.

This man was the last person I wanted to see. My pulse began to race. My blood began to boil. I felt an odd rush of terror and anger as I looked at the man I'd met once before, in a dark wood.

I cast my eyes to the ground in the hopes that he wouldn't recognize them.

Colonel Landa smiled at me in so charming a fashion that, had I not known who he was, I would've been enamored right then and there. As it was, it took all my strength not to start sobbing from pure terror. I pursed my lips and took a deep breath through my nose, smiling at him tightly.

Landa nodded at me, his grin widening. I considered myself fairly adroit at reading people—indeed, it was one of my few talents—but the colonel's eyes remained a mystery. I couldn't tell anything about what he was thinking, and it unnerved me so deeply that I found myself leaning away from him.

Had he recognized me?

"Bonjour, mademoiselle," he said, his voice soft and his accent impeccable. "Je suis Colonel S.S. Hans Landa."

I could hear his Austro-German roots only in the way he said his name. Had he not looked remarkably Austrian, I would have assumed by his accent that he was, in fact, French.

The way he introduced himself was disarmingly modest; it would appear that, unlike so many officers of his rank, he didn't automatically assume I knew who he was. I didn't buy it for a moment of course, but I smiled tightly again.

"Oui, je sais," I told him. I lowered the pitch of my voice slightly and stuck to French, in case he had a good ear and could recognize voices. I very rarely spoke in English while in Paris; it was safer that way. "I know who you are, Herr Colonel."

Then, rather coldly, I turned my head and looked across the garden, blatantly ignoring his presence.

This did not perturb him. He pulled a chair up beside me and took a seat as well, lighting his own cigarette. I glanced at him despite myself, found him watching me with clear interest.

My blood began to pound harder as I noticed his expression. Did he recognize me? As the moments went by, I was more and more certain that he did.

If he didn't, why was he wasting his time? Why not go inside and chat up a Nazi film star, dance with a girl ten times prettier than I?

I refused to converse freely with him. He'd have to give up sooner or later.

"Wonderful!" he said, raising his arms slightly, beaming. "How wonderful! Then there is no need on my part to say more."

I stared at the far end of the garden blankly for a moment before his lips parted slightly and he leaned forward with apparently intense fascination.

"Donc, ma cher, comment vous appelez-vous?"

Was he truly so interested in my name?

He blinked a few times at my silence, still smiling. I glanced at him again and quirked an eyebrow, trying to appear hugely indifferent to his presence and not at all interested in his face which, this close, was possibly even better looking than I'd first surmised.

That thought irritated me and my nostrils flared. He was an idiot if he couldn't see that his presence was bothersome but he continued to behave as though I was swooning for him.

"Adele Benoit," I replied with a curt nod.

He caught my right hand—the one in which I did not hold a cigarette—and pressed soft lips against it.

"Enchante," he muttered over it.

I shuddered in disgust as I felt warm breath against my skin, and I think he took this as a shiver of delight or sexual attraction, because when he looked back up at me his expression was wolfish. He was simply positive he had me, now. The pig.

And still, my mind was racing. Did he or did he not recognize me?!

"Adele Benoit…" he mused, releasing my fingers, which came back against my stomach so quickly I had to scratch my torso in an attempt to make it look quasi-normal.

I was not doing very well… Hopefully, though, he didn't know who I was and attributed my nervous behavior to the fact that he was a dashing man and I was a shy woman.

"I've heard your name before too, if memory serves. I hear you leave quite the impression!" He chuckled good-naturedly.

I frowned at this, curious despite myself, finally meeting his eyes for the first time since he'd lit my cigarette. Which Nazi had I insulted? I was relatively positive I'd been extremely polite and moderately flirtatious with all of them; my ruse demanded it. Of course, I wanted to spit in their horrible faces every time they leered at me, and each time they took my hand in theirs I desired nothing more than to break their fingers. But I'd become very good at hiding these impulses.

I'd thought I'd charmed my way into every Nazi official's heart on this side of the Seine. But if what Landa said was true, if I left an impression, perhaps I'd been wrong.

"What kind of impression?" I asked, leaning forward with a smile as though we were sharing secrets.

Adele had no reason to dislike this man—she'd never had problems with German soldiers in the past—and if Landa had heard of me, he would know this. I was acting suspicious by acting indifferent. My reputation suggested I was usually otherwise.

