CITY OF LIGHTS

Chapter 3

"Lieutenant-General Karl Wagner," Madame Collins was saying. "A very distinguished member of the Nazi party. Since the war began he has rarely been seen in public. Ever since his wife died, in fact. Why do you suppose a man like that would suddenly become so active again? Especially here, of all places?"

Remy settled back into the plush leather couch, taking the glass of bourbon Madame Collins was holding out to him, and downing almost all of it in one go.

"I don't know," he drawled in lazy English. "But I'm guessin' it ain't t' woo dat pretty young femme who's followin' him about, even if dis is love's capital."

The woman let out a sarcastic laugh.

"No. I don't suppose he is."

She sat down on the couch opposite him, setting the decanter on the glass table between them, and appraised him a moment. He stared right back at her because it was what he did.

"She may be his secretary," she suggested after a moment.

"Mebbe," he shrugged. "Hot lookin' secretary though."

Millicent Collins gave him a wry little smile. She was a handsome woman of about 60, with a carefully coiffed head of silvery blonde hair and a pink smile, dressed in silk, fuchsia lounging pajamas and a pair of burgundy velvet boudoir slippers. Boston heiress to a grand fortune, she had once been the most celebrated debutante of her day, a rare mixture of beauty and good-breeding, razor sharp intelligence and incredible wealth. She'd gone on to make four advantageous marriages over the course of her eventful life, her last having been to an American diplomat stationed in Paris, who had died just before the German occupation. A Nazi-sympathiser, he had spent one or two summers in Bavaria on less than diplomatic missions. He and his wife had even dined with the Fuhrer on a couple of occasions. Millicent, however, had seen quite enough of the Nazis to have developed and deep and abiding suspicion of them.

"Men are always too quick to assume that a lovely young woman accompanying an older man is his mistress," she chastised him half-playfully. "When she could just as easily be his secretary."

"It's possible, I suppose," he shrugged again. Clever though Madame Collins was, he didn't think she was correct on this particular point – though he knew better than to fight her on it. "I guess you'll be in a better position to find out yourself, Millicent."

They'd long given up the formal niceties of 'Madame' and 'Monsieur'. For the first time since arriving in Europe, Remy had felt totally at ease in the company of another. Both Americans, and both used to the finer things in life, there was an unspoken camaraderie between them that would perhaps have seemed odd to outsiders – her being a lady of advanced years, and he being so handsome and so young. Such an arrangement roused assumptions he was more than willing to cultivate, under the circumstances.

"Quite," she replied to his suggestion, a twinkle in her eye. "I'll be hosting a welcoming party for him and his entourage tomorrow. He is quite interested to learn more about my dear Mr. Collins' work." There was a thinly veiled sarcasm as she said the words. "I sense I may have some common ground with the lieutenant general, as far as dearly departed spouses go. I also sense that he might not be the easiest to wheedle secrets from."

"I guess not," Remy replied, draining the rest of his glass and reaching for the decanter to pour some more. "But these're early days yet, chere. Think of this party as our in, nothin' more."

She nodded.

"I should at least hope we could get some minor leads on this secret operation they're supposedly working on. Any clue as to locations, or even to what happened to that supposed 'secret lab' back last fall…"

"A clue, you might get. Anythin' more than that, I doubt it."

Remy settled back in his seat and slowly lit up a cigarette. His mind was still on the woman in the plain, tweed suit.

"That will come," Millicent said confidently. "In time. We have enough spies working round here. And besides… word does tend to get out, one way or another." She grinned, lifted her glass to her lips, and before she drank she added: "I'm trusting you, my dear, to work your silver tongue on my guests tomorrow night, you know."

"'Course you are." He gave a playful roll of the eyes. "Guess dis is a cue to get a new tuxedo fitted."

He finished off the drink and got to his feet.

"I forgot to say," she stopped him as he headed for the door. "Benoit and his group have reported activity on the west side of the Verrière Forest. The timing can hardly be a coincidence."

