Nightingale (13 page)

Yves riffled carefully through the flowers in search of a card, unsure of what he expected to find. The times of foreign royalty and ambassadors living it up in the Palace were over, unless you counted the Germans. The dukes and duchesses that belonged to
Le Tout-Paris
had largely retired to their estates in the countryside. Others had found their fortunes reversed. And roses! A room full of roses in winter!

There, the card: “To my magnificent Yves. Bravo. HvS.”

His stomach plummeted far worse than it had before the show. He stood there, felt his blood pounding in his ears. The knock on the door was formal now, foreboding like Beethoven. “Please. Enter.”

The door opened, and Heinrich stood there in his uniform, medals, and polished boots. Heinrich clicked his heels and hinted at a salute, then smiled at him. “Good evening, Yves.”

“Good evening.” Yves inhaled and glanced around him at all the roses, then looked questioningly at von Starck.

“I will not again be chided for not sending you flowers,” Heinrich said with a dash of humor. “A small token of my respect.”

The last word in the sentence jarred Yves like a dissonant chord. He remembered how his mother took such tokens of respect—with a regal bow of her head and a small smile, but overall complete dignity, so he gave Heinrich that small nod and a smile. “Thank you.”

“Have you rested?”

Yves sighed deeply. “Until the bomb struck my street, I was.”

“Is everything . . .”

“Yes, I just had all my windows shattered.”

“But you’re not injured?”

“No. I wasn’t anywhere near the windows, thankfully.”

Heinrich looked somewhat agitated, tense and twitching forward as if to cross the distance between them to examine whether Yves was, indeed, in good health. “What about the . . . packages?”

“They are fine. I put them away underneath spare blankets in a wardrobe.”

Heinrich nodded. “Leave the matter with me. I don’t want you to catch your death of cold.”

Again, the wisest response seemed to be a nod and a smile and a small word of thanks. “It’s not that urgent. I’m staying with Maurice.”

Heinrich didn’t say anything for a few moments. Eventually, he half-turned to the door. “He’s an old friend of yours?” The pronunciation of
friend
bore a degree of suspicion, but not enough to have to comment on it if he chose not to. “I mean, besides being your employer?”

And damn him for insisting and driving the matter out into the open.

“He’s always been a loyal friend.” Yves righted a white rose in one of the bouquets. “Although we used to be closer than that.”

He wasn’t sure if he enjoyed the little jerk that passed through von Starck’s strong body. Or the pained expression in his eyes, as quickly hooded as it was.

“So, yes, he used to be my lover. Or, if you ask him, rather I was his.” Yves smiled at the head of the rose between his fingers. “Then he lost interest, and he’s not the type to rekindle an old flame.” This was the most openly they’d ever spoken about this kind of bond or relationship. Would von Starck be scandalized? Yves glanced at him, but the officer seemed to relax.

Maybe it had been cruel, though of course von Starck had no ownership rights to anything, even if the oberst believed so. And all the flowers of summer wouldn’t change that.

“I just wish to ensure you’re not facing any . . . undue pressure.”

Yves smiled. “I have a bit of a name by now. I get engagements not
quite
that way anymore.”

Von Starck frowned and stepped closer. “You’re not just a pretty face, Yves. You’re gifted beyond measure. I’d let nothing cheapen it.”

And damn him twice for the courtesy and the poetic tinge to his words. Von Starck wasn’t so bad. He had pursued Yves, yes, but Yves had encouraged him, had even signaled very clearly to take the last step. If he truly hadn’t wanted von Starck to take such liberties, there had been a hundred opportunities to stop him, possibly get out of that tight spot without having to yield anything. In the end, he had been a cynic to take it this far—and why not, it had bought him a powerful friend. But just because he felt no attraction, no desire at all, didn’t mean he could simply free himself. So he’d make the best of the situation, like just about every Frenchman and Frenchwoman did. Compared to the lot of ordinary people, his wasn’t an odious fate by any means. At least they wouldn’t drag him off to work as a laborer in the
Reich
. Not while Heinrich protected him.