"The vox populi," Landa replied, leaning back casually, "indicates that you are a wonderful conversationalist! So, naturally, I am delighted to have, quite by chance, found you. What luck!"

The last two words were proclaimed in abrupt English.

My heart plummeted and I stared at Landa, unable to hide the flicker of horror that crossed my face as I remembered the same phrase coming from the colonel's mouth the last time we'd met.

What luck, indeed.

Landa was staring at me, still smiling, but his grin dropped away as he noticed my reaction, which I was unable to hide. He leaned forward.

"Something wrong?" he asked briskly, back to speaking French, looking genuinely concerned, his eyes darting around before focusing unnervingly back on my face.

"Non," I whispered, then cleared my throat. My voice was louder when I spoke next. "Uh… non, HerrLanda. Je suis bien..."

I stood up, my hands shaking. Gripping my skirt, trying to stop them, I sighed and shook my head.

"J'ai un mal de tête," I lied, placing my fingers on my forehead to indicate the source of my false pain and turning from him as he stood up quickly, wanting to assist me.

I waved him away, thoroughly unnerved by this whole ordeal and unable to take much more.

"I'll be alright; But I'm afraid that, tonight, I can't do much for your entertainment. My headache is too distracting. Je fais des excuses. C'etait un plaisir de vous rencontrer, Colonel Landa."

I was lying. It certainly was not a pleasure to meet him.

"S'il vous plait, mademoiselle, call me Hans."

He caught my hand again and kissed it. I watched him, stomach boiling with nausea.

"Alors, Hans," I muttered, smiling over gritted teeth. "Au revoir."

See you again. I wished I could sound blatantly menacing.

He smiled.

"Let us hope so."

I swept away without looking back.


I managed to hold myself together for the entire taxi ride back to my apartment.

Leaving the party had been a blur; people—just faces, really—asked if I was feeling well, said I was deathly pale, wondered where I was going, asked if I needed help. I'd managed to briefly explain to a few of them that I had a pounding headache, but it didn't go over my head that they thought I was behaving oddly.

I'd set myself up, really. Adele's constant cheerfulness, flirtations and wit, her never ending laughter, her fondness for everyone she met, had made my character a popular one at parties. Of course, it had always been easy to act that way, simply because it was an act and anything Hazel was, Adele kept tucked away. But now…

Landa's appearance had scared me—truly scared me in a way I hadn't experienced—and his unnerving, calculating, predatory eyes stayed with me. I'd let Adele's façade drop, unable to keep it up in my terror, and agonized all the way home that someone would discern this and inquisitions would be made.

I told myself no, that no one would notice and Landa would simply assume he'd met me on the wrong night. In this way, I kept hysteria at bay at least until I'd stumbled in my front door. Then, I started bawling like an infant.


It took three hours before I could stop crying but, at the end of it all, I came to an empowering recognition.

I would see Landa again—I'd make quite sure of it.

If it was as Adele, I would charm him, make him forget the events of our first meeting and quell any suspicions he may have. I'd be so utterly wonderful that he would have no choice but to love me a little; men admired passion and Landa was only a man.

This helped, and every time I told myself such, I felt better. I could handle men. Landa was not a monster, he was male.

I knew very well how to manipulate them. In fact, my specialty lay in Nazi soldiers stationed here, who often had weaknesses for Frenchwomen.

I wasn't technically a Frenchwoman but no one knew that.

However. If I met Landa as Hazel…

I'd kill him without hesitation.

Perhaps I'd have to the opportunity to do both. What an end for the Jew Hunter—if I could get him to become enamored, it would be all the more satisfying when I revealed my true identity and betrayed his trust before slitting his throat.

I fantasized about it, thought of laughing as I told him I could never possibly feel any amount of respect, much less love, for a man with such evil ideologies and prejudices. I would tell him I felt nothing but contempt for him, watch his face fall before I delivered his ultimate punishment.

If given the opportunity, I would make sure he died in pain both emotional and physical.

Without realizing it, this became my plan. It would be the ultimate revenge for everything he'd done and I savored the fact that, when I was finished with him, his pride would be gone.