"You want me to take a detour out there, see what's goin' on?" he asked.

"No," she replied decidedly. "Wait until we have more information. Once we know what it is we're dealing with… well, then, that's when I guess we bring in your… unique talents."

He nodded briefly, stuck the cigarette between his lips, and left.

For a few moments Millicent Collins stared after him, a pensive look on her face. There was something about him, she thought, that she couldn't quite place. Too handsome, too clever, too talented. Too agreeable for all of those things. Despite a penchant for hedonism, he did as he was told, and he did it all well, without resistance. He was lackadaisical in a way that told her he considered his life throwaway. And, not for the first time, she wondered. She wondered what had brought him here, aside from a shady deal with MI-6.

Loss, she thought, was the only sensible answer to the conundrum. She'd felt the same after her second husband, the one she had loved, had died. Aimless, pointless. Driven to risky ventures that had nearly taken her own life. She'd met another after that. A charismatic man who'd trained her mind on other things. Not on love. No more of that. But more worldly pursuits. The things that mattered.

And here she was.

Without this, she would have nothing.

And perhaps, she thought, it was the same for Remy LeBeau too.

-oOo-

Millicent Collins was one of the few on her street who had refused to flee to the Free Zone after the Nazi invasion of the north. It had helped, of course, that she was in the Party's good books, and that she was rich and charismatic enough to ward off the indignities so many of her neighbours had had to suffer.

"I would rather suffer in poor, occupied, beautiful Paris," she'd told Remy once, "than to run to those awful, draughty chateaus down south, and be ruled by a puppet government."

Tonight the gorgeous Belle Epoque townhouse she called home was alive with the chatter of guests and the clink of crystal wineglasses, the soft strains of music and the warm, tawny light of the glittering chandeliers. Together her guests mingled in the lavish though tastefully decorated drawing room, cooing over the carefully selected pieces from Madame Collins' art collection, paintings and statuettes and ceramics gathered from all over the world.

Ever the obliging host, Millicent was eager to impress her guests, no matter their ideological and political inclinations. And, ever the committed socialite, she had refused to come down to join the party until after the hors d'oeuvres had been served.

"My dear," Millicent had asked of Remy, as they'd stood outside the double doors leading into the drawing room, "tell me. Do I look presentable or not? Please be honest."

He smiled down at her, dressed in her simple black chiffon evening dress, her silvery hair done up in an intricate up-do, a single string of pearls adorning her neck. There was no doubt in his mind that, in her youth, Millicent Collins must have been one of the most beautiful women of her day.

"Vous êtes très belle," he answered softly; and she shot him a wry, though affectionate, smile, said:

"And you are far too charming for your own good, Monsieur."

He returned the smile and offered her his arm. Before taking it, she neatly rearranged the handkerchief in his jacket pocket, straightened his lapels.

"I shall expect plenty of charm from you this evening, my dear," she reminded him in an almost matronly tone.

"I'm at yo' service, Madame," he returned with dry politeness.

"And that is what I like about you, LeBeau," she said, taking his arm. "Always at the ready, no matter how dire the circumstance. It makes me very curious as to your past." She did not press the point, instead finishing with: "Ready?"

Was he? The bracelet at his wrist was already chafing, and a headache was slowly starting to form – but he was ready, for the lies, the subterfuge. He thought of his haul, safely tucked away somewhere in government custody back in London, and he nodded.

"Always ready, chere," he said.

Millicent returned the nod, gestured to the footman standing guard at the door. He snapped forward with a mechanical gait, turned the handles, opened up the doors, and stood aside.

Music and chatter and the scent of food emanated from the golden-hued depths, and, slowly, sedately, the two of them stepped inside.

Almost immediately they were swamped by guests, and, as usual, Remy let Millicent do the talking. He was more than happy to play the part he had been given – nothing more than her arm, her eye candy at social functions. Say nothing, look pretty, feign ignorance. Watch, listen, learn.

