I moved past to the next table and placed a small stack of chips on Black 22. The silver ball whirled as I took a small sip of the first champagne I had drunk for years. If people thought conventional forms of gambling were exciting, they should try jumping out of a plane into occupied territory. I grinned widely when the croupier pushed a stack of chips towards me. Held back part of the winnings and pushed the remainder to Red 12. The silver ball again danced along, dipping into the red pocket.
‘Mein Gott,’ a man with sun-bleached hair murmured. His face was tanned, but fleshy, with the soft look of a diplomat rather than a front-line soldier. ‘Lucky and good-looking.’
‘Try your luck,’ an older, elegant man laughed. Unlike his younger companion, this man, perhaps in his late fifties, exuded both confidence and charisma.
He tipped his head at me as the younger man approached.
‘Good evening, Fräulein . . .’
‘Frau,’ I corrected, focusing my attention on the spinning ball.
‘You speak German!’ he exclaimed. ‘Splendid! Can I buy you a drink?’
‘I already have one.’
‘Then finish it and I’ll buy you the next one. Perhaps you can share your luck with a simple soldier.’
I raised an eyebrow to let him know I was unimpressed.
‘You make your own luck, sir.’
‘Please. My name is Jurgen Kuhne. And you are?’
‘Too old for you.’ I moved my winnings to another square.
‘You’re French, aren’t you?’
The puppy placed his chips next to mine, his hand grazing my wrist. The shudder was hard to stifle. And in Portugal, maybe I didn’t have to. I gave him a pointed glare.
‘And?’
‘And I have not seen you here before. You’re new to Estoril?’
I looked over his shoulder to glare at the other man. He’d moved, and was now speaking with two other men: a German major, and a taller man, perhaps half a head above the others. He wore a dark dinner jacket, but everything about him screamed Military – his straight posture, the dark hair cropped close. His eyes crinkled at something the suave older man said.
Clinically speaking, the major was more attractive, with a square jaw and bright blue eyes that slanted like a cat’s. But where all three men emanated confidence, Cat-eyes bordered on arrogance.
As if sensing my attention, the tall man looked straight at me. His face was arresting, with high Teutonic cheekbones, a nose that was a touch long, and dark, deep-set eyes that seemed to miss little. His half-smile faded as he studied me. I held myself still, unable to move. Unable to fathom my reaction to a complete stranger, and a German one at that.
When a striking brunette in a diaphanous yellow gown linked her arm in his, a surprising disappointment hit me.
‘Beautiful, lucky, and, apparently, quite rich,’ a French voice drawled from behind me.
‘Who?’ I asked absently.
The Frenchman in the white dinner jacket chuckled. ‘Why, you, my dear. Haven’t you noticed?’
He cleared his throat and indicated a rather large stack of chips that had replaced the handful I’d thrown there some minutes before. The Frenchman was right. In less than an hour, I had done very well.
‘Have you had enough of the child’s attention already?’ The Frenchman was perhaps thirty or thirty-five, with fair hair that waved back from a high forehead. His voice held the slightest of slurs, but his eyes were clear, regarding me with lazy curiosity. ‘Dreadful bore that he is.’
‘That isn’t a very nice thing to say.’
‘Never claimed to be nice. Don’t worry, he doesn’t speak a word of French, the ignorant bastard. Not many of their lot do. Julian Reilly is my name. At your service.’
He grabbed my hand and bowed over it, while the young Herr Kuhne looked unhappy. While Reilly’s French was flawless, his name was Irish.
‘Citizen of the world,’ he corrected, although I hadn’t spoken aloud. ‘But if you tell me your name, madame, I shall rescue you from the attentions of the barbarians.’
‘That seems a fair deal.’ Despite myself, I was amused at his outrageousness. ‘I am Solange Verin.’
‘Then come with me, Madame Verin, and I’ll introduce you to all the wrong people.’
He held his arm out to me.
‘And won’t that ruin my reputation?’
‘You have a reputation? How delightful!’
His devil-may-care grin exposed crooked teeth and dimples. He opened his mouth to speak when the hubbub in the room suddenly muted. Nervous glances swept to the door and the young lieutenant who entered. He paused, scanning the room, and made his way slowly towards the tall man. It was a painful procession; he didn’t limp so much as force one leg in front of the other. His gaze was fixed straight ahead, refusing to acknowledge the hostile stares that followed his progress.
‘Who is that?’ I asked.
‘Ah. That poor sod is the Herr Leutnant Andreas Neumann.’
‘What happened? Why does everyone dislike him?’
‘Dislike? Nothing of the sort.’ Julian looked uncomfortable. ‘We don’t dislike him. What is hard to bear is that he reminds us of our own mortality.’
As the lieutenant passed, the woman in yellow joined a pair of women, watching the young man exchange words with the major and the tall man. I edged closer, curious. How he could remind them of their own mortality? So he limped. A lot of soldiers did.
‘I don’t understand how Eduard can bear to talk to that man. Much less look at him.’
The Canary didn’t bother to lower her voice and her Spanish-accented syllables were clear in the almost-still room. I blinked. The young lieutenant may have moved awkwardly, but he was beyond beautiful, with a face as finely drawn as a Botticelli angel. The lieutenant stiffened, but otherwise showed no emotion, waiting for a reaction from the major and his colleague. When I met the Spanish woman’s eyes, she sneered.
‘Well, look at him, will you?’
‘I have.’
The lieutenant’s expression was stony when he turned towards us. If the right side of his face was hauntingly beautiful, the left side was something out of a horror movie. Scar tissue
