Wednesday Night
“OPEN WIDER, MON CHÉRI,” Jadwiga Radziwill said, putting the foie gras–coated cracker into Bibo’s waiting mouth.
Panic-stricken guests rushed past her down the Hôtel Lambert’s wide stairway. Candles flickered, their melting wax dripping onto the linen tablecloths. But it was a shame to waste the trays of caviar-dotted blini and the endive shoots filled with crème fraîche, she thought.
“Madame, please allow me.” A waiter offered her his arm. “It is time to evacuate.”
She raised her eyebrows. Not bad, this one. What was it about a man in a tuxedo?
“A little late, young man,” she said. “Like closing the barn door after the horse has been stolen.”
“The bomb squad fears other bombs will, er, may have been set, Madame.”
“Set?” She shook her head. “If they had been set, we’d have been vaporized into mist floating over the Seine by now. This wasn’t a professional job, you know.”
“Madame Radziwill?” Deroche, the CEO, bent and kissed her gloved hand. “You are a legend, and now I’m honored to meet you in person.”
She knew him right off—suave, distinguished, and with the roving eye of a roué. And the man in power. Her favorite kind.
“Monsieur Deroche, my compliments on the hors d’oeuvres,” she smiled. “Bibo approves, and he’s very selective.”
“Merci, at least someone’s enjoying them. But in the interest of your safety, please, let this man escort you outside.”
“The excitement’s over.” She sighed. “A little crisis, non, a turbulence like on the airplane when a minor bumpiness occurs and then, voilà, all is once more smooth. Wouldn’t you concur, Monsieur Deroche?”
Deroche raised an eyebrow, giving a dismissive wave to the waiter. “Why do you say that, Madame Radziwill?”
She showed him her best profile and smiled. “Bombs, seeking attention, pointing the blame—aah, I recognize the hallmarks of my day.” She sighed again. “But wonderful champagne. Vintage, non?”
He refilled her waiting flute.
“And you’re still bewitching,” he said. “Now, you haven’t shared this observation of yours, have you, Madame?”
But of course he’d noticed the journalists hovering at her side, otherwise he wouldn’t have bothered to talk to her.
“Chopin insisted that a shovelful of Polish dirt be placed in his casket at Père-Lachaise,” she said. “We Poles birthed anarchism. Being contrary is part of my heritage.”
“Won’t you let me take you to dinner?” He glanced at the security force checking the room. “When I finish up here.”
She took a deep swallow of champagne. Then another. “The journalists were fascinated when I explained that the danger had passed. Of course, as a former chemistry professor, I know that if a bomb in a hot kitchen had been meant to detonate it would have done so, and this landmark with us inside would have been vaporized.” She fluttered her mascaraed lashes and paused for effect. “I’m dining with some of them later.”
Deroche sat heavily in the chair next to hers. He was straight as a rod, but his eyes darted about. Her words had struck home.
She couldn’t remember the last time a powerful man had squirmed in her presence. Or when she’d last felt this quiver of excitement. Now she’d make him grovel.
She fanned herself with a linen napkin. “We owned this hotel once, you know. It was Prince Czartoryski’s former residence, the gathering place for Polish aristocrats exiled from Warsaw by corrupt mercenaries working for the tsar. ”
“That occurred more than a century ago, Madame,” Deroche said in a frosty tone.
“Governments, corruption . . . some things never change, do they, Monsieur?”
She enjoyed his barely suppressed wince. He’d love to throttle her, she knew, if he could have gotten away with it.
“But I am available for dinner tomorrow,” she said. Bibo loved dining in four-star restaurants.
She noticed his calculating eyes as he gauged her potential value. Then she saw something else.
“Of course,” he said. “But between you and me . . .” He leaned forward, his voice edged with titillation. “Is it true you persuaded your lover General Von Choltitz not to burn Paris despite Hitler’s orders?”
She stifled a yawn. Always that tiresome question when people felt emboldened enough to ask it. “Semantics, Monsieur Deroche. The bombs were set. I just persuaded him not to ignite them. It is an important distinction.”
She fed Bibo another foie gras–spread cracker.
“I’m sure you have to do—what’s that phrase?—damage control.” She stood, Bibo in her arms. “Merci, quite an exciting evening. Tomorrow then; somewhere we can arrive fashionably late?”