Heart of Lies Read Online Free Page B

perfect expression of femininity. He thought suddenly of the Rigo Jancsi torte, the irresistible confection served at Budapest’s most elegant bakeries. The famous pastry had been inspired by the true story of a Belgian princess who’d run off with a gypsy violinist, leaving her husband, family, and fortune behind without a word of explanation. Now that story made sense. What the French called the coup de foudre : the lightning bolt. Something more than love at first sight. Surely she felt it, too. She had to. He saw the flush on her cheeks and the way she looked at him while trying not to look at him. She was his. She was his already. He knew it.
    He asked her question after question. She was staying with an old school friend of her father’s, and his wife, in their apartment on the Rue de Babylon. She had an older sister who went to graduate school in Graz, in Austria, and would remain at school over the winter break, to study for her comprehensive exams. Her father was a professor. Martha planned to be back in Munich in time for Christmas.
    “Perhaps we should go?” he proposed, as she finished her last sip of coffee.
    “Of course,” she stammered, deliberately misunderstanding him, “I should go.”
    Wordlessly Leo stood up, came around the small table, and pulled Martha’s chair out for her. She rose quickly, accepting his help with her coat, preparing to bolt. She had to flee, to run back out into the street, to escape this man with his astonishing blue eyes and his hypnotic smile.
    “Well, it was a pleasure meeting you,” she said lightly. “Thank you for the coffee. If you’re ever in Munich—”
    But she could not finish. He was looking at her with those eyes. She instructed her feet to back away, but her body would not listen.
    “Surely you’re not going to abandon me so abruptly?”
    She could not speak. Leo touched the tip of her nose with his finger.
    “What time are you expected back this evening?”
    Martha found her voice. “For dinner. Around eight.”
    “Excellent. I don’t have to give you up for three hours. Have you been to the Champs-Élysées yet?”
    She shook her head. “I thought I would go tomorrow.”
    “Might I accompany you now? I don’t believe it’s very far from here. There we’ll be able to admire another one of Napoleon’s monuments to himself, and perhaps I can even persuade you to let me treat you to an apéritif.”
    “That sounds delightful.” Everything about him was delightful, Martha thought as they left the café: from the carefree way a few of his black curls had escaped their pomade prison, to the poised confidence of his long stride. When he took her arm she fought the urge to reach up and touch his face. Touching him would be her undoing. She hid her free hand in her coat pocket.
    “How long are you in Paris?” she asked.
    “Just a few days. I have to be back at work the day after Christmas.”
    “In Budapest?”
    “Yes, indeed, mademoiselle. You are looking at the head concierge of the Hotel Bristol, the most elegant establishment on the Corso.”
    “Corso?”
    “The most fashionable street in the city. It runs along the Danube.”
    “Sounds beautiful. I would love to see it someday.”
    “I would love to show it to you.”
    She blushed. This sudden intimacy was not…normal. But then what was normal? For her to feel out of place and restless? In her mind’s eye Martha saw a picture of herself, standing in the center of a stage, surrounded by all the people she knew in Munich. Everyone was prepared for the curtain to rise. Everyone knew their cues and their lines. But she did not. She was in the wrong play. Was that normal?
    Leo stopped short and looked down at her. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I feel the same way.” Martha did not ask him to explain.
    They strolled leisurely down to the Place de la Concord and then up the grandest boulevard in the city, stopping periodically to admire an interesting architectural detail, to comment on