Page 50 of Passion's Wicked Torment

“Oh, it was nothing,” said André with false pride. “Any truly red-blooded yellowbelly would have done the same.” He took a very long swig of his wine, draining the entire glass.

Kristin could see he was not as proud or uncaring about his cowardice as he pretended to be. His brow was furled in guilt and self-loathing, which were qualities Kristin had become an expert at detecting. She had a great deal of practice from noticing these traits in herself.

She excused herself from the table. The men rose as she stood up. “Count, I’d like to stay here for more than just the night. For a few days, if that’s all right.”

Heinrich’s face brightened. “It’s more than all right, my dear. It’s perfectly wonderful. I’ll be delighted to have your company.”

Count Heinrich thought he was going to get something that he was most definitely not going to get, Kristin reflected. But let him find out about that later. Meantime, she was spared the problem of having to go back to the hotel, where Dallas might already be waiting for her. He was a smart man. He would not be deterred by having the clerk tell him Kristin had checked out.

“I say, darling, hold it up just a bit.” Brady hurried after her as she walked to the tower stairway that would take her up to her guest room. Krakow, holding a candle, had been leading the way. Brady took the candle. “I’ll show her to her room, Krakow. Thank you.” He ignored the grounds keeper’s unpleasant look and guided Kristin up the stone stairway with his hand on her waist.

“Thank you,” she said when they reached the door of the guest room. She waited for him to leave.

“I was hoping I might come in for a few moments.” Brady’s eyes were glowing with hopefulness.

“If you like.” Kristin pushed the door open and walked into the room. She looked around. The walls were of ancient stone. The room was circular, since it was only one section of the circular tower. It should have been chilly, but Krakow had set a fire during dinner. A thick burgundy rug graced the floor, giving an added touch of warmth. The bed was a magnificent old canopied fourposter, with a thick embroidered bedspread. Kristin rather liked the room. It was sparse and ascetic, even with the touches of warmth.

Behind her, Brady shut and bolted the door. She turned to face him, questioningly. “To keep André from barging in on us,” he explained. “For a . . . moment.” He came up to her and grasped her hands in his. “Kristin, darling, I have to talk to you. I. . . .” He seemed overcome with desire. This was the first time he had had her alone ever since the Eiffel Tower incident. Though he had tried to arrange a private rendezvous several times, she had always refused him. He put his arms around her and pulled her close, kissing her passionately.

Kristin did not respond. She lay limp in his arms. He pulled his head back. “Darling, I’m insane about you. You must know that. Why do you always insist I be with André when I see you? Don’t you know how much I want to ... to. . . .”

“Yes, I know.” Her voice was distant. She looked at him and thought that she really had no reason not to give him what he wanted. After all, what did she have left to preserve? Pride? Self-respect? No, that had all vanished months ago.

And he was quite handsome, with his brown hair combed across his forehead, above his green eyes. He had a young, shining, all-American face. With looks like that, it was right that he was a famous jazzage novelist, she reflected.

“Darling, let me stay with you here. Tonight.” He was no good at disguising his emotions. His eyes showed that he was practically pleading with her.

“No,” she said, pushing away from him. “I’m sorry, Craig.”

“But I’m in love with you!” he protested.

“No, you’re not. You’re in lust with me.”

“Let’s not quibble over words. I want you, that’s all that really counts.”

This made her smile, despite herself. That was one of the things she liked about this American writer. He was a perfect cad and dissolute hellraiser, but he was honest in his own way. She decided to be honest with him in return.

“My mind’s on something else now. I can’t think about you. I’m thinking about Dallas Hunter.”

He scowled in frustration. “Well, blast it all! You mean that’s all that’s keeping us apart? Your thinking about him?”

“And worrying about him. I don’t want him to find me.” She had an idea, and she put her hands seductively on Brady’s chest and looked up into his eyes. She knew she was being false in pretending more interest in him than she really had. But she would do what she was about to promise. From Brady’s point of view, that was all that would really matter. “Craig, if you could somehow keep him away, I’d be ever so grateful to you.”

