Excerpt of The Last Time I Saw Paris by Lynn Sheene

Chapter One: The Socialite

Manhattan, New York. May 8, 1940.

Claire Harris Stone breathed in the faint scent of roses
from the courtyard garden below as her yielding body
swayed to the strains of "In the Mood" drifting out the
open French doors. The sounds of the orchestra inside her
Manhattan brownstone blended with the late-night rumble of
traffic along Fifth Avenue.

Buoyed by the Veuve Clicquot champagne, she felt as though
she drifted above her partner as their gliding shoes
whispered against the balcony floor. He held her tight,
his hands warming her body through her thin silk dress.
Her arms were draped around his shoulders.

He was tall. That was nice. And he knew how to dance; even
better.

"You're dreaming, Claire," von Richter said.

"Of you." Claire opened her eyes.

He was nearing forty, she guessed. Slender, perfect
posture, the polished manner of a European aristocrat.
Dark hair slicked back, he had the tan of a denizen of
ocean liners and Riviera beaches. A light trace of a scar
on his chin, he said from a duel. Not what she expected,
with all that she'd heard of Hitler's rants about the
Aryan race.

"Say something in German," she said.

He spoke against her throat.

"What did you say?"

"I am going to remove—" His hands slid past her
hips. "What is this, in English?"

"My stockings?"

"Stockings." He tasted the word. "I am going to remove
your stockings with my teeth."

"But what would Russell say if you ripped them?"

"He can afford another pair."

"Mmm." She breathed into his shoulder, wishing for another
drink. "Tell me about Berlin." Anywhere but here, she
thought.

"Berlin has its charms. Merkel longs to return. But Paris,
that is the place. The clubs . . . Josephine Baker
dancing, the Moulin Rouge, Pigalle, the women . . . Well,
I won't say what they do. Only the French take the
pleasure of a woman's body so seriously."

Claire felt his fingers slide closer to her thigh. At
least this one was a charmer. She rarely was so lucky with
Russell's clients. She flirted and tempted, and then her
husband came in for the business kill.

With one sure hand, von Richter guided her across the
floor to the rhythm of the music. The other hand
discreetly explored her, gliding across exposed skin from
her nape of her neck to the leg revealed by the side slit
in her gown.

"When is your husband going to join us?" He gestured
toward the doors with his head. "Poor Merkel grows tired
and impatient inside."

She composed a pout and threaded gloved fingers through
his hair. "You're not having a good time?"

"I would prefer your husband never return, lovely. You are
a sublime hostess, entertaining your guests until he
arrives."

"Yes, I am." She pulled free, leisurely swatted at the
hand reaching for the curve of her behind. She blew him a
kiss. "I am going to check my stockings. Sharpen those
teeth."