Peach (8 page)

Steinholz summoned the young officer waiting at attention behind him. “Kruger!”

“Sir.” The officer stepped forward smartly and waited at attention, eyes raised to some point above their heads, and Peach peeked at him wonderingly.

“This is Captain Volker Kruger. He will be in charge of this hotel from now on. Of course it is our wish that you run the hotel as usual, but Captain Kruger will be in charge of allocating accommodations and supplies. Only our senior
officers will be coming here to enjoy a much needed rest from their endeavours at the front. And perhaps, occasionally, you may be asked to accommodate some very
special
guests. This hotel and its facilities will make an ideal location for top-level conferences between ourselves and our Italian allies. You may rest assured, Madame, that the hotel will be kept in tip-top condition and Kruger will see that you have a full staff. All we ask is that you continue to do your job—with a little extra help from us.”

“But I …”

“Leonore.” Leonie shot her a warning glance and Leonore flushed, staring down angrily at her feet. “Herr von Steinholz,” said Leonie, “I must demand complete control. Captain Kruger will answer to myself or my granddaughter. No one, Herr von Steinholz, runs this hotel except Mademoiselle de Courmont.”

Von Steinholz pursed his lips angrily. “You realise, of course, that we could simply requisition the hotel?”

Von Steinholz wanted the prestige of having Leonie Bahri and a de Courmont granddaughter running
his
hotel … and Leonie knew it. She stared back at him calmly.

“Oh, very well,” agreed von Steinholz. “Kruger, you hear that?” The young man’s eyes dropped from the ceiling to their level.

“Herr Kommandant,” he replied.

“You will work with these ladies, Kruger. They know more than you about running a hotel anyway. Standards must be kept up.”

Leonie noticed a glint of anger flash through the Captain’s eyes. The man was a small bureaucrat jumped up to a position of “assistant to power”—and longing for that power himself. Captain Kruger was a dangerous man.

“It’s understandable,” von Steinholz turned to Leonore with a superior smile, “that with Germans now running the
de Courmont factories you might want to keep some small part of the family’s properties under your own control.”

It had been six months since they had heard from Gerard, though they knew about the take-over of the steel works and that the factories now produced vehicles and armaments for the Third Reich.

“My men will be here first thing in the morning. I bid you goodnight. It has been a pleasure meeting you both.” Von Steinholz strode towards the door, his footsteps ringing hollowly on the marble.

He paused by the great glass door, held open for him by the watchful Kruger. “Oh, and tell the little one—Peach—hiding behind her grandmother, that she has my permission to swim in the hotel pool at any time.”

“Grand-mère,” said Peach as Leonie unbuckled the brace from her leg that night as she prepared for bed. “Can we throw it into the sea now?”

Peach’s face was rosy with health, her soft, springy russet hair was held back with a scrap of ribbon and her dark blue eyes were round and serious.

Leonie paused, the ugly leather straps half-unbuckled. “The calliper you mean?”

Peach nodded.

“I know you hate it,” said Leonie, “but you need its support.” The right leg, unbuckled from its cage, was visibly thinner than its twin.

“No I don’t. I can walk on it.”

“Not properly, darling …”

“
I will
,” said Peach fiercely, “
Grand-mère, I will
. And I don’t want to swim in the pool with those men. I’ll never swim there again!”

Leonie had thought they’d come through this afternoon’s
ordeal unscathed, but it was little six-year-old Peach who had been damaged by their first encounter with the enemy.

Peach gazed at Leonie earnestly. “We’ll swim in the sea, Grand-mère,” she promised, putting a small consoling hand on Leonie’s shoulder. “They can’t stop us doing that, can they?”

How did she know, marvelled Leonie. How could she possibly understand the situation? But Peach had sensed the display of power in the clicking heels, the gleaming braid, the silent watching soldiers. Out of the mouths of babes … “Well,” she said briskly, “let’s get you tucked up in that nice comfy bed, and we’ll talk about this again in the morning.”

“
They’ll
be here in the morning,” said Peach, lying back against the pillows.
“It’ll never be the same here again
.”

Lais strolled down the rue Cambon dressed in a fashionable little spring suit. The navy wool skirt showed a split of silk piping to match the cream silk shirt with its jaunty bow, and the jacket, edged with a military glitter of braid and buttons, swung pertly as she walked. It was mere steps to the Ritz bar where her new love was waiting for her.

“Lais.” He waved from his seat at a crowded table at the far end of the bar as she threaded her way through the tables towards him.

“You’re late,” he said reprovingly as she took a seat.

“A woman’s privilege,” Lais patted her blonde hair into place beneath her pretty little hat, glancing round at the assembled company. “My, my,” she commented as her usual champagne cocktail was placed on the table in front of her, “I thought Chanel had cornered the market on gold braid.”

Ignoring their guffaws of laughter, she sipped her drink. “Mmm. Heaven,” she said, sinking back into her chair. “Sheer heaven.” Crossing her long silk-clad legs, she eyed her audience of admiring men levelly. “So, gentlemen. Who is fighting the war if you are all here?”

They laughed again, delighted with her. “
Liebchen
,” the tall one placed a proprietory hand on her knee, “I’m afraid I have an important meeting this afternoon, so we won’t be able to have lunch.”

Lais pouted over her drink.

“But don’t worry. I’ve invited them all for dinner. Call up some friends, my darling. Tell Johann to put the champagne on ice. And say that we’d like the caviare and the dish Albert at Maxim’s always orders for us—you know the one—with the veal. And a
Norvegienne
—with
fraises des bois
.”

“All your favourites,” commented Lais drily.