Von Starck reached up and cupped Yves’s cheek, the thumb under his jawbone insisting that he look von Starck in the eyes. Concern, not passion. Fatherly, maybe, though the kiss wasn’t. It wasn’t passionate, either. It was just a peck, really, closed lips, artless and formal, just a touch too hard to be anything but a stamp of ownership.

And Yves couldn’t help but think
Wrong man; he’s the wrong man.

Chapter 19

When Yves had barely dared worry about Falk, the man finally showed up after the show in the Palace, or rather, outside, walking swiftly toward Yves as he left through the backdoor, Maurice with him.

Damn, Maurice.

Yves pushed a little away as Falk closed in, face flushed. Whatever had kept him until so late, he’d clearly been racing the curfew. “Good evening,” Yves said pleasantly. “
Monsieur
Harfner.”

Falk smiled, then stopped just outside his reach. “I’m late.”

Yves could feel Maurice’s stare, so he glanced up and met his eyes. “I’ll explain this later. Can we take him along?” He spoke low and quick so Harfner had no chance to understand what was being said.

“Are you crazy, Yves? Getting involved with him?”

“He saved my life when the bomb fell. The least I can do is invite him for some food and listen to him.” Yves half turned away from Maurice to smile reassuringly at Harfner. He might be exaggerating, but he didn’t feel like telling the whole story. Maurice would only understand it in the worst possible way.

“You’re a fool,” Maurice hissed, then gave Harfner a smile that was as poisonous as only Maurice could make them. “Please, do come along.”

Maurice had the use of a car—and Yves shuddered to think what he did with the vehicle that was clearly on loan from a German.

They drove through the dark and silent streets, Maurice’s face pinched with what was no doubt a shade of anger, as if anybody watching him drive could have mistaken him for an even-tempered man. He accelerated harshly and braked just as savagely until they’d made it to his villa. Even Harfner looked relieved when he could escape with all limbs intact.

“Do you have a pass?” Maurice asked.

Harfner tapped his breast pocket, but Yves wasn’t sure he’d actually understood the question.

“Let’s go inside.”

“With him?” Maurice hissed at Yves. “You are mad.”

“That’s why he’s here. I promised him to . . .”

“What?”

“A meal, if nothing else. And I can’t take him anywhere else, not with von Starck . . .”

“Damn right you can’t! If he hears of this—”

“Maurice, please. Help me this once.”

Maurice again looked at Harfner, who’d watched their exchange with blank-faced interest. Even Maurice had to understand that continuing to bicker in front of the German would look suspicious. The question was whether he cared.

“He’s not staying in my house overnight,” Maurice muttered as if to himself, then smiled again at Harfner. “After you,
monsieur
.”

No servants were awake, which meant no witnesses, though considering that they were Maurice’s servants, they’d seen much worse. Maurice ushered them into one of the sitting rooms. “Wine?”

Yves nodded. Harfner said something in the affirmative, in French, which made Maurice glance ironically at Yves, as if Harfner were a trained dog that Yves had taught a droll trick. He turned around and left, returning with two bottles of wine and a plate of shortbread, which he placed between them.

“If you’re hungry, there’s some soup in the kitchen.” He rubbed his temple gingerly. “I feel a migraine coming on, so I’ll leave you two alone.”

Maurice leaned down, supporting himself on the armrest of Yves’s chair. The wood creaked a warning. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

Yves smiled, but just as he was about to tell Maurice that he, too, couldn’t be trusted when it came to pretty boys, he noticed the warning gleam in Maurice’s eye. Did that mean Maurice was disapproving, but would protect him? He placed a hand on Maurice’s arm. “Hope you feel better soon.”

Maurice straightened and nodded toward Harfner. “Good night,
monsieur
.”

