Saving Amelie (4 page)

“Hold on, hotshot.” Daren Peterson laid a hand on his colleague’s shoulder, gently pushing him toward a linen-covered table with a direct view of Rudolph Kramer and his stunning daughter. “All things in time. Let the man get comfortable. Let him get through his glad-handing. Then I’ll shoot the artwork and you can eat him alive.”

Jason rubbed his hands together and licked his lips.

Rachel had had more than enough. Nearly three hours of sanctimonious speeches on the growth of Aryan purity and toasts brimming with laudations for the scientific community’s systematic plans to rid the world of diseased and inferior stock had passed before the music and dancing, the serious tippling of champagne, and the ultimate loosening of tongues began.

She’d felt undressed by nearly every roving masculine eye and sized up and scathed by every feminine one. Gerhardt Schlick’s undisguised stare reminded her of Margaret Mitchell’s scene in
Gone with the Wind
—when Rhett Butler’s gaze seared Scarlett O’Hara ascending the stairs of Twelve Oaks. Only she doubted that Gerhardt’s intentions were as gentlemanly as the ungentlemanly Rhett’s.

She actually felt sorry for Kristine. Gerhardt had clearly distanced himself from his wife, paying her mind only to reprimand her with openly superior and snide remarks. Kristine, though tipsy, just as clearly felt his rebukes.

“You must dance,” her father whispered, distracting her from watching the couple on the inside of the horseshoe-shaped seating arrangement several feet away.

Rachel bristled. “I don’t want to dance.”

“Allow me.” He stood and, ignoring her response, led her to the dance floor.

At least it was better than dancing with the SS officers or the fawning Dr. Mengele. Rachel was always surprised and pleased when dancing with her father. The moment he stepped onto a dance floor his carriage, his entire demeanor, changed from intent, slump-shouldered scientist to man about town. He bowed, lifted her hand, and they began a Viennese waltz. Perfect frame, perfect timing with the orchestra, and just the right pressure on her back, against her hand. Ballroom dancing was something he and her mother had
shared, and though Rachel could not waltz as wonderfully as she remembered her mother waltzing, in his arms she knew she could be made more beautiful still.

They’d taken one sweeping turn round the ballroom floor when her father stopped in response to a tap on his shoulder. He smiled, bowed slightly, and stood aside.

Sturmbannführer Gerhardt Schlick was waiting, smiling in a way that made Rachel shudder, though she refused to show it. She allowed herself to be led round the floor. On the second turn he pulled her closer. “It’s been a long time. It’s good to see you again, Rachel.”

She swallowed, smiling confidently, but her throat was dry. “Has it? And how is Kristine, and your daughter?”

A coldness passed through his eyes. “You must judge that for yourself.”

She raised her brows.

He sighed. “Oh, come now. There must have been signs before. You should have told me, warned me. I thought we were friends, at least.”

“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Your friend is not—” he hesitated—“genetically sound. She is not emotionally . . . I would use the English word
stable
.”

“Kristine is more stable than any girl I know.”

“And so I thought when I agreed to marry her. But as I said, you must judge for yourself.”

“What have you done to her?”

He looked the aggrieved, terribly injured party. “You wound me, Fräulein, and do me injustice.”

“I doubt that very much.”

“Ever the champion of the underdog.” He smiled. “And as beautiful as the moment I first saw you.” He pulled her closer still.

“And you are married, Herr Schlick.” She stepped away from him.

He snorted softly. “Truly, my mistake.” Gerhardt bowed, but held
her hand and kissed it. “I should have waited for you, no matter how long.”

She turned, but he did not let go of her hand. “You’ll be in Berlin for several weeks, I understand, Fräulein Kramer.”

She didn’t respond.

“I look forward to seeing more of you, and often.”

“That will not be possible.” Rachel pulled away, more disgusted than frightened. She sensed that he followed her toward her seat. Her father was not there, but standing oblivious, deep in conversation within the doctors’ circle several feet away. Kristine was gone.

