His full mouth twitched. “I see you’ll do just fine.”
Laughter announced the arrival of five men carrying large suitcases. “Morning, boss.” Their eyes stopped on her. “And lady friend.”
“Morning, boys. This is Miss Whitford, a special friend of mine. And this”—Barrett swept his arm out to indicate the quintet—“is the swingingist band this side of the Channel.”
Kat smiled. “You boys are smashing.”
The shorter one with a wide mouth that accentuated his small nose strolled over and placed his case on the ground, propping one foot on top of it. “Bonjour, jolie dame.”
“You’re the trumpet player.”
His mouth widened in a smile that stretched across his entire face. “Guilty. Sam at your listening pleasure. I remember you from last night. Your face lit up every time we played Benny Goodman.”
“He’s one of my favorites.”
“But not one of your other tablemates’, I think.” Sam’s close-set eyes flicked to Barrett and back to her. “The gentleman might prefer a Goebbels special.”
“I don’t think much of anything could make him smile.” Unless it has Hitler’s face plastered on it. “I hope you continue to play those exceptional arrangements. Your take on them is a breath of fresh air to this city.”
“We aim to please, eh, boss?”
Barrett nodded and slapped Sam on the knee. “Haven’t found an audience yet that Sam couldn’t charm with his magical fingers and big mouth.”
“Mama always said it’d come in handy for something besides catching flies.” If possible, Sam grinned wider, flashing crooked white teeth. “Can we hope to see you again tonight, Mademoiselle Whitford? Never too many pretty ladies in the crowd, especially ones who compliment my trumpeting.”
“I’m not sure about tonight, but I will come back if you promise to play ‘Moonlight Serenade.’”
“For you, I’ll risk the censorship.” His spicy aftershave tickled her nose as he leaned close. “And afterward you can tip a glass of champagne with me instead of the boss man. I provide more civility than he does.”
“Go on with you, now.” Barrett kicked the case out from under Sam’s foot. “Trumpet can’t play itself.”
Laughing, Sam snatched up his case. “We on for a game later, boss?”
“Let’s try for cards. I’m tired of losing to you at chess.”
“Why do you think I like to play it? You still owe me after that last one.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
Still laughing, Sam ambled over to join his bandmates at the stage. The lanky drummer squeezed himself behind his kit and tapped out a beat while the others warmed their strings and mouthpieces.
“Quite an interesting establishment you run here.”
Barrett’s white teeth gleamed against his tan skin. “Only one of its kind.”
“Aren’t you afraid of discovery?”
“I’d be a fool not to be, but it comes with the job. The best we can all do is get on with it.”
“Well, in the name of getting on with it . . .” She stood, gathering her handbag and gloves. “I have an exhibit to explore on the glories of the Fatherland, personally guided by a man you’ve charged me to make nice with even though I detest his very being.”
“It’s for the best.”
She snapped her gloves on. “So everyone keeps telling me.”
Chapter 5
Kat’s ears screamed from Eric’s verbal abuse. Listening to him spout on and on about the great painters and sculptors of whom he knew little was cruel and unusual torture in the hallowed halls of the Rodin Museum to which he had brought them on a cultural excursion. The first hour she had tried correcting him, but by the second hour she was too numb to care. That and she guessed his head would explode if she interrupted him one more time. So she stared blindly at the painting in front of them. Fifteen minutes was more than enough to explain the artist’s self-portrait of wine drinking.
“Do you agree?”
Silence roared in her ears. Odd. Shouldn’t it act more of a balm to all the screeching? She dragged her eyes from their fixed point on the frame, and they slammed into Eric’s expectant face.
What on earth had he said? “Oh, absolutely I do.”
His fair eyebrows slanted down. “You believe it’s acceptable for the artist to display himself as a drunkard?”
Frantically, she pawed through her mental file cabinet of art classes and yanked out the closest comment regarding drink. “Nowhere does this painting indicate drunkenness. He could be toasting a birth, or marriage, or payment for commission. Cups are often used as symbols of joy and celebration in art, as the Duke of Wellington and I discussed at a dinner