Schiller grumbled. “I hope not.”
A finger tapped on Paul’s shoulder from behind. “Excuse me.”
Paul turned.
A tall, skinny German officer frowned at him. “Are you called Monsieur Aubrey?” he asked in accented English.
The man from Green Leaf Books, but Paul tilted his head. “Yes. Have we met?”
“I have seen you at the bookstore. I am called Lt. Emil Wattenberg. I must talk to you.”
“Excuse me, Lieutenant,” Schiller said. “You interrupted our conversation.”
Paul waved his hand. “If you’ll excuse me, Colonel, I’ll give the young man one minute. I’ll be right back.”
“Very well.”
His heart rate rising, Paul led Wattenberg across the room to the painting of autumn. Did Wattenberg know about the messages at the store? Or was he just a jealous suitor?
Paul faced the lieutenant. “You wished to speak with me? About books, I presume.”
From the fire smoldering in Wattenberg’s grayish eyes, books were the last thing on his mind. “Does your wife know you flirt with Miss Girard?”
At least he hadn’t challenged Paul to a duel. “My wife, Lieutenant, passed away in June of 1940.”
The fire died, and his eyes widened. “I—I’m sorry, sir.”
Although he enjoyed his little victory, he needed to conceal his romance with Lucie. “I’m afraid you’re also mistaken about my relationship with Miss Girard. My daughter is fond of her and her ... puppet shows.” He let a tinge of disdain enter his voice.
Wattenberg’s expression hardened a bit.
Paul let out a wry chuckle. The snobbier he sounded, the better. “She’s too eccentric for my tastes. Can you see her at a soiree like this?”
That fire threatened to spark to life again.
So Paul gave him a genuine smile. “However, she is a good woman, and I’m glad she has a friend and protector in you.”
Wattenberg’s scrawny chest inflated, and he made a sharp little bow. “Thank you, sir.”
“Now, if her honor and mine have been restored, may I return to my friend, the colonel?”
“Yes, sir.” His face blanched, and he glanced back to Schiller, who outranked him by far.
As Paul weaved through the maze of black tuxedos, gray uniforms, and shimmering gowns, something twinged inside. Lucie had voiced concerns about functions like this. He did have a hard time picturing her in this crowd—but mostly because they were Nazis, collaborators, and those who accommodated the invader rather freely.
In any other crowd, she would enchant.
Schiller beckoned to Paul from by the painting of winter, a woman in white against a frosty blue background.
Nearby, German Ambassador Otto Abetz, a tall blond man in his late thirties, stood with Reichsmarschall Hermann Göring. Time for Paul to meet one of the highest-ranking men in Germany, yet Paul didn’t feel honored in the slightest.
Paul joined Schiller and gave a dismissive chuckle. “The lieutenant saw me talking to his girlfriend in a bookstore, but I was only asking her opinion about a journal.”
Amusement danced in Schiller’s eyes. “Ah yes. The American habit of excessive smiling could get a man in trouble in Europe.”
“I’ll try harder to look stern.”
The couple speaking to Göring stepped away, and Schiller led Paul over. Schiller snapped up his arm. “Heil Hitler!”