Harfner stood and gave a respectful nod, settling down again when Maurice had left. The same heavy silence settled that no bomb or danger would shatter this time. Instead, Yves opened the bottle (not a cheap one—actually, a respectable year and one of Maurice’s favorites. So did he approve, or had he been too flustered to search for something cheaper?). He poured the blood red liquid into a glass and placed it in front of Harfner, unable to share his thoughts because of the language and the man’s innocence. If you could call an SS soldier innocent. But seeing the occupiers up close, he was struck by how young they were. Even their officers, for the most part, looked like they should be attending university and getting enamored with love and beauty and new thoughts—rather than victory.

Leaning forward on the chair, Harfner held his glass on his knee. A few stands of hair that had been dislodged when he’d taken off his cap fell casually into his brow. Yves poured himself a glass. “So.”

“So?” Harfner looked up.

Yves found himself smiling. “You were late. I was worried.”

Harfner touched the middle of his torso. “No reason. I can fight.”

As if murderers with knives were the only thing the man should fear on the streets of Paris. But whispers and glances and baleful thoughts couldn’t hurt the German; that was true. For the most part, he’d never realize what people truly thought of him, even those, like Maurice, who smiled at him and served him, then turned around to mock him—to save their own faces. Yves had heard shop assistants tell their friends how they’d sold Germans second-rate goods and charged over the odds for them. There was a smugness in it, like it could restore some of France’s
honneur
and
gloire
on the battle field of petty mercantilism.

“No bombs this time?” Yves asked.

Harfner glanced up to the ceiling, then shrugged. “Not in my hand.”

The gesture struck Yves as pious, and it was something he was curious about. One of many things he wanted to know. “Are you Catholic? Protestant?”

Harfner shook his head. “No.” He frowned, looked like he wanted to dig into a dictionary, then sighed. “My French is still bad. I don’t believe. And you?”

“In music. Beauty. Soul.” Yves looked down into the wine, took a sip, and halted when Harfner simply nodded, eyes alight, as if he were truly understanding. Something in him twinged, and he swallowed the wine without tasting it much. He was too surprised that Harfner actually agreed.

What did Heinrich believe in?

Yves found he did not care, though Heinrich struck him as a joyless Protestant. This likely didn’t do him any justice, but still, Heinrich paled against Harfner. It wasn’t just that Harfner was so attractive—it was that he seemed unpredictable, not unlike a lion who behaved like a tamed animal as long as it pleased him. A touch of danger, an illicit thrill. And yet he’d been all protector, all valiant knight who’d ridden to the rescue. And a tongue-tied boy, sharing his attempt at poetry. Looking at Harfner, he was a study in contradictions, and Yves found himself mesmerized by all these possibilities, the depth that likely held more secrets, if he could just find the language to unlock them.

Harfner met his gaze. “I believe in you.”

Yves lost his breath, shocked speechless by the ring of honesty in Harfner’s voice. Beauty, art, music. To Harfner, he might be all of those, despite how much he struggled to grasp at his own vision of what drove him, forced him onto the stage despite his terror. Once he ripped that breath from his lungs, formed it and shaped it to turn the lingering scream into a song that somehow—magically—touched others and made them laugh or cry, or, most precious of all, both—he could almost believe he was a master of this.

But he’d heard Vandio sing, heard Madeleine sing. Of course they were masters of their technique who struggled and refined and strove ever harder to tear themselves open wider so the voice could ring out louder and truer, like bleeding notes upon the air. But there was also a level of mastery that was pure magic, and that only came to those who’d mastered bleeding, destroyed themselves in the act of singing only to flare up like a phoenix being reborn. That, after all, was something to believe in. And if Harfner knew this—maybe not consciously, but somewhere in his heart . . .

He set the glass down, stood, walked around the chair. Harfner watched, then put his hands on the armrests as if to push himself up, maybe thinking he’d overstayed his welcome and should make a polite exit.

Yves closed the gap and placed a hand on Harfner’s shoulder, keeping him on his seat, and after a few moments, Harfner relaxed his arms and put them back where they’d been. Yves placed his other hand on Harfner’s other shoulder, dared touch him through the uniform, feel the round, strong muscle under his hands. Here was a different solidity than Heinrich’s—this seemed more human, more volatile, more like something to be negotiated, learned. Yves used his thumb to trace the short-shorn hair on Harfner’s neck, feel it bristle where it was shaved and yield where it was long enough. Soft.

