beach. No pill-boxes frowning out over the elegant Promenade des Planches. He knew grimly that he would never play there. That Lisette de Valmy would never cheer him on from the stands, a ridiculously large summer hat on her cloud of dark hair, a pretty silk dress enhancing her slender figure. He swore savagely under his breath. His task was to make sure that Deauville remained firmly under German occupation. Polo belonged in another world. A world he sometimes doubted he would ever see again.
Lisette had fled to her room blindly, self-disgust and loathing weighing her down like a tangible force, crushing the breath from her body, choking her sobs as she slammed the door of her room shut behind her, leaning her weight against the centuries-smooth wood, sliding down against it, her arms hugging her shaking body.
She wanted him. Dear God in Heaven, she wanted him. Wanted to feel his hard, lean body against hers. To feel the spring of wheat-gold hair against the palms of her hands. To hear the dark, rich voice murmuring her name. She pressed her hands to her face, fighting for calm. She wasnât sane. She couldnât be. She was in the grip of hysteria. If she waited for a little while, the moment of madness would surely pass. She would realise that she would no more long to copulate with a German than with a pig.
One moment passed, and then another. The violent trembling that had overtaken her like a seizure steadied. She found that she could breathe without having to gasp for air. She leaned her head against the wood and waited for the relief of laughter at her foolishness. It did not come. Only the truth faced her. Unbelievable. Unacceptable. Unendurable.
She never knew how long she sat there, huddled on the floor, her back against the door. Her mother came and knocked and asked if she was all right. If she needed an aspirin. She had replied yes to the first question and no to the second, and had made no effort to open the door. After a little while her mother had gone away and she had remained, unmoving, in the darkness.
She had never been in love, but she knew that it wasnât love that was devastating her now. How could it be? She hadnât spoken more than a dozen words to him, and those had been angry and scathing.
She hugged her knees tighter against her chest. It was surely what the Bible referred to as sinful lust. She shuddered. Nothing she had ever heard or read had prepared her for it. It was as if her body were completely divorced from her mind. Logic and sanity screamed that never, ever, could she bear to be touched by a man who had occupied her country; her home. Yet if she closed her eyes and thought of him, heat surged through her and she found herself wondering what it would be like to touch his skin, inhale the male fragrance of him, to see the hard, grey eyes grow dark with passion.
At last, unsteadily, she rose to her feet. She alone knew her despicable secret No one else knew, nor would they ever know. She would continue to live and behave as if the truth had never been brought home to her. He was her enemy and he would remain her enemy. She would treat her physical weakness as if it were a disease. She would fight it; conquer it; and one day she would be free of it. Slowly she undressed and climbed into bed, staring into the darkness for hour after hour, painfully coming to terms with the knowledge that there existed within her a person she had never even remotely imagined. Only when the night sky pearled to grey, presaging dawn, did she finally fall into a restless, troubled sleep.
âMarieâs niece makes a commendably fine omelette,â her father said two days later at breakfast. He glanced across at his daughter as he spoke. She had been looking extremely pale lately, almost ill. âAre you sure you wonât have one, Lisette?â
She nodded, continuing to sip at her chicory, ignoring the warm croissants on her plate.
A shaft of worry troubled him. âAre you
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