Evelyn descended the embassy stairs with her purse clutched to her side—her purse holding the passport with that glorious visa. “We did it.”
He grinned at her. “You were incredible.”
She sent him an arch look. “Were?”
That grin grew in brilliance. “Are. You are incredible.”
In the foyer, they thanked Reverend Thompson thoroughly, and the pastor departed.
Evelyn turned to Peter. “Next stop—the train station.”
“You can’t take the train without transit visas,” Aubrey said. “We’re driving you to Cherbourg.”
“Driving us?” Evelyn pictured a map of France in her head. “That’s a long way.”
“Three hundred miles,” Simone said. “I could do it in three hours if Paul let me.”
“Which I won’t.” He raised an amused smile. “It’ll take all day, possibly all night. We have an overnight bag in my car, and Josie’s nanny will take good care of her at home.”
Evelyn’s stomach clenched. He’d already taken two days off for them. “That’s a lot of time to take off work.”
“A benefit to running the company.” He led them across the lobby.
Evelyn felt the weight of someone’s gaze, and she looked over her shoulder. A man in a dark suit ducked into a corridor. Was that . . . ? It couldn’t be.
“Peter?” That weighty sensation grew ice cold, prickling down the nerves of her fingers. “I think I saw Norwood.”
Peter’s gaze sharpened to a point, following the direction she indicated. He handed Evelyn the suitcase, motioned for her to stay put, and beckoned to Aubrey.
The men dashed to the corridor.
Evelyn’s prayers wrestled with each other, one prayer for Peter to find Norwood and have it out with him, and the other that she’d been mistaken and Peter and Aubrey would be safe.
Simone came to Evelyn’s side. “You do not think George is armed, do you?”
“I don’t know.” But any man desperate enough to chase them this far was dangerous.
In a few very long minutes, the men returned, shaking their heads.
“We checked all the offices we could down there.” Peter took the suitcase back. “We didn’t see anyone who looked like George.”
Evelyn squeezed her eyes shut. It wasn’t like her to imagine things. “What’s wrong with me?”
“Nothing. It’ll take time to get used to being free and safe again.” Peter placed his hand on the small of her back. “Let’s get you home.”
In Aubrey’s car, Peter wormed down onto the floor in the backseat. “It won’t hurt to lie low until we’re out of Paris.”
“Good idea.” Evelyn stretched out on the backseat. Today was Tuesday. On Wednesday they’d be in Cherbourg, on Thursday they’d board the ship, and on Friday they’d sail.
Aubrey started the car and pulled into traffic.
On the floor, Peter rested his hat on his belly and winked at Evelyn. “Travel with me, sweetheart, and you travel in style.”
Darling Peter, making her smile, helping her see the freedom and safety at hand. Time to grab hold of that assurance and stop being anxious, which wasn’t like her anyway.
Evelyn removed her hat and rested her chin on her forearm. “You know what would be fun? Instead of hiding, we could wear disguises.”
“Disguises, eh? I’d look dashing in a beret, a boater sweater, and a mustache.”
With his German looks? She chuckled. “I could dress as a man.”
He snorted. “That would never work.”
“I almost pulled it off two years ago, right here in Paris. Did I ever tell you that story?”
Disbelief rolled over his face. “You could never pull it off.”
“I did. Well, almost. One of the government ministers doesn’t allow female reporters into his press conferences. So I wore a man’s suit and pinned my hair under a fedora.”
“It worked?” Peter’s eyes widened.
“I got in. But my hair . . .” She fiddled with a curl. “I should have used more pins and pomade. Curls sprang from under the hat. They kicked me out. It was a fiasco.”
Warm laughter floated up. “That’s why they call you ‘Firebrand.’”
“You’re the only one who calls me that to my face.” She reached down and poked him in the chest. “Good afternoon, Miss Firebrand,” she said in a manly voice.
He poked her shoulder, grinning like a schoolboy. “Is that the voice you used? No wonder you got caught.”
“Nonsense.” She snatched his hat from his belly and set it on her head, low over one eye. “I make an excellent man.”
He snorted. “You couldn’t walk five feet without giving yourself away.”
“Hardly.” All Evelyn’s life, Mother had moaned about her clomping about like a boy.
Peter shook his head. “You sway.”
“I sway?”
“They do not.”
“I just spent a week walking behind you. Yes, you sway and nicely.” He plucked his hat off her head and set it over his face. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like a nap.”
Evelyn rolled away and leaned her head against the seatback. Her spinning head. Peter thought she walked like a woman, swaying. Nicely.
A groan built in her chest, but she trapped it before it could escape. She was already so deeply in love she could never escape. Why did he have to dig her in even deeper?
The way he let her lead in the visa office. The way he sprang to protect her. The teasing and ease and familiarity they shared. And the tenderness he affected for the benefit of the pastor and the official. What would it be like if that tenderness were genuine? If he could love her?
She set her jaw. Could marriage work?