I must pause to say that I, by no means, thought of men the way I thought of Landa. Never were they objects to me and I'd never gone about attempting to destroy someone by pursuing them and using their own feelings against them. It wasn't the kind of woman I was, though of course I knew girls who tended to do just that.

Despite Adele being somewhat of a flatterer, I was much too genuine to make a usual practice of it.

This was what made my plan perfect, of course. My relationships, while few and discreet, had always been real and ended amiably. My reputation would quell any doubts Landa might be harboring.

The Jew Hunter deserved it, I told myself. He'd caused so much pain for so many people, had terrorized and stalked and killed some of the families I'd known personally, and I felt no regret during my planning process.


I started researching him that night and throughout the weeks that followed. Reading reports of his activities only served to deepen my hatred. The German government submitted glowing reviews; his methods were slightly theatrical but it could not be said that he didn't get the job done, and thoroughly.

There was very rarely a case he hadn't solved, people he hadn't found. He'd even found me, and the fact that I'd escaped did not prevent him from listing this as one of his accomplishments.

Anyone I spoke to who knew Hans Landa personally only had wonderful things to say. The women tended to paint him just as I expected: charming, dapper, hilarious and intelligent. The men tended to admire him—some were even jealous—and spoke of his accomplishments in his career.

"He never ceases to surprise me," Louis Cavalier told me at a cocktail party. "The way he balances politics and society is truly remarkable."

"He gets opinionated, surely," I intoned, searching Louis's eyes. "They all do."

By 'they' I mean members of the Nazi party.

Louis thought for a moment, a hand arched elegantly under his chin.

"Non," he said, a crease appearing between his eyebrows as he seemed to realize something. "Non, Landa is usually very mild. He'll engage in political discussions if provoked, but generally…" He shrugged, looking away and taking a drink from the champagne flute in his hand. "I confess, he bores me. Let's talk of other things, ma cher."

This was a clear sign that Louis was threatened by the man. I smiled.

"You don't think Herr Landa is charming?" I queried innocently, simply to watch the expression that flitted across his face: badly hidden surprise, coupled with jealousy and a flash of anger. He stared at me, so I raised my eyebrows and waved my hand carelessly. "I mean, he left quite… an impression. I'd like meet him again."

Louis ran a hand through his hair.

"Intéressant," he muttered, trying to smile. "He said just the same about you."

I straightened, burning for all the information Louis had to offer, but forced myself to appear disinterested and looked away, towards a window.

"Did he?" I asked idly. "You spoke to him about me?"

"He asked," Louis said, also feigning disinterest but obviously wondering why I cared. He took a drag off his cigarette. "I told him not to waste his time." He looked back at me, eyes twinkling. "You won't give an inch to any one of your admirers."

I rolled my eyes and elbowed him, making him laugh.

I waited for a moment, wondering if Louis would offer any more information. He said nothing.

"You're having a soiree next week, oui?" I asked. Louis nodded, already knowing where I was going with this. "Will the colonel be there?"

"I've sent him an invitation," Louis said, suddenly cold. He turned from me, hailing a girl across the room, "Madeleine!"

I was left alone with my thoughts. Next week, then, Colonel Landa.

Next week the games would begin.


I spent the day of Louis's party—the entire day, mind you—preparing, primping, powdering and styling myself as close to perfection as I could come. This wasn't exactly close, per se, but at least when I looked in the mirror, I saw "pretty."

Pas belle, mais jolie.

I wore a deep red formal dress that night, wanting to look the part of the seductress. It was floor length silk chiffon with a short train and butterfly sleeves, an absolutely lovely garment. The thing that sold me on it, however, was the neckline. Haute couture, it was cut nearly as low as my navel, narrow enough to be classy but sexy enough to border on scandalous. I'd be the talk to the party in it, and hopefully it would be enough to attract Landa's undivided attention.

My hair was styled and pulled back into a twisting bun. I forwent a hat in favor of the gorgeous 'do, dramatic makeup—red lips, smoky eyes—and delicate silver jewelry.

I'll admit, I had a very fun time with it. I couldn't remember a time when I'd cared enough to look so glamorous and I would savor every moment Landa's eyes were turned on me.

I paused, frowning and looking myself over in the mirror. In a very short time—only two weeks—this man, and his downfall, had become something of an obsession.