He took a flute of champagne from a passing tray and let his eyes roam the room. Most of the men here were soldiers, smartly rigid in their SS uniforms. There was only a handful of women, for the most part wives, if he had to guess. Most were older, prim-looking women. One was younger, a pretty redhead clinging to her husband's arm – she, at least, seemed the most likely candidate for a seduction. He considered how much she might know, how much she might care about her husband's work. She didn't seem like the type who listened much at all – but she looked as if she liked to talk. That was promising.

His eyes crossed the room to a little alcove, wherein was set a small, gilt table with a vase; and, above that, a picture of Madame Collins in her youth was hanging. It was a dashing painting of her in pink silk, dressed in the Orientalist style of the 1910's, right before the Great War. Two people appeared to be inspecting Millicent's favourite little masterpiece, their backs to him. He instantly recognised who they were. Lieutenant-General Wagner, his small, thin frame standing stark and silhouette-like in his black uniform; and beside him, in an evening dress of white satin that hugged every curve, his female companion.

Remy paused.

The feeling that had taken him in the car yesterday, upon first seeing her – the feeling of lust and desire and aching familiarity – washed over him again on a horrible tidal wave of dread understanding. There was no slow moment of realisation, no foolish certainty that what he knew to be true must be wrong.

The world tunnelled and for a few seconds, the clamour of the party faded into a lingering hum. It seemed like minutes had passed, yet, paradoxically, it was only a split second. The moment the truth hit him, she turned, looked up, and somehow, she glanced right at him.

It was her.

Rogue.

Not even eight long years apart could've told him otherwise. And when there was a gap in the crowd and he saw them approach, when she came closer and he saw the silver streaks running through the crown braided into her hair, it was a futile effort then to deny what he knew.

"Madame Collins," Wagner greeted her warmly in English, taking her hand and kissing it with a gallantry that seemed quite at odds with his apparent character. "I have heard a great deal about you. It is a pleasure to meet you at last."

"Lieutenant-General Wagner," Millicent replied with equal enthusiasm. "Yes – it is quite a disappointment that my husband and I did not have the pleasure of making your acquaintance during our trips to Bavaria. And how is the Fuhrer, may I ask?"

"Very well, very well," Wagner returned with a modest smile. "Though I admit – I have seen little of him of late."

"Yes, I suppose he is very busy," she rejoined sympathetically. "Nevertheless – you are very welcome to Paris. It is a pity my dear Mr. Collins is no longer with us. He would have so loved to have met you."

She gave the general no room to reply, moving on immediately to introduce her companion, this time in French rather than English.

"This is my protégé, Etienne Marceaux."

Protégé. Such a loaded word. He barely heard it. Until that moment he'd been unable to break eye contact with this ghost from his past, but he did now, taking the hand the general offered him and shaking it with forced civility. It was a handshake that showed clearly that he did not in any way consider Mr. Marceaux his equal.

"A pleasure, Monsieur," the general answered courteously, in heavily accented French. "And please allow me to introduce my young companion, Mademoiselle Anna Darkhölme."

Companion. Another loaded word. He longed now to know exactly what it meant. She shook Millicent's hand with her own gloved one, responding in quiet though perfect French; and as soon as the pleasantries were over, both Madame Collins and the general fell immediately into desultory conversation.

Anna was silent, her arm locked with the general's, just as Remy's was locked with Madame's. Her eyes met his once more with a kind of questing intensity, the same kind of look he was sure was etched upon his face right now. She was still beautiful, but in a way that was different to the way she'd been before – there was a quiet self-containment, a wisdom, perhaps, that she'd never worn before. Mettle, mingled with softness. Her green eyes held his, no longer proud and challenging, but… something else. He couldn't put his finger on it, but it took his breath away, clawed at his heart. He could feel the ring at his chest pressing against his skin like a brand; and somehow he remembered to inhale, exhale.

She still snared him. Effortlessly. And even when he felt their little group parting, when Millicent led him away towards the food and the drink… Still he felt her eyes on him, drawing him back towards her, reeling him in.