He beamed at her, and then at his colleagues. “Let me introduce you,” he said. “Mademoiselle Lais de Courmont—General von Rausch, of Oberkommand, his aides, Captain Albers, Major Dorsch of the Waffen SS. And this is Herr Otto Klebbich who has just been appointed director of affairs for champagne.” Her lover’s laugh echoed around the still elegant Ritz bar. “You know who Otto is? He’s the
Führer of Champagne
.”

It had been just another boring evening, thought Lais irritably as she prepared for bed. There was no doubt that Hitler’s preference for promoting men of the same intellectual
background as himself made for dull parties. Tonight there’d been a couple of “Gauleiters” on their first ever trip outside Germany, small-minded provincial men bumped-up to party officials, though they must be in line for higher power or Karl would never have tolerated them. The others had been marginally more interesting—an architect, involved with building Goering’s new home and whom Karl had commissioned to design his chalet in the mountains, and a couple of his assistants—and Otto Klebbich. But no one really worth her trouble.

As Karl had commanded, she had seen that the table looked exquisite. The elaborate silver candelabra had thrown soft light on to the bowls of trailing tawny orchids and the crested de Courmont dinner service, sparkling off the thinnest Lalique champagne flutes that brimmed with an endless supply of the sweet champagne the Nazis preferred. But the delicious food had been too delicate for their hearty taste.

There was one young officer, though—Ferdi von Schönberg, an aide to Otto Klebbich—who’d known his wines. He’d known about music too. He had come to stand beside her as Lais leaned over the piano, while the old man who always entertained at her parties played Mozart and Chopin as well as Cole Porter—with equal tenderness. The other officers had remained at the table with Karl, discussing the latest developments in the war. Maps had been brought out and were pored over and their talk and laughter grew louder as the excellent brandy flowed. Several bored girls in pretty evening dresses were waiting disconsolately in the drawing room, ignored by the Germans and by their hostess.

Lais sang along with the piano.

“You like Cole Porter?” Ferdi von Schönberg had asked with a smile.

He was tall and blond with a nice hard young body. “Cole Porter—and
good
champagne,” she’d said, lifting her glass filled with a delicate golden liquid whose tiny bubbles fizzed gently and steadily upwards. “None of that sweet wine served in there.” She’d grimaced toward the open dining room door and he’d laughed.

“To each his own,” he’d said, toasting her with his brandy glass.

“Yes,” she had replied, eyeing him steadily. Just then the door opened and the others began to emerge from the dining room so she had no further opportunity to talk to him.

With a sigh Lais pulled the soft green silk nightdress over her nakedness. Karl liked her in green. And in silk.

He was already in bed, waiting for her, as she walked from her dressing room. The smell of the roses she had piled into enormous crystal vases drenched the room and she flung open the window, gazing out across the courtyard to the Seine. Moonlight glinted off the rifles of the sentries as they patrolled the area in front of the house, lighting up the long black Mercedes that waited, chauffeur at the ready in case of emergency. Her lover was a very important man. Leaning against the window she lit a cigarette and stared out into the night.

“
Liebchen
,” General Karl von Bruhel lifted his eyes from the papers he was reading and smiled at her. “Time for bed, my angel.” He placed the documents with their important looking seals and stamps to one side. “Come to me.”

Karl von Bruhel was forty years old. He had harsh grey hair and very blue eyes that looked even bluer because of the clean pinkness of his complexion. His skin was smooth, his body spare. He had been married for eighteen years to a quiet woman of a good Munich family and he had a daughter Peach’s age.

Lais tossed her cigarette from the window. Sliding the straps of the nightdress from her shoulders, she walked slowly towards him, easing the silk over her breasts, letting it slide in a soft rustle to her feet.

Karl’s eyes devoured her nakedness, his hands waited for her, hard, predatory, exploring. Lais hesitated by the side of the bed, she was always a little afraid of him, a little wary as he approached her. His hand slid ruthlessly between her legs, gripping her until she cried out, only partly from pain. “Tell me you like it, Mademoiselle de Courmont,” he commanded, with a disdainful smile, “tell me what it is you want. Come on.
Tell me!
”

“Please, please, Karl,” she gasped as his hand gripped tighter, crushing her softness. Even as she spoke a tremor shook her. Oh God, oh God! His hard fingers caressed her ruthlessly and she moaned with pleasure. Abruptly he removed his hand, leaving her gasping, desperate.

“Now,” he whispered, lying back against the pillows, hands clasped behind his head. “
What
is it you want, Mademoiselle de Courmont?”

“Please Karl,” she begged. “Please Karl, oh please,
fuck me
.”

With a great roar of laughter he lifted her from her feet and swung her on top of him, forcing her down on his hardness, enjoying her moans of pleasure.

“Now,” he said, “wait. Wait one moment, Lais. Take a look in the mirror over the bed.”

Obediently Lais stared into the mirror at their reflected
image. Roughly he lifted her from him so that she could watch them. Her eyes were dark with excitement, she would do anything he asked, he knew it. “Now,” he said, “lift your eyes higher, Lais, away from us. What else do you see, reflected in the mirror?”

Lais raised her eyes reluctantly. The portrait that Karl had insisted on hanging there stared back at her. His face was lean, with a full sensual mouth—a darkly handsome, slightly cruel-looking man with Peach’s deep dark blue eyes.

“Monsieur,” she whispered, trembling. “I see Monsieur.”

Karl roared with laughter again, letting her sink back on to him, feeling her juices flow. “So what do you think of this, Monsieur le Duc de Courmont?” he called to the portrait. “First we took your country, then we took your factories and your estates. And now I’m going to take your granddaughter. Again!”

Lais cried out with pain as, still inside her, he rolled on top of her. She gasped as he began to thrust harder. “More, more,” she begged. God, he was such a fantastic lover, oh my God … “More, more. Don’t stop now. Oh please … Karl, don’t stop.” It seemed the night would never end.