All the you-should-have-known-better cuts she’d loaded in her arsenal, ready to aim at Kristine, evaporated. No matter the headlong foolishness of her rebound marriage, Kristine didn’t deserve Gerhardt Schlick.

Rachel retrieved her bag from the table and headed for the ladies’ room, trusting that Gerhardt would not follow.

3

D
ESPITE
CLOSE
PROXIMITY
and creative lurking, Jason Young had not maneuvered one minute alone with Dr. Kramer. “Himmler’s got him smothered and Verschuer’s got him dwarfed.”

“Kramer’s a pale fish out of water,” Peterson agreed. “Doesn’t look like much beside those SS and the charismatic Mengele.”

“So, who does? I’m thinking we’d all ought to wear jackboots and carry riding crops.”

“Well then, what’s next?” Peterson grumbled, licking the base of a new flashbulb.

“They don’t want him alone with the press. We’ve got to get him off to the side.” Jason edged toward the tight clique of officers and doctors.

“Muscle through that crowd and you’ll find yourself on a swift vacation to hard labor,” Peterson whispered. “Perfect opportunity to buddy up with those concentration-camped German priests and pastors you love to champion.” He twisted the bulb into his camera, smiling into the face of a particularly nasty-looking SS officer with a monocle.

Jason pushed a hank of sandy hair from his eyes. “We’re not supposed to know about that.”

“Right,” Peterson snorted. “Neither is half of Germany.”

“And I don’t do prison interviews—nasty smells.”

“Wasn’t trying to be funny.”

Jason skirted the small group, trying to ingratiate himself into the
conversation, person by person. But it was no use. It was as though they’d formed a seal around the American scientist.

Except that Jason knew the great doctor was fluent in German, he might have suspected Kramer did not understand the speeches—those from the platform or those given by the men standing next to him. Pretty radical rhetoric, even for the mad scientist. He didn’t appear the pompous, driven man Jason had shadowed in New York City.
So what’s changed?

Peterson nudged him. “You’re not the only vulture circling.” He nodded toward Kramer’s daughter, who seemed to be trying to capture her father’s attention. “Why not try the circuitous route?”

Rachel Kramer wasn’t his first choice. Jason doubted she was privy to her father’s research or the alliance between the Eugenics Research Association and the Third Reich. He’d checked her out for just that purpose back in New York but had been convinced she had her head buried in modern theatre. He reconsidered now, giving her the once-over, head to toe—all business. Then he did it again—pure pleasure. She just might be a link to the great doctor off court.

He swallowed. That was an excuse, and he knew it. It wouldn’t do to get distracted. Beautiful women had a way of doing that. Still, it was worth a try. He stepped closer and opened his mouth to speak.

“Rachel.” A black dress SS uniform muscled between them, pulling her from the group. “I must speak with you.”

But she turned on the German. “I don’t wish to speak with you. Take your hands off me.”

“Please, my dear, let’s not make a scene. Consider your father.” The SS uniform leaned closer, wrapped his arm around her, but she struggled against him.

“We’re on.” Jason elbowed Peterson and pocketed his notepad and pencil, picked up a glass of champagne from the nearest place setting, and slammed into the SS officer. “
Entschuldigung
, Herr Sturmbannführer. My fault entirely.”

“You imbecile!” the officer exploded, releasing Rachel.

“You’re absolutely right; I’m a clumsy oaf. Here—” Jason grabbed a linen napkin, dramatically sopping the man’s arm—“let’s clean you up.”

“Get away from me, you
Dummkopf
!”

“Now, now.” Peterson stepped between the two, steering the officer away. “There’s no need to get riled. International relations and such. Simple mistake. How about I get your photograph for the newspaper? What was your name again?”

Jason just as smoothly cupped Rachel’s elbow. “Would you care to dance, Miss Kramer? Give this homesick American a Berlin memory?”

Clearly relieved, Rachel stepped onto the dance floor. “Thank you. That was—”

“Uncomfortable,” Jason finished. He took her hand, twirled her twice, then pulled her closer than necessary into a fox-trot. “Damsel in distress from the nasty Nazis and all that.”