Something different stirred in him then – confusion, and an old anger he'd buried deep. The things he'd thought he'd learned to leave behind when she'd walked out of his life.

"Are you all right, my dear?" Millicent was asking him as she handed him a fresh glass of wine. "You look as if you've seen a ghost."

He shook himself, trying to dispel the sensation of those eyes on his back.

"Jes' dis damn nullfyin' bracelet," he answered in an undertone. "Givin' me a bitch of a headache."

"Poor dear," Millicent commiserated with him, gently patting his bicep. "Perhaps some food, or a little drink will help."

"Mebbe," he murmured; but she was hardly paying attention, filling a dainty china plate with dainty tidbits from the table.

"The general seems to be a plausible fellow," she said. "Very civil, very polite. Too trustworthy to be trustworthy, don't you think?"

Remy gave an absent-minded grunt of assent, taking a sip of his wine and finding the courage to turn and face the room.

She wasn't there.

A kind of begrudging panic took him, and he fruitlessly scoured the room looking for her. Did he imagine her; had he merely conjured her up from guilt and loneliness and thin air? It was several moments before he caught her again – a ghostly white presence on the other side of the French windows that led out onto the balcony. Real, after all.

"I need a smoke," he said to Millicent; and he didn't wait for confirmation. He set his wineglass down and crossed the room, wanting to connect despite his better judgement.

She was on the other side of those doors, smoking, standing out in the frigid winter air with her back to him, in nothing but that white evening gown that seemed to glow under the pale light of the streetlamps, of the party.

He stopped and shut the doors quietly behind him, drowning out the merry sounds from within.

Silence descended.

For the first time in what seemed a lifetime it was just her and him, and suddenly it didn't feel like a dream anymore – it felt real. Too real.

"Rogue," he said, meaning for it to come out as something hard, accusing. Instead it came out soft.

She stirred, said:

"Don't use that name. Not here."

Her voice was deeper than he remembered, her rich Southern accent filed down to something almost clipped and precise. There was a barbed tone to her voice that told him in no uncertain terms to back off. What else could he have expected? Something more, something less? Even then, he wasn't sure. His stance relaxed, and he cocked a bitter smile, retrieving the pack of cigarettes from his pocket and lighting up, an excuse to take a moment to analyse her words.

He knew her real name, her secret name, the one she didn't want anyone to know… but to use it now would have smarted. Feelings of betrayal and mistrust were welling up inside him, strong and visceral. He knew what she was. A liar, a seductress, a murderer. What more, he couldn't quite admit to himself, let alone say aloud.

He pressed the cigarette to his lips, took a drag, asked: "Why are you here?"

She let out a low, bitter laugh.

"What do you care?"

Oh. So that's how it was. Back at the party, she'd seemed vulnerable, wide open – now she was on edge, defensive. Shoring up all the cracks he knew she had to be hiding. He only knew because he felt those very fault-lines in himself.

He sucked in another mouthful of smoke, feeling a surge of confidence at this unspoken evidence of her fragility.

"Well now, seems t'me like every time ya show up, things about ta go t'shit."

She visibly tensed, the line of her back going rigid. Her evening dress was cut low at the back, the curves and angles of her spine and shoulder blades going taut under the creamy paleness of her flesh. Desire twisted through his body, undercutting the still-lingering sense of betrayal she'd left him with. He wanted to touch her. But he didn't know what it would mean if he did.

Merde. What he should be doing right now was turning back and walking away. Yet somehow he found himself drawn to her, like a moth to a flame. Without thinking he crossed the tiled floor to stand beside her at the railings, neither too near, nor yet too far. For several moments they stood together, looking out over the city, silently smoking. His mind was racing, his emotions roiling. That she was here, in this place, with that man… None of it could be good.

"Never figured you for a Nazi, chere," he couldn't help but state.

She laughed mirthlessly, put the cigarette to her lips.

