He cleared his throat.

She looked up.

The mugs of coffee went crashing downwards.

With a nonchalance Max was always to remember, Chuck Gleeson took not the slightest notice of the steaming liquid swilling around on the floor. He simply sidestepped it and exited the room, closing the door behind him.

Neither of them moved.

The expression in her large dark eyes was a tumult of mixed emotion: unspeakable joy at seeing him again, sheer terror that he was about to tell her that the love of his life was Ilse.

When he spoke his deep voice was husky with emotion. ‘I love you,’ he said, knowing he loved her with every fibre of his being. Knowing that if her feelings for him had changed, it was a catastrophe he would never recover from. ‘I went to see Ilse first so that if she had hopes we could rekindle things, I could let her down gently.’ His voice thickened. ‘Nancy got things wrong, Lotti. I want to marry you. I want to marry you at the first opportunity. I want to marry you within days.’

She sucked in her breath, swayed unsteadily for a second and then catapulted into his arms.

He rocked her against him as if he would never let her go. The four years of separation were over. Four years of not knowing if she was still alive. Four years of not knowing if he would ever see her again.

‘I’ve got permission from the British authorities for us to marry,’ he said, his mouth close against her hair. ‘But we have to marry in Berlin.’

She released her hold on him fractionally enough to be able to look up into his face. ‘Of course we’ll marry in Berlin,’ she said, her arms around his neck, her face radiant. ‘I’m a Berliner. Even though the city is in ruins, there’s nowhere else I’d rather be married.’

‘I love you, Monkeyface,’ he said fiercely in the seconds before his mouth came down on hers. ‘I always have. I always will.’

With a deep, rapturous sigh her mouth parted, her tongue sliding past his.

It was a long, long time before either of them spoke again–and it was an even longer time before Chuck Gleeson tapped queryingly on the door bearing his name.

In the days before their wedding, Max traced Claus’s whereabouts. He was being held by the British pending transfer to Frankfurt, where it was intended he would be held until his trial, the charge against him that of having plundered and exploited the occupied countries and of having enslaved their citizens.

‘In simple English, he’s accused of using slave labour,’ Max had said to Hester. ‘Because of the circumstances of his use of slave labour—because of your testimony and the testimony of the German Jews and the Russians who worked for him—it’s a charge that isn’t going to stick. He’s going to have to remain in custody, though, until all the evidence has been presented.’

‘You’re sure he won’t be found guilty?’ she’d asked urgently. ‘You’re quite, quite sure?’