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."