“Well, how shall I do that?” He looked confused. “Surely you don’t have anything in the way of personal confrontation in mind?”

“Mislead him! Make sure he doesn’t find out where I’m staying! There are a million things you—”

“Hey!” shouted André’s perturbed voice from beyond the door. “S’il vous plait. Open up in there!” He began banging on the door. “Visiting hours are extended to immediate family only. Open up, I say!” Kristin looked up into Brady’s green eyes. Her own eyes were filled with promise. “You do this for me,” she said in a sultry, sexy voice, “and I’ll be grateful to you. Very grateful.” She kissed him on the lips, a soft kiss. He became excited and pressed his own lips hard against hers.

“Termite inspector,” called André from beyond the door, disguising his voice. “I’m here to inspect the termites. Open up, please.”

Brady’s hand drifted down to Kristin’s breast and enclosed it. His eyes burned hotly. Kristin did not try to pull away. She put her hand over his on her breast and held it there. She felt deceitful as she let him believe she cared for him.

“You’ll do this for me?” she asked. “It’s important. It’s urgent! Keep him away. Keep Dallas Hunter away. I never want to see him again, ever!”

“What is he to you?” asked Brady.

“Air raid!” shouted André from beyond the door. “Everyone open the doors and rush down to the basement! A new war’s been declared. I have it on the best authority.” When the door did not open, there was a frustrated kick at the base of it. “Oh, come on, chérie,” he whined. “I love you too.”

Kristin said one more thing to Brady. “Stop by my hotel and pick up the rest of my clothing before you return here,” she instructed him. Then she walked away and unbolted and opened the door.

André looked surprised to see the door actually opening. He stared at Kristin, inspecting her attire for signs of hasty dressing. He stared at his friend, who was still fully clothed. He looked relieved but still suspicious. “Chérie, is this man bothering you? If he is, just say the word. I challenge him to a duel . . . with Leo.” He slapped his hands together as if washing them of the whole matter. “That should take care of the brute. Leo is an excellent shot.”

“He wasn’t bothering me. He was acting as a Cyrano and proposing to me on your behalf.”

“Really?” said André, beaming, playing along. “And did you accept?”

“Of course,” smiled Kristin. “I always accept, don’t I?”

André shrugged. He started to come into the room. “No,” Kristin said, stopping him. “I’m going to sleep now. You both go downstairs. You’re staying in the living room, isn’t that right?” She turned to Brady with a secret twinkle in her eye. “Unless you have something else to do tonight.”

“Right!” said Brady. “André, old sport, we’re returning to Paris. You and I.”

“But why?” he challenged.

“I have business to attend to, and you are not to be trusted alone in a beautiful lady’s presence.”

“I protest!”

“Of course, you do. In the meantime, we shall go.” He bowed to Kristin and said, “Good evening.”

André looked at Kristin. He was puzzled and suspected that something was going on between her and his friend. He did not resist thou

gh, and when Kristin smiled and bade him good-night, he allowed Brady to guide him away.

Kristin shut and bolted the door, then went over to the fireplace and sat in a wicker chair before it. She was in a turmoil over Dallas Hunter. She was agitated by the fact that hè was here in France, searching for her. She wanted with all her heart to never see him again. I despise him! she told herself. But she knew that this was not wholly true. It was true, though, that she did not ever want to see him again.

Would Brady succeed in throwing him off her trail? Probably, she thought. Her American friend was a very smart man and could be extremely cunning and crafty when he put his mind to it. The reward she promised him would certainly motivate him to do his devious best, that she was sure of.

Well, there was nothing else to do but wait and see. She took her flannel nightshirt from her overnight bag and began undressing. A hand beyond the bolted door tried the latch, attempting to open the door. Failing, the effort was followed by a strange-sounding voice. It was Leo trying to sound honey-sweet. “Mistress Fleming, may I see you?”

“No,” she called.

“I want to talk to you.”

“Go away.”

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