Sins of the Flesh. Fern Michaels

later from her quivering lips were harsh, guttural—the German words she’d been practicing all day: Herr Kommandant. These were magic words, she realized within seconds. She wished she’d thought of using the title on her last six unsuccessful tries at reaching Daniel Bishop in America.

      Wait, wait, wait…. That’s all they’d been doing for weeks now, hoping against hope that some miracle would remove the hateful Germans from their beloved Paris. She knew it was too late, had known it weeks before, but Philippe wanted to stay, and against her better judgment she’d agreed. If only she’d listened to her own instincts instead of giving in to her son, Henri would still be alive. Now she swayed dizzily as she heard the French operator speak to the American operator. A familiar voice—a voice from her past—came on the line, and Mickey thought she would die when she heard it. She spoke rapidly in English, knowing the line would be cut as soon as the French operator realized that she’d been tricked into putting the call through. Seconds later Mickey stared at the buzzing receiver in her hands. It looked obscene, deadly. She slammed it down and raced from the room, arriving in the kitchen breathless.

      “I got through this time,” she whispered to Yvette. “We were cut off. Thirty minutes and there will be more Gestapo here when they realize this is where the call came from. Go, go!” She turned to her son and waved him out of the room. “We have only minutes. Hurry, Philippe.”

      Silently, like thieves in the night, the trio traveled the back alleys of Paris until just before dawn, at which point they scuttled like rats into drainage ditches to sleep for a few hours.

      Their destination was the Fonsard château in Marseilles, where they would wait for the American, Daniel Bishop.

      Before she reached out to sleep, Mickey crossed herself and offered up a small prayer. “Please, dear Lord, grant this miracle I ask of You, not for myself, but for Philippe. Daniel must reach here safely so he can take Philippe to America, to his…to his mother and father.”

      Chapter One

      The night was womblike with a dense, cloudy sky hanging overhead as if suspended. Threatening, low-rolling thunder grumbled from its midst, setting Daniel Bishop’s teeth on edge. All day he’d been jittery as he ambled aimlessly around his luxurious Fire Island summer home. He knew the condition of his nerves had nothing to do with the impending summer storm. His less than happy marriage was part of it, but not the only reason for his restlessness. There was something more, something lurking just out of reach, something intangible—his sixth sense issuing a dull warning. For as far back as he could remember, he’d had these feelings of foreboding, the inexplicable conviction that something was going to happen. These were free-floating, anxious feelings, ominous and hungry, as though wanting to be fed. Fed with…what was it this time?

      Daniel opened the sliding doors impatiently. Although he could hear the ocean slapping rhythmically just a few yards away, the heat of the night was oppressive. His shirt clung to him, and everything he touched was damp. Maybe the heat had something to do with his feelings. He watched as if in a trance as lightning skittered across the sky. An appropriate end to a boring Fourth of July, he thought morosely. He was so keyed up right now, he was capable of creating his own fireworks. Rajean had cajoled him into coming to their summer place, insisting they both needed to get away from the bustle of Washington, D.C.

      “Everyone leaves the city, darling,” she’d repeated at least a hundred times. “It will be good for Cornelia. We can spend time together and not even plan out our holiday. Sort of leave it all open, maybe even picnic.”

      Daniel laughed to himself with disgust. Picnic was an alluring term—but forage was about as close as he could get to the reality. The only thing left in the kitchen remotely resembling food was a stale, damp bag of pretzels.

      He peeled his shirt away from his chest. When he let go, it restuck itself to his skin with perverse tenacity. Maybe he should go for a swim. Out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of another split-second bolt of lightning racing down into the Atlantic. No, swimming is not an option, he told himself. A drink, then. Alcohol was the one thing they always had plenty of. He’d never been more than a social drinker, preferring to keep his wits about him. He supposed it was the lawyer in him. They were so different, he and Rajean. Like night and day, Reuben would say, and Reuben should know. Not only had they been best friends forever, but Reuben was married to someone just like Rajean. Reuben…Always the voice of authority and experience. Perhaps he should have paid more attention when Reuben had advised against his marrying Rajean—but then, Reuben had ignored him when he’d issued the same advice about Bebe Rosen. A pity neither of them had corrected their mistakes early. A divorce didn’t make one a pariah anymore, and he should know; in his day he’d handled plenty of top-drawer divorces, some full of scandal and all full of bullshit.

      He’d seen his wife exactly twice during the past four days. Once she’d waltzed through the beach house to change her clothes for an afternoon cocktail party. The next time she’d put in an appearance, it was to replenish someone’s dwindling liquor supply. He hadn’t seen much of Cornelia, either, but at least his stepdaughter called and breezed through every few hours. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth at the thought of her…sweet Nellie with the sunstreaked golden hair and bottle green eyes.

      In his thoughts Nellie was always the young innocent, shy and ever so considerate. He loved her as though she were his own, and the moment he’d signed the adoption papers she truly had become his own. She was eighteen now and in September would head for California and UCLA. He was going to miss her terribly. She was as pretty as a picture, he mused, and the one thing he could never understand was why she didn’t have more friends. Every so often a horde of young people would descend upon the household for a few weeks, and then they would disappear, to be replaced months later with new faces. Once he’d asked her why she didn’t seem to have any one-on-one friendships. She’d responded blithely that she didn’t need them; she was her own best friend, she said, and would never disappoint herself the way friends did. She dated, and boys called, but he never saw the same one more than three times. After a while he didn’t mention it. If Nellie was happy, that was all that mattered.

      Nellie was late getting started in college because of an emergency appendectomy that had kept her out of school the better part of a semester. The nuns at Holy Cross felt it would be better if she stayed back a year, and he’d agreed. Now he frowned, trying to remember something one of the nuns had said about Nellie, something so totally out of character, he’d dismissed it—out of character for Nellie, that is. Nuns didn’t always know as much as they pretended to. Whatever it had been, it was so ridiculous that he’d shelved it, and now it wouldn’t surface.

      Daniel raked unsteady fingers through his sandy hair, his deep brown eyes narrowing behind his horn-rimmed glasses. Jesus, he hated humidity. He’d been thinking about Rajean before Nellie popped into his thoughts, or was it after? Christ, he couldn’t get a clear thought in his head these days no matter what he did. When Nellie left for college he was going to have to decide what to do about his empty marriage.

      He leaned on the terrace railing and gazed out toward the ocean. He could hear it, but it was shrouded by the night. The slight breeze was hot and stifling. Thunder growled. In the orphanage where he’d spent his youth, the nuns had called it God’s wrath. At an age when they were still convinced the world revolved around them, he and his friend Jake would always run and hide, certain they’d done something wrong for God to create such a tempest. He’d been fourteen before he realized, along with Jake, that it was all a trick by the nuns to get them to behave. He smiled, wondering where Jake could be now. Someday he’d run into him, he was sure of it. Hell, he had enough money to hire a detective to track him down if he wanted to. Someday…

      The usual evening sounds silenced suddenly, as though they’d scrambled into hiding. It was an eerie feeling, one Daniel didn’t like. The sky, which seemed to be hovering just beyond his reach, grew as dark as his thoughts. Within a few steps he was at the door, sliding it surely on its track and stepping safely inside. From there he watched his own reflection in the glass as the first drops of rain splattered onto the flagstone terrace.

      Daniel threw himself onto the sofa and tried to relax. It didn’t