Page 49 of Passion's Wicked Torment

“That’s right, luv. I only heard about him from your friend the baron, who said he called this morning asking about you.”

“Oh, no! Then he must know I’m staying at the hotel here! Let’s get out of here, now!”

They both looked surprised at such a reaction from her. Until now, almost nothing had been able to penetrate her armor of non-concern. To Brady, it seemed amazing that any man could cause her such alarm. “What is he to you? This Hunter chap.”

“A man I hate and never want to see. Ever!” She thrust her overnight bag into his stomach, making him grasp it and knocking him breathless. Then she started for the door. The two men followed after her. They looked at each other as they waited for the elevator in the plushly carpeted hall. André shrugged in an exaggerated way.

There was silence on the way down. When they reached the bottom, Kristin refused to walk out into the lobby until André first checked it out. The Frenchman stepped out, looked around, turned back to her and said, “The coast is clear, as I believe your American gangsters say in the movies.”

Kristin hurried out. She went to the reception desk, not to the street exit, where André’s French-made Hispano-Suiza touring car waited. She addressed the clerk behind the desk sharply, leaving no doubt she meant business. “If a man named Dallas Hunter comes inquiring about me, tell him I’m not staying here. Tell him I checked out yesterday, and you don’t expect me back. Is that clear?”

“Oui, madame. Most certainly.” He was intimidated by her fire.

Kristin waited until André scouted the sidewalk beyond the doors, then she hurried out into the waiting car. As they sped away, Brady, who was sitting in the touring seat facing Kristin, looked intrigued. “I say, old man,” he said to André, though still looking at Kristin. “Tell me, what do we know about this Dallas Hunter chap? Obviously we’re not going to get anything out of her. So let’s pool our own resources and see what we come up with.”

“He’s the aviator who boomed General Wolfschmidt’s headquarters during the war,” said André, impressed “He was shot down by Baron Richtofen himself, the Red Baron. Later, during Verdun, he flew twenty continuous sorties in support of the ground troops against the fiercest enemy air concentration of the war. He was engaged in dogfights against three German Fokkers at once.

“Shot down again, wasn’t he? I seem to recall something like that. I know he got the Distinguished Flying Cross as one of our ace Yankee aviators.

“More than only your DFC,” said André, his voice full of respect. Kristin had never heard him speak so highly of anyone. Usually he was flippant and quick to condemn those who had earned social approval. “This Major Hunter, he was awarded the Croix de Guerre after the war, by General Pétain.” André then turned to Kristin. “Is this the same Dallas Hunter who is asking after you?”

“There’s only one Dallas Hunter,” she said. Immediately after saying it, she felt embarrassed about admitting she felt this way.

Brady was more intrigued than ever. Kristin could almost see his novelist’s mind clicking away with possibilities, creating plots and subplots based on her reluctance to talk about Hunter.

“You shameless exploiter,” she accused. “If I find myself in one of your novels, I’ll come after you.” Brady smiled charmingly. “Darling, how could you not find your way into one? You’re not just a woman, you’re an experience. I owe it to the world to—”

“Oh, keep still.” She looked out the window, trying to turn her attention away from the problem presented by Hunter’s arrival in France. She could not avoid thinking of it though. She would have to deal with it. If she didn’t take steps to avoid him, he would find her. And that was something she did not want.

Outside the car windows were lush green fields. They were out of the city now and moving through the countryside. Kristin had an idea. “André, your friend Leo. Would he let me stay in his castle in Belgium?”

“Let you stay? Chérie, you’ll be lucky if Craig and I manage to tear you away once you’re inside the place. Count Leo is a notorious womanizer.”

Brady studied Kristin’s thoughtful expression. He could almost see the gears spinning about in her head. “You’re thinking of hiding out with Leo to avoid this Hunter chap?” He smiled, enchanted with the novelty of the idea. “André, just imagine! We have here a girl who is pulling the exact reversal of the usual fairy tale. She is running from the brave, handsome hero into the arms of a lecherous old ogre.” He laughed merrily. “Why, it’s like Little Red Riding Hood courting the big bad wolf.”

André shrugged. He was becoming bored with the subject. Returning to something that never failed to hold his interest, he put his hand casually on Kristin’s knee. When she did not slap it away, he began slowly, casually working his way up under her skirt. Brady watched his progress with interest.

Kristin absently pushed his hand away when he became too bold. André sighed with exasperated disappointment, put his hands into his lap and began twiddling his thumbs.

They arrived at the count’s castle by nightfall. It was an old-fashioned castle built of stone on a hill, left over from the days of the feudal lords. It looked ancient and drafty, and once inside, Kristin learned that only a small portion of it was inhabitable. There was a scullery, a living room/dining room, Leo’s master bedroom quarters and one guest room. Count Leo Heinrich was from a once-wealthy family that had fallen financially. He had a decent amount to live on without having to work, but he could afford only three or four servants, and he hadn’t yet come up with the funds needed to refurbish the castle.

“Ah, my friends,” said Heinrich in greeting. “How good of you to come visit me. And you bring with you the famous—or should I say infamous—Kristin Fleming.” He bowed to Kristin from the waist. “Charmed, my dear. An honor and a privilege.”

Kristin nodded. She was in a sullen mood.

The big-bodied, balding Heinrich clapped his hands together, and several servants appeared. One was the butler, who would serve the meal. Another was the grounds keeper, named Krakow, a cruel-faced, bony man who, Kristin learned, had the task of keeping the townspeople off the estate. During the war Heinrich had accommodated the Germans openly, believing they were destined to win. This caused bad feelings between himself and the townspeople. In addition, many of the townspeople disputed Heinrich’s right to the castle, saying his family had lost the title long ago. Krakow was sometimes called upon to disperse small groups of peasants who came to the castle with angry demands.

“Now we feast,” said the count in a jovial voice that did little to hide the streak of bitter resentfulness Kristin detected in him. “A special repast to welcome the three of you. Afterward ... perhaps we shall party?” He looked eagerly at Kristin.

Kristin turned to André, thinking that he must have related the episode at the Eiffel Tower to their host for Heinrich to think he could expect anything from her tonight. “Kiss and tell, André, is that your style?” She asked.

André put his fingertips to his chest in a defensive, indignant manner. “Chérie, I swear! How could you accuse me of such a thing?”

She said nothing. She glanced at Brady, but she did not really suspect him. He was the sort who would write about the incident in his novels but would never blab about it to his friends. She frowned. It didn’t matter. None of it mattered. All that mattered was that sh

e would have to stay here for a while with this unpleasant former aristocrat, at least until Hunter gave up his search for her and left Europe. She ate her dinner in silence, then asked Heinrich if she could stay in his guest room.

“But, of course! I’d be delighted to have you. In fact, I was hoping you’d wish to stay the night.”

“Good. I intend to sleep. The door has a bolt?”

He looked angry for a second, and then tried to disguise his anger with a look of wounded pride. “You certainly won’t need one. But, yes, it does. The old-fashioned sort from the eighteenth century. It pulls down to block shut the entire frame.” He grinned across the table at André and Brady. “In case either of your friends has any less-than-honorable intent, you should forgive the suggestion.”

“I certainly will not,” declared André, standing up from the table. “How dare you say such a thing? I demand a retraction.”

Heinrich stood up to his full height, his physical bulk very imposing. He looked at André with menacing eyes. “Yes?”

“Well, actually, I forgive you fully,” said André, who sat down quickly. Brady laughed uproariously at the show of false bravery, the bluff that was called. Heinrich smiled broadly, showing that he, too, had been only playacting. André, relieved, lifted his wine glass. “To the streak of magnificent cowardice that runs through my family, and has all through the ages. Which, thank God, is responsible for my family’s surviving all through the ages.”

“Hear, hear,” said Brady, clinking his glass with his friend’s in toast. Everyone drank but Kristin. “You know,” Brady said to her, “André is one of the truly dedicated cowards of all time. Most common cowards, they forsook their cowardice when France was invaded in the war and took up arms. But not our friend André. Even through the thickest storm of protest and through the howls of outraged indignation, he stood his cowardly ground. Refused to serve. Had his position as assistant administrator to his family’s department-store chain declared vital to the war effort.”

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