himself. The assurance did not come from the power he wielded it came from the inborn knowledge that, socially, their worlds and background were very little removed.
His family were Prussian aristocrats, a great landowning Junker family in the traditional mould. The first world war had altered their way of life but had not destroyed it. His family home had been a moated castle on the outskirts of Weimar, feudal, magnificent and unbearably cold and unsanitary. His childhood summers had been spent there, but his mother seldom moved from her lavish and comfortable apartment on the fashionable Unter den Linden. By the time Dieter was nine, he was an assured and sophisticated Berliner.
Family tradition destined the eldest son for a military education but Dieterâs father, shamed by the terms of the Versailles Treaty, appalled by the great inflation of 1923 that had made so many fortunes worthless, broke with tradition and instead of sending Dieter to a military academy, sent him instead to the most expensive and exclusive boarding school in Europe. Le Rosey, Switzerland, where his schoolmatesâblood was as royal as the Wittelsbach blood that ran in the distaff side of his family. Le Rosey had insured that no one, least of all a mere Comte and Comtesse, could make him feel their social inferior.
Though for political reasons Dieter no longer sