Chapter 1
Marseille, 1940
I’d always considered growing up on the bayou to be somewhat of an obstacle regarding my ability to climb up the social ladder. Polite society didn’t have much use for a woman who could shoot a wild hog at a hundred paces, and they certainly didn’t have much use for a woman who spoke her mind and was creative with her vocabulary.
I’m not sure what I expected after being relocated across the ocean, but it turned out all the things that were an obstacle back home came in handy on foreign soil. I was a real asset. At least to the Resistance. The other guys had a price on my head.
I’d only had one goal when I’d gotten off the ship in Marseille, and that was to find a husband. A woman on her own would always face obstacles, which was ridiculous to my mind, so I had a strategy. I needed to find a wealthy, older man who was set in his ways and had his own interests. That way, I could live the life I’d become accustomed to and do whatever I wanted at the same time. It was a win-win in my book. He didn’t even have to be good looking. I’d just make sure to turn the light off before we made love and have a separate bedroom the rest of the time. It was a real sacrifice, but one I was willing to make.
I think there’s a saying about best laid plans…because by the time I’d gotten settled with my hosts—a George and Esther Smithers, who were British citizens living half the year in France—they’d decided I was exactly what was needed to fight the Nazis.
I couldn’t say for sure if I was the best weapon against the Nazis, but it was the first time in seventeen years I’d felt like I was in a place where I belonged. They didn’t care about my age or that I was a woman. They didn’t make me feel guilty for being able to memorize documents and numbers and information better than the men, and they didn’t make me feel like I had to cover up my natural beauty. And it turned out I had a real gift for languages.
As luck would have it, there were a lot of older men in the Resistance, so I figured finding a husband would be like shooting fish in a barrel. What I hadn’t expected was to hit a potential husband with my car. But in my defense, he was in my territory.
The Smitherses thought my best cover was selling makeup. A little lipstick could go a long way in getting a man to fall to his knees or a woman to share her secrets. My job was to do both of those things. And let me tell you, it wasn’t an easy task because the women in the Gestapo weren’t exactly Cover Girl material.
When the Nazis had occupied Marseille at the beginning of June, the Alliance had already been in place for some time at Number 1 Dorset Square, and in two short months I’d seen things I’d never have imagined. But they’d needed more boots on the ground, and my American status enabled them to trust me more than some of their European counterparts. Double agents and Nazi sympathizers had already been rooted out and executed in London and Paris. So I was fast-tracked into the spy game.
I had to say, I was born for it.
The Smitherses were wealthy, and they’d loaned me a car for my makeup business. I carried cases in the trunk and made my way down the avenue, stopping at everything from the perfumery to the sewing factory to the offices with bored secretaries. And then I made my way to the strategically placed locations all over the city where the Gestapo had commandeered the homes of people they’d taken into custody.
In all honesty, I might have been busy looking at the sky and the position of the sun rather than the road in front of me, but I wanted to make sure I was back to the Smithers’ house before curfew. I would be cutting it close.
It’s not like I was driving fast, but in my experience, men could overexaggerate things like this. And really, he came out of nowhere.
There was a blur of gray and a loud grunt, and the car jerked as it made contact. I looked to the end of the long hood and I slammed my foot on the brake, but whatever I’d hit was no longer standing.
“Shoot,” I mumbled, throwing open the car door. “Who could possibly be this stupid?”
We were right in front of the Gestapo headquarters, and drawing attention to ourselves wasn’t the wisest course of action. They knew me and were used to having me stop by once a week. I’d made relationships with several of the women, and I flirted with all of the guards, but I’d especially made my availability known to a man named Friedrich Wagner, who was the head of the secret police that had been sent in to occupy Marseille.
My hard-soled shoes made scraping sounds across the cobblestone roads, and I hurried to the front of the car, hoping I could get whatever it was up and on its way with little fanfare. But I was like a beacon in my new red dress, a dress I’d purposely chosen because I knew I’d cross paths with Friedrich today and his favorite color was red. I didn’t want to toot my own horn, but people tended to notice me even without the red dress. There was a reason I’d been shipped to another country, and I couldn’t help it if men lost their faculties around me. We all have gifts. I just know how to use mine.
I saw the back of him first. He was dressed in a long gray overcoat, and his hat was black and cocked
