Susan Johnson Read Free

you.” And with a nod of his head he turned and left. That should satisfy Bonnay, he thought, striding back to his office.
    It was well after midnight. Only Duras and Bonnay were left at headquarters when a guard rushed into the maproom, apologizing and stammering, obviously agitated, his broken phrases finally merging into a decipherable account.
    The Countess Gonchanka, it seemed, was in Duras’s bedroom accosting General Korsakov’s wife.
    Swearing, Duras decided Natalie must be his penance for his multitudinous sins and then, breaking into the guard’s disordered recital, briskly said, “Thank you, Corporal. Bonnay and I will take care of it.”
    “Why me?” Bonnay instantly protested.
    “Because I’m ordering you to,” Duras said with mock severity, “and I can’t handle two women at once.”
    “Rumor suggests otherwise,” his subordinate ironically murmured.
    “Not, however, tonight,” Duras crisply retorted. “Now move.”
    The noise emanating from the burgomaster’s second-floor rooms facing the street had drawn a crowd and ribald comments greeted Duras and Bonnay as they approached at a run.
    “The show’s over,” Duras said, sprinting through the parting throng.
    “Or just beginning, General,” a cheerful voice retorted.
    “Everyone back to quarters,” Bonnay shouted.
    “He wants them all to himself,” another voice called out and the crowd roared with laughter.
    “That’s an order, men.” Andre Duras spoke in a normal tone from the porch rail. “Back to quarters.”
    The laughter instantly died away and the troopers began dispersing.
    “I hope the ladies obey as easily,” Bonnay drolly said, motioning Duras before him into the house.
    “Wishful thinking with Natalie,” Duras replied.
    Moments later at the sound of the men entering the bedroom, Countess Gonchanka turned from her prey. “Damn you, Andre!” she screamed, hurling the bronze statuette intended for Korsakov’s wife at him. “Damn your blackguard soul!”
    Swiftly ducking, Duras avoided being impaled by the upraised arms of a Grecian Victory and lunged for Natalie’s hands before she could gather fresh ammunition. He caught her wrists in a steely grip. “Behave yourself, Natalie,” he brusquely ordered.
    “So you can’t have dinner with me tonight,” she shrieked, fighting his grasp. “And now I know why, you bastard, you deceiving, libertine knave! You’ve someone new in your bed!”
    “Christ, Natalie, calm down. She’s a guest,” he asserted, trying to retain his hold as she struggled in his hands.
    “I know all about your guests,” she hissed, twisting and turning, attempting to knee him in the groin. “There’re always new ones in your bed, aren’t there?”
    “That’s enough, Natalie,” he snapped, forcing her toward the door. “Bonnay will see you home.” The Countess Gonchanka had overstepped even his lax sense of propriety tonight. He abhorred scenes.
    “So you can sleep with Korsakov’s wife undisturbed!” she screeched.
    “No, so everyone can get a night’s rest,” he answered with great restraint, his temper barely in check. And transferring his charge to Bonnay’s hands, he watched the Russian countess who’d entertained him so pleasantly the last few months escorted out of his life. He’d see that she was on the road back to Paris in the morning.
    “Did she hurt you?” he inquired, turning back to Korsakov’s wife, who’d found shelter behind a semainier.
    “Does this happen often to you?” she pleasantly said, emerging from her burled-walnut barricade.
    “No, never,” he acerbically retorted. “You’re fine, I see.” Immediately after he uttered the words, he realized he shouldn’t have verbalized his thoughts. But her slender form couldn’t be ignored; it was blatantly visible through the sheer batiste of her gown.
    “Yes, I am.” Her voice was amiable, not seductive, and the odd disparity between her sensuous appeal and her frank response suddenly intrigued