“Well?” Stefan asked, pushing his emptied bowl away. “How was work, then? Once you were suitably warm.”

She set down her spoon as well, her appetite quickly leaving her. “Oh, the usual. This province upset we haven’t set aside enough rations for them, that politician running out of excuses to give the Americans.”

“Such a precarious position you occupy,” Stefan said. “You must still be friendly with our enemies, even as they snatch at lands that have willingly joined the Third Reich.”

“Well, it’s that damned de Gaulle, running his mouth on the radio.” She batted her lashes. “Or so I’ve heard.”

Stefan leaned over the table, and one hand fell on top of hers. He’d removed the buttery leather gloves, leaving only rough, caustic skin as it closed possessively over hers. His hands were always so dry. They had to be, she supposed. How many times a day did he have to scrub away blood? How many electrodes had he applied that morning to some poor Frenchman’s balls? When he closed his eyes and hummed Wagner, was it to drown out the echoes of screams or to bolster them? She tried not to flinch.

“Please, my dear. Don’t play foolish with me. Some men may appreciate it, but I am not one of them.”

Evangeline’s pulse rushed in her ears. He was exactly one of those men.

“You are a beauty, it is true. But it is not only for that that I admire you.” His thumb scraped over her knuckles. “A Sorbonne woman, learning the art of diplomacy at her father’s side for all her life. Such a rare intellect is unmatched behind a face like yours, hmm?”

It wasn’t the Sorbonne, though, that had taught her what she knew. And it certainly hadn’t been her father. She let a blush rise on her cheeks; Stefan didn’t need to know the shape of the face that put it there. He didn’t need to know about the girl who’d slapped her out of her stupor and compelled her to act. And he certainly didn’t need to know how she acted—how once she’d started, she couldn’t stop.

“I must confess. While I waited for you, coffee turning colder, I couldn’t help but glance at some of the figures on your desk. It was the most curious thing, though—I could not seem to make them add up.”

Something shattered in her chest, sharp as glass. “Are you sure you were reading them right?”

The waiter arrived with their next course, roasted leg of lamb, and Stefan reluctantly drew his hand back. Evangeline’s stomach groaned at the mere smell. For all her father’s scrabbling and bowing to the occupiers, they still never got meat at home. Not anymore.