Moonlight Over Paris(59)

At the Grand Duc, they were ushered to a table near the front and provided with yet another bottle of champagne on ice. Helena ignored her glass, knowing it would only make her growing headache worse, and though she asked the waiter for a glass of water it never appeared.

None of that mattered once the music began. The musicians played without sheet music before them, often at dizzying speeds, and although she didn’t know much about jazz it seemed that they were improvising some of the songs. It was the perfect music for dancing, though she’d no idea how one would dance to it. Perhaps étienne might be able to show her.

Jean-Fran?ois emptied the bottle of champagne at high speed, and thereafter he seemed to grow increasingly annoyed with the music, or perhaps the venue in general. Right in the middle of a song, and in front of the entire audience, he stood and beckoned for her to follow him out.

“We are going!” he shouted over his shoulder. “I’ve had enough of this degenerate Yankee music.”

“I thought the musicians were very accomplished,” she said as they got in the car.

“Pah. What would you know?”

“I beg your pardon?”

He giggled, a ridiculous sound coming from a grown man, and patted her arm in a way she did not appreciate, not one bit. “I do apologize. I meant only that a lady like yourself cannot possibly understand the vulgarity of such music.”

“I think I should like to go home now,” she said evenly.

“But the night is young! How can you even think of going to bed before midnight? And surely you do not wish to disappoint me, not after keeping me waiting for so long.” His smile widened into a leer, and a wisp of panic took up residence behind her sternum. In this car she was trapped, for she couldn’t depend on the driver to come to her aid, and d’Albret—she no longer wished to think of him in a friendly fashion—seemed to have abandoned his morals along with his sobriety.

An idea came to her then, for hadn’t étienne said he would be at Le D?me? If she could persuade d’Albret to go there instead of the Bal Bullier, she might enlist her friend’s aid in divesting herself of this disagreeable man. At the very least he could distract d’Albret while she got into a taxi and went home.

“Very well. But could we go to Le D?me first? The barman makes the most divine cocktails.”

“I suppose,” he acceded. “But after that we must go dancing.”

The café-bar was packed, but étienne, disappointingly, was nowhere to be seen. It was rather late; perhaps he had already gone home. She would have to sort things out on her own.

D’Albret led her to a table in the back corner, but rather than sit opposite he squeezed onto the banquette at her side. He pressed against her, his breath hot against her ear, and she had to remind herself that they were in public, in an establishment where she was known, and nothing bad could possibly happen to her so long as she refused to get in his car.

He was talking again, this time about his plans for a passenger service via airplane between Paris and London. She longed to tell him it was a ridiculous idea, for who on earth would risk their life on an airplane when they could get from one city to the other by ferry and train in less than a day, but she bit her tongue and nodded approvingly.

Like étienne, d’Albret was given to talking with his hands. Unlike étienne, he had a disconcerting way of allowing them to settle on her shoulder or arm, or even, though she brushed them away firmly more than once, on her knee.

It was unbearable, truly unbearable. She was going to stand up and walk a pace or two away, thank him for a lovely evening, and go; she would hope, in that moment, that he wouldn’t dare to make a scene. Before she could act, however, he whispered something in French that she couldn’t quite make out, seized her chin, and turned her face toward his.

He was going to kiss her, she knew it, and she pushed against his chest to make him leave off, retreat, but he was surprisingly strong, and his other hand was around her waist, and oh, God, he really was going to press his mouth to hers—

And then he was gone. She heard, as if from a distance, the sound of chairs tipping over and glass breaking, and then her eyes cleared and it was Sam, right there, and he was the one who had pulled d’Albret away.

His cheeks flushed, his eyes glinting with murderous intent, Sam twisted d’Albret’s arm behind his back and marched him outside, and she just sat and stared and told herself that she mustn’t be sick, could not be sick, no matter how much her stomach was churning.

“Come on,” came a voice, and there was Sam again, his arm outstretched, and he led her away and outside to the blessedly cool night. D’Albret had vanished.

“What did you do? Did you hit him?” she asked, her voice shaking so much she had to force the words past her teeth.

“No, Ellie, I didn’t hit him. I shoveled him into his car and told him to sleep it off.”

“Oh. I . . . I’m sorry. I didn’t—”

“I may also have told him to keep his hands to himself, especially when he’s around a lady. And it’s possible that I also told him to never come near you again. Because if he did, I really would hit him.”

She was shivering, although her coat was warm enough, and she badly needed to sit down. “How did you know we were here?”

“Larry Blochman was sitting at the bar. He recognized you, saw you were having trouble with that jackass, and called me at the paper. I got in a taxi and came down here as fast as I could.”