The Last Time I Saw Paris Read Online Free Page A

furniture a little more sophisticated, the art a bit more deco, maybe, for Washington Square. Leather-bound trunks were pushed up against the wall, lids open. He’d been packing when she’d interrupted him.
    A long afternoon was spent gorged on stolen pleasure, and they lay cupped together in his small bed. They faced the dim room’s one small window, drowsy bodies tangled, his leg flung over her rounded hip. Half-asleep, he traced a pattern on her bare shoulder. She rolled onto her hip at the edge of the bed; the cotton sheets slipped down below her thighs. She felt Laurent stir next to her, heard the flick of a lighter as he lit a cigarette.
    “I am leaving on the ship tonight, ma chérie . To Paris,” he said.
    His few unsold photographs were piled up against an open trunk, frames leaning front to back, ready to be packed. She slipped off the bed and pulled out the smallest photo, cradling in it with one hand. A faint stream of light filtering through the curtains illuminated the picture, enhancing the quiet dreaminess of the scene.
    “So soon?” She devoured the image with her eyes to fight the emptiness rising in her belly.
    “Oui.” He snuffed out his cigarette as he climbed from the bed. “Why do you always look at that one, Claire? It is so naive, no? Done on a lark, for a friend. I don’t know why I even brought it.” He wrapped his arms around her.
    His naked warmth softened her back as she studied the photo. She shook her head. A simple garden scene. Worth less than the price of the silk slip he’d torn from her shoulders. It was impossible to describe what made this small image so arresting. It drew her in, that’s all.
    He tapped the photo’s glass and spoke into her hair. “I can take you to this place. I will undress you in the grass and—”
    “What color are the roses?”
    Laurent tossed the photo onto the floor. He turned her to face him; his gaze consumed her. “This beauty deserves Paris. Come with me.”
    “Laurent—”
    “I don’t have riches, Claire, but I know people. I live like a king. Dinner at the Ritz, parties at Le Meurice. Champagne, fashion, art. The beauty of it all. You are unhappy here, but in Paris you would shine. My muse.”
    She allowed herself to be tempted until the long breath was gone. She led him toward the bed. “No.”
    He pushed her back onto the sheets. He kissed her knees and began moving his way toward her waist. “No? Why?” Because, she could have said, I am Claire Harris Stone and I worked too damn hard for this life to just walk away. Instead, she opened her legs and pulled him to her.
     
     
    T he Clipper’s engines droned. Claire allowed herself one more glance down at the wisp of continent disappearing like a mirage. And this morning, nine months later, that glittering life was gone. And she wasn’t just walking, she was flying away.

Lisbon, Portugal. May 10, 1940.
    T he Yankee Clipper touched down in the waters of the Tagus River in the early afternoon and glided to Lisbon’s marine terminal gangplank. Claire handed her papers to the official waiting inside the terminal building, her attention drawn to the eerily quiet crowd of travelers that pressed toward the plane. Picking up her luggage, she pushed past somber faces toward the door and the lot outside.
    Outside the terminal, a woman sobbed into a lacy white kerchief next to a mound of luggage piled on the sidewalk. Her sweating taxi driver battled with a steamer case wedged in the car’s open trunk.
    “Could you direct me to the train station?” Claire said.
    The woman only shook her head, face buried in her kerchief.
    “What is it? What’s happening?” Claire asked.
    A loud crack and the case gave, thudding onto the street. The woman wailed.
    Grimacing, the driver straightened. “The Nazis. They attack.”
    Claire caught her breath. “Attacked who?”
    “The north. Far north. Not here.” He shrugged then motioned Claire toward his open taxi door. “I take you to the train.