the earthy soil in the newly potted plants by the front door, and the warmth of the brass sconces flickering along the walls. First thing in the morning, he’d throw open the front windows to air out the suffocating toxins.
Barrett took another sip of water and rolled the glass between his hands. Funny how real the place had become to him. Four years ago he’d been stuck in the same brewery his da had, and then a back-alley brawl with a politician’s drippy-nosed son had changed his life. Either spend a few years behind bars or go to work for the government, he’d been told. He didn’t need a second breath to decide that one. Now, here he was in Paris training Resistance operatives for the SIS in the basement of a nightclub that entertained Nazis. As soon as he served his sentence, he’d be on the first boat across the Atlantic with Alfred Whitford’s paycheck to set up a new life far from all of this with no obligations but to himself.
Disgust roiled his stomach as his eyes roamed over the brilliantine-slicked heads of the officers and soft curls of their dates. What self-respecting woman ran around with Nazis? Women did all kinds of things for love, or what they foolishly thought was love. Never was there a more wasteful sentiment.
The disgust soured as his two awaited blondes breezed in the front door with a tall man marching behind them. His new charges. Get them out safely and back to England, payment upon delivery, Sir Alfred’s message had said. A cut-and-dried task. How difficult could two socialites be?
“Get that champagne ready.” He handed Henri his empty water glass. “The good kind.”
Henri winked. “The expensive kind.”
“What else?”
As instructed, Corbin led the trio down the center of the tables to the best seat in the house. In front of the band, but just to the side so conversation could carry on without getting an earload of trumpet and bass.
Wisps of cigarette smoke curled around Eleanor’s head as she laughed and waved at people two tables over. Beautiful as a butterfly and just as flighty. What a mess she’d caused them all. The man next to her, the reported Eric von Schlegel, sat as if a pipe had been rammed up the back of his jacket. And then there was Kathleen. Elegant and cool in a summery blue getup, her only giveaway was the nervous bouncing of her foot under the table and the slight looks over her slim shoulder.
Drink orders taken, Corbin glided past the bar on his way to the back. “They’re all yours, Patron.”
Taking a deep breath to calm his bumped-up heart rate, Barrett summoned his most congenial air and made his way to the star table. “You made it after all.”
Eleanor spun back in her chair, her red lips parting in a wide smile. “Of course we did. After your insistence last night, we simply had to come and see what all the fuss was about.”
“As you proved such a gracious hostess, I only hope I can return the favor tonight.” His gaze slid to the back of Kathleen’s head. “Though my views are hopeless compared to the one I found from your balcony.”
Shoulders stiff, Kathleen’s head turned up. Blue-green eyes slammed into his. They were more vivid than he’d given them credit for last night.
“Mr. Anderson. How nice to see you on level ground.”
“The occasion called for solid footing this evening.”
Eleanor rocked to the front of her seat, a silver cigarette holder dangling from her manicured hand. “Do you two know each other?”
Kathleen shook her head, slipping golden curls over her shoulder. “We met briefly last night. Though I had no idea we would be enjoying the delights of his establishment so soon.”
Tapping her ashes into the ashtray, Eleanor rolled her eyes up at Barrett. “You’ll have to forgive my sister. She’s forgotten how to have a good time. I’m hoping the French night air opens her up a bit.”
Barrett gritted his back teeth. The girl was more delusional than he’d realized. A vise had choked the French air ever since Hitler’s men goose-stepped down the Champs Élysées last year. “If that fails, I have a bottle of champagne on its way that should do the trick.”
Von Schlegel shifted in his chair, announcing the lack of attention directed his way.
A tick wound its way up Barrett’s jaw. He forced it into a welcoming smile. “Apologies, sir. I’m Barrett Anderson, owner of the Blue Stag.”