Harfner sat stock-still, then lowered his chin to maybe offer more of his neck, and Yves noticed that he was holding his breath or breathing only very carefully. Shy animals, both of them.

He ran his fingers to the front, marveled at the curve of his neck and the area just behind and below the ear, the skin here so soft and sensitive, then the lobe of the ear, barely there, and noticed a drop of flesh on the outer rim of the ear. It seemed a supremely well-formed ear, one he could have explored and learned over hours, without getting bored. And as well-shaped as it was, this ear was wide open to everything that mattered. Frightening and astonishing, really. Yves leaned down and kissed it.

Harfner blew out a breath, half sigh, half surprise. But he didn’t move, still the lion that let the mouse play between his paws, too lazy to kill it, or too curious to interrupt.

“Beauty in unexpected places,” Yves whispered to Harfner.

“What?” Harfner glanced back at him, and Yves almost felt for him, because the man was always taking clues from his face when the language went right over him, and that avenue was now closed.

“I’d never have expected this,” Yves said low, feeling his own chest vibrate. His fingers slid along Harfner’s jawline, the hint of stubble rough against his fingertips, and Harfner tilted his head far back, as if Yves were a barber or an assassin.

Yves held him there, cradled more than immobilized, and bent down to kiss him.

Harfner’s fingers scrabbled helplessly against the wooden armrest when they made contact. His lips were softer than Yves had expected, and pleasure tingled all the way through his body, as if he’d touched a live wire that seemed much less strong than he’d feared. No shock, no pain, just a spreading warmth and desire he’d never have expected to find, certainly not with this man and maybe not even with anybody.

Harfner swallowed, opened his lips a bit as the kiss softened, deepened, became more intent. It seemed still like such a fragile thing—Yves half feared Harfner would free himself, turn around and turn the tables with it. The man was a great deal stronger than Yves, too, and who could really control him, besides his officer? Yet, Harfner didn’t seem dangerous like this, caught in an uncomfortable position he seemed unwilling to give up.

“
Je t’adore
,” Harfner whispered into Yves’s kiss. And Yves believed him; he could feel the man’s pulse hammer under his fingers, his Adam’s apple jumping, too, with every breath against his face. Blue eyes sought his gaze, and Yves found himself smiling, though that same smile was both painful and tender.

What were they doing? And how much would it damage them both? Nobody would approve. Maurice surely didn’t, and he was the most likely to forgive a pure folly of passion. Yet Harfner had nothing that endeared him to Maurice—no power, no rank, no noble title, no riches. Getting involved with him was madness when he could have von Starck, who had all of those and the ear of Dr. Abetz. Harfner could protect his body, while von Starck’s protection reached further and was subtler.

Yves broke the kiss and pulled back, dazed at how much he enjoyed the touch, how much it made him feel alive. There was a deeper wisdom of the flesh; he knew that from singing. There were notes that very nearly made his heart burst, and this kiss had felt much like that, a terrible risk, exhilarating.

Harfner sat straight, rubbed his throat, then twisted enough to look at Yves, his eyes full of questions, but he clearly didn’t have the words to pose them. Finally, he smiled brightly, and that seemed like the next best thing, another kind of understanding. Slowly, as if worried he’d startle Yves, he stood from his chair and pushed it to the side.

Yves regarded him, less repulsed by the uniform than he’d been. He knew what it had felt like against his chest, rough texture against his face, round cool buttons against his fingertips.

“Come, but be quiet.” He put the cork back on the bottle, then switched off the light and opened the door. The house was dark and silent. Maurice might actually have retired, though Yves doubted very much that it was with a migraine.

They stole upstairs, feeling their way in the dark, Harfner reaching for his hand on the first step, and Yves guided him, thrilled by the simple act of making sure the German didn’t bump into any bannisters or furniture.

Once they’d safely navigated the landing, Yves found the door to the guest room on the left side. He half pushed Harfner inside, then switched on the light and closed the door.