I realized I was dressing for him, making myself up for the sole purpose of his attention, and while I knew what my ultimate plan entailed, the fact that I was doing so made me feel a bit ill. To an outsider, it would appear as though I actually had a crush on him.

I pursed my lips and growled at the mere thought.

My plan would work. The Jew Hunter would die at my hands, so help me God.

Decisively, I yanked my neckline—already near my naval—an inch or two lower, then turned and swiftly left my apartment, headed for what promised to be an eventful evening.


"Mon Dieu, Adele."

These were the words with which I was greeted upon entering Cavalier's mansion, and they were spoken behind fanned hands pressed against red lips.

I looked to my left to find a rather fair-weather acquaintance—she would call herself my friend but I felt no amount of affection for the woman—by the name of Sophie Bellerive.

"Quelle robe merveilleuse!" she exclaimed, obviously much less than sincere and simply green with jealousy.

Sophie was one of those people who believed herself mysterious, sensual and alluring and managed to fool many people that she was exactly that. But I could see just how hard she tried to maintain this ruse and, while she wanted me to be threatened by her, I only disliked her for her snobbish attitude.

"Merci, Sophie," I replied icily, smiling all the same.

The girls surrounding her offered me perhaps more genuine smiles. I touched my stomach, almost self-conscious but telling myself that this was exactly what Sophie wanted me to feel. She was already seething at the amount of distraction I would cause.

My smile turned sly and I touched my skirt.

"Do you really like it?" I asked sweetly, taking a flute of champagne from one of the passing waiters in white jackets.

Sophie opened her mouth to respond, surely just as sugary sweet as I was being, but got distracted. Her heavily mascaraed eyes flicked over my shoulder and she grinned widely, before wriggling red-painted fingers at someone there.

"Herr Colonel, mein leibling!" she called. I rolled my eyes. Even I could tell her accent was horrible. Unalterably French and completely unconvincing. "I'm completely thrilled to see you here! Louis didn't mention you were coming."

"Sophie Bellerive, quel plaisir."

Her hand was grasped by someone only slightly behind me, someone I couldn't bring myself to turn and look at, but the voice, that impeccable, amiable French, was distractingly familiar.

My breath left me. Why did the Nazi pig insist on sneaking up on me from behind? It almost seemed his intention to surprise and horrify me every time we met.

Perhaps it was. Perhaps he could sense my reaction and knew, on some level, that doing so gave him the upper hand.

Sophie, the idiot, immediately noted my whitened face. She frowned, faux concerned.

"Adele, ma cher, what's the matter?" This came out in an awful stage-whisper, meant to embarrass, but it snapped me out of my momentary shock.

"Nothing at all," I said, straightening my shoulders and turning with a smile to the man who was still standing a little behind me. "Alors, Colonel Landa. Pardon, I meant Hans."

Unable to help myself, I glanced at Sophie, who was trying to look bored but obviously wanted to know how we knew each other.

Landa raised his eyebrows as he recognized me, tilting his head quickly, a small smile lifting one corner of his expressive mouth. He took a deep breath through his nose and was silent for a moment—almost long enough to start to be awkward—before his smile grew wide quite abruptly.

"Adele!" he exclaimed, leaning back a little as I turned around fully, allowing his eyes to drop down the length of my body for a fraction of a second. "Excellent to see you again."

He pressed his lips to my hand, a little longer than necessary. It was impossible not to feel exactly how soft his mouth was. His precise motive, I surmised.

He'd done that before, I realized. In fact, he repeated this rather archaic gesture to every girl he came into contact with. Very rarely did I meet a man who kissed women's hands like that, though I supposed he fancied himself a gentleman.

The very thought was laughable. My mouth twitched.

He caught the swift expression but I'm sure he couldn't have any idea what to attribute it to. He only smiled in return—that charming, vivid smile—and continued to examine me.

It was odd, I realized, the way he looked at me. It was not sexual—though it was a little wolfish—and it was not a stare that made me uncomfortable. It was calculating, yes, as though every moment he was looking, he was also thinking, wondering, making inferences into my character.

He was cataloguing me, my actions and reactions, and using them to predict my motives and even my next move.

I came to the startling realization that, to delight him, I'd have to surprise him. My smile faltered again.

This would be a very long evening.


More to come soon! Review, pretty please with sugar on top?!