Rachel laughed, pulling back slightly. “Precisely. And who is this chivalrous Yank I must thank?”

“Sir Jason, at your service.” He mocked a bow.

She mocked a curtsy, smiling warmly. Jason felt his blood race.

“Well, Sir Jason, what brings you to Berlin? It’s not exactly tourist season in the nation’s capital, is it?”

“Hardly.” Jason took a half box turn to keep Peterson and the uniform in his peripheral vision. “First big gala assignment in the new regime.”

“You’re a foreign correspondent?”

He felt her tense. Jason laughed. “From your mouth to my editor’s ears! Confidentially—” he twirled her again—“I’m guessing he’s laying ten to one that I’ll fall flat on my face before the New Year, get kicked out of the country by the Gestapo, and be back on NY’s city beat before you can catch a cat’s meow.”

“You’re that bad?”

He grimaced. “Do you always say exactly what you mean?”

Now she laughed. “I hope so. I don’t have a journalist’s gift for flattery.”

“You give me too much credit.” He dipped her once.

“And you’re a flamboyant dancer!”

“Not so staid and serious as your German uniform?” He grinned, though he caught the uniform’s glare from across the room.

She shuddered—enough that he felt it through her evening gown.

“So, who is the creep?”

“The husband of an old friend—who’s acting like neither.”

“Check. Do you want me to walk you out?”

“No, no, of course not—thank you. I’m here with my father.” She nodded toward the clique against the far wall.

“Not one of the military types, I take it.”

“No. The American scientist—Dr. Kramer.” She lifted her chin slightly but diverted her eyes. Jason caught her mixed glimmer of pride and uncertainty.

“Ah—part of the cooperative eugenics program Himmler was going on about.”

“I’m fairly certain Herr Himmler overemphasized America’s contribution.”

“No need to be modest. It’s all the rage here in Germany—master Nordic race breeding. Sterilization of questionable bloodlines. Elimination of undesirable elements.” He twirled her again. “So, what do you make of it?”

She looked taken aback, and Jason knew he was losing her. “What does your father think? Will the US be accelerating their program—keep pace with the Führer?”

Her smile gone, she pulled away. “I don’t discuss politics, Mr.—Mr. Jason.”

He raised his hands in surrender. “My apologies, Miss Kramer. No offense intended. It’s just that this is a gala to celebrate the research
shared between countries. I figured you’d be all for it, or at least your father would.” He stepped closer, staged his best repentant-little-boy look, and held out his hand. “I’ll behave. Promise.”

She placed her hand in his.

Jason couldn’t believe his luck. “Here’s something neutral. What will you do while in Germany? Need a tour guide?”

“I’ve been coming to Germany ever since I was a child. What could you show me?”

“Anything you want. Say the word.” He grinned. “I’ll become the best tour guide Germany has to offer, if I have to bribe every cabbie in Berlin!”

At last she smiled, and he twirled her, glad to be in her favor once again.

“As a matter of fact, Sir Jason, I probably know Berlin better than you. Perhaps I should give you the tour.”

“Now you’re talking!”

“But only if you stop twirling me—I’ll be too dizzy to walk!”

They both laughed as the music faded.

“Thirsty?”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

Before they lifted champagne flutes from the waiter’s tray, Peterson cut in. “Young, I’m out of here. I need to get these photos developed. See you tomorrow.” He nodded appreciatively toward Rachel. “Miss Kramer.”

But when Jason turned back to Rachel, her jaw had gone rigid and her eyes cold. “Young? Your name is Young? Jason Young?”

Jason swallowed, fairly certain what was coming.

“The bounty hunter masquerading as a crusader out to ruin my father?”

“Hey, that’s not my intention.”

“You knew my name. You knew who I was. That’s why you danced with me—you wanted a story.”

“I don’t rescue women in distress to get a story. I didn’t set up the uniform. You looked like you could use some help.” But he couldn’t hold her piercing gaze.