"Never figured you for some old woman's gigolo."

Ouch. A sardonic smile touched his lips.

"A man's gotta get by…" he replied with a touch of helplessness.

She exhaled smoke on a sigh of a breath, said:

"So's a woman."

Silence fell.

Back when he'd first known her, eight years ago, this was a game she'd played almost to perfection. The fast-talking, world-weary broad who'd seen it all, who took no prisoners and left no quarter. Underneath that cool visage had been something else though. Something vulnerable, fragile, broken. She didn't seem to hide that now, and yet, ironically, it gave the depth to her world-weariness. That, at least – that disenchanted hardness – it wasn't an act now.

"Didn't think I'd ever see you again," he began again in a conversational tone. "Wasn't even sure you were still alive. Nine years ago—"

"Eight," she cut in, almost harshly. "Eight and a half." She paused, lowered her voice, added: "I remember."

The words brought shivers up and down his spine. He stared at the bare flesh of her upper arms, the way they were goosepimpled from the cold. He wanted to touch her. He wanted to touch her.

"Y'look cold, chere. Mebbe you should—"

"What happened to your eyes?"

He trailed off, momentarily confused.

"Huh?"

"Your eyes." She looked at him then, only then, her gaze unyielding, almost upbraiding. "They're… different now. What happened?"

There was a thread of concern to her voice that was unexpected. Wordlessly he snapped up the cuff of his shirt and showed her the bracelet Carver had given him. Her eyes went wide as soon as she saw it, and when she looked back up at him she seemed afraid.

What? he wanted to ask, but the word died on his lips, as she suddenly pulled down her left opera glove and showed him her wrist.

She was wearing the exact same bracelet.

His eyes narrowed.

"Where did you get dat?" he asked. Calmly she rolled the glove back up and said:

"I was gonna ask the same thing of you."

They stared at one another, one beat, two beats… silence.

"Ya never got control then, huh?" he murmured when the quiet became too much.

"No. And neither did you, if I was t'guess."

A slow smirk crossed his face.

"Well, dat's where you're wrong, chere. All dat wasted time chasin' your dream of control, and it turns out all I needed t'do was teach it t' myself. My eyes though… can't stop 'em from lookin' de way dey do. Still need a bracelet to stop me lookin' like a freak, it turns out." He looked away, taking a drag. "All ya need, chere, is to want control enough. And stop expectin' others to give it to ya. Y'know why I think you can't find it, chere? 'Cos a part of you don't really want to. A part of you likes the protection your powers give ya. It keeps ya ice cold. Don't gotta be touched, in the places that matter."

She didn't like the suggestion of those words. Dropping her beautiful eyes, she turned back to the darkness.

"Or maybe some things," she half-whispered, "are just never meant to be found. To be had."

It was such a sad statement, said in this plaintive new voice of hers. It made him wonder about the life she'd led the past few years, about all the things he'd missed. It made him think about the things he'd once wanted, badly. The things she'd also wanted, yet had sabotaged for reasons he still couldn't quite fathom. The choices she'd made, the ones that had seemed specially designed to make him suffer.

She'd ripped open a wound tonight, coming here. It was bleeding fast.

"We make our beds, Fraulein Darkhölme," he told her with a suddenly cold finality. "We lie in 'em. I'm still lyin' in de one you made for me. Good luck wit' yours."

She didn't look at him, but her throat constricted, and he knew the dart he'd thrown had hit its mark. It both pained and pleasured him, to prick her heart like she'd pricked his.

He turned to leave, but even as he did so, something in him relented and he slipped off his jacket, turning back to gently arrange it over the soft curve of her bare shoulders. He hated himself for that tenderness, but it was as instinctive to him as breathing.

"Don't stay out too long, Fraulein," he said quietly. "Don't wanna catch cold."

Only then did he turn and walked back to the party.

If he'd hated himself for that brief moment of tenderness, he hated himself even more for that lingering hot, aching drive to touch her, the one thing he couldn't have.

-oOo-