Page 77 of Daughters of Paris

‘Which friend would this be,chérie?’ he asked.

‘My friend Sébastien,’ she said.

Laurent stiffened. Every muscle tensed, reminding Fleur of a panther about to spring.

‘Your friend Sébastien?’

‘Yes,’ Fleur confirmed, wondering if she had made a mistake and this still was not Laurent.

‘He sent you to me for help?’

‘Yes.’

Laurent sucked his teeth, then cocked his head. ‘Bring your bike to the back,’ he said.

He picked up a cloth and wiped down his arms and torso, then ran it over the back of his neck. Fleur wished she could do the same. The air inside the garage smelled of engine oil and dust. It made her eyes and nose prickle. It was far too hot.

‘Show me the problem,’ Laurent said, holding his hands out.

Fleur passed the handlebars into his hand and, as she did, Laurent covered her hands with his and held them tightly.

‘Mademoiselle, tell me how you know Sébastien.’

There was always the danger that Laurent may be Gestapo and that she was walking into a trap. But Sébastien would not have sent her into danger willingly, so if he believed this man was Resistance, Fleur was prepared to take the chance.

‘We have known each other for a few years. From the café where he works.’

He narrowed his eyes.

‘If you are from Sébastien you must have something for me to prove it. Give it to me.’

Fleur slid her hands out from beneath his, belatedly realising he was still holding them.

‘I think you should examine my bicycle.’

His eyes flickered and then he grinned. ‘Very well. Is there anywhere in particular you would like me to look?’

‘There is something wrong with the wheel,’ Fleur said. ‘I think the tyre has something caught in it.’

His eyes narrowed and he looked at her intently before his lips twitched to the side. Quite thin lips, Fleur noted, but well defined with a deep indentation at the top.

‘Very well, mademoiselle. While I look at your tyre, why don’t you make us a couple of drinks. It’s pretty hot today, don’t you agree?’

‘What should I make?’ Fleur asked.

‘How brave are you feeling?’ He gave a bold grin. ‘There is water in the tap on the wall and blackcurrant sirop in a carafe on the shelf in the back room, but personally I would like a drop of what you’ll find in that oil canister there.’ He indicated with his head to an unassuming-looking metal jerrycan.

‘Not engine oil, I assume,’ Fleur said suspiciously.

His lips twitched in amusement. ‘The glasses are there.’ He cocked his head to one of the shelves. Fleur picked up two tumblers and walked to the jerrycan. She unscrewed the cap and the smell hit her. It might as well have been petrol from the way her eyes watered.

‘How strong is it?’ she asked.

‘Strong enough to put hairs on your chest,’ Laurent called. He had bent down and begun fiddling with the tyre.

Fleur laughed. ‘What a strange expression.’

‘It was one my mother used.’ He looked over his shoulder at her. ‘Don’t worry, it is not meant literally. A chest as fine as yours would be ruined by becoming hairy.’

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