Male foreign correspondents like Mitch O’Hara often had happy marriages, but every female foreign correspondent she knew was either single or divorced. What man would be willing to follow his wife around the world? What man would put up with the type of woman who could succeed as a correspondent? A firebrand?
Simone had given Evelyn insight into how she, as a strong and independent woman, made her marriage work. Compromise and sacrifice and humility and forgiveness and humor.
Would Peter be willing to try? The only way to find out would be to ask.
She rolled onto her stomach to gaze down at him. He lay squished between the seats with his long fingers laced over his belly.
Her hand stretched toward him, craving the feel of his fingers. Was it too much to ask? A lifetime of compromise and sacrifice and humility and forgiveness?
She tucked her hand back under her chin. Lord, please show me the way.
CHERBOURG, FRANCE
THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 24, 1938
Peter gathered his clothing and shaving kit and stood beside the bed in the hotel room.
Evelyn lay on her side, fast asleep, one arm draped across the mattress. Everything in Peter ached. If only he could slip under that arm and draw her near. Kiss her awake.
He’d have to wake her in a more conventional manner. He grasped her shoulder. Why had she worn both nightgown and dressing gown to bed? The room was plenty warm. “Evelyn?” he murmured.
Thick dark lashes fluttered and rose, revealing sleepy eyes. “Hmm?”
The ache intensified. “I’m going to the restroom to shave and dress. Lock the door behind me.”
“Mm-hmm.” She pushed up to sitting, unsteady, and she brushed curls off her face.
Lord, help me. Peter strode out the door. Spending another week sleeping in the same room as her might just kill him.
After the lock clicked behind him, Peter padded down the hall in the tiny hotel. He and Evelyn were the only guests, which suited him fine.
They’d arrived in Cherbourg at dawn the day before. After Peter had purchased tickets on the Aquitania without a blink of concern from the ticket agent, the Aubreys had returned to Paris.
Peter and Evelyn had checked in to the hotel and spent the day playing cards with a deck in the bureau. Competition certainly stoked the fire in Evelyn’s eyes.
Peter grinned and entered the bathroom. After he took care of business, he removed the pajamas Aubrey had given him, set them on top of a large wooden cabinet by the door, and put on his trousers. Simone must have given Evelyn the nightgown and dressing gown. Peter would need to wire his friend a substantial sum when he arrived in New York.
When—he liked the sound of that word.
He lathered and shaved. Today was Thanksgiving, and Peter had plenty to be thankful for. Within a week, Evelyn would be safe in New York and that list of American Nazi sympathizers would be safe in FBI hands.
Peter rinsed his face, praying thanks with each splash of icy water.
Something wasn’t right.
A strange sensation crawled over his scalp, and he raised his right hand to stop it.
A rough hand on his shoulder.
Hot pain slashed through his right arm.
Peter cried out, jerked up straight.
In the mirror—a small, dark-haired man. A raised knife.
“No!” Peter spun and drove his left fist into the man’s gut.
His attacker doubled over, and Peter shoved him away.
The man’s head banged on the open door of the cabinet—he must have been hidden inside! He tumbled to the floor. Dazed but conscious. Still holding the knife.
Peter had to get out! But the man and the open cabinet door blocked the bathroom door.
The gun! In his jacket pocket.
He snatched his jacket from the clothes rack by the bathtub, and he backed to the wall, eyeing the man.
“Who are you?” Peter fumbled for the gun, his hands wet and slippery, his arm hot and stinging from the knife wound. “Who sent you?”
The man wore a blue shirt with dark trousers and tie and beret, almost like a German SA uniform, but in blue. He pushed up to his knees, spitting out French words.
Peter’s hand closed around steel. The safety! Aubrey had shown him—how did it work?
More angry French, and the man stumbled to his feet.
Even if he couldn’t shoot, he might be able to scare him off, get out of the room. Peter thrust out the gun, his right hand numb, groping for anything mechanical that might be the safety.
The man roared and charged, knife raised.
“No!” Peter squeezed the trigger.
An explosion of sound, and the man reeled back and slumped to the ground.
“Oh, Lord. No.” Peter slammed his eyes shut, but the image wouldn’t leave.
The attacker was so short, Peter had shot him in the head. He’d killed a man.
Who was he? Where had he come from?
Peter squatted beside the body, angling away from the carnage. A tie clip caught his eye—a sheaf of wheat on top of a cogged wheel, with a double-edged battle-ax above it.
The smell of blood and other vile things filled his head and turned his stomach. “Oh, Lord. I killed a man.”
The gunshot. The innkeeper would have heard it. Called the police.
Peter grabbed his shaving kit, pajamas, shirt. He couldn’t leave anything behind, any evidence.
Even though he’d acted in self-defense, when the police came, Peter would be held for questioning, detained during the investigation. He wouldn’t be allowed to board the ship today. He wouldn’t be able to get Evelyn home.
Evelyn.
Sweat tingled on his upper lip.
Evelyn. Alone in the room.
“Good Lord, no!” He struggled to open the door. “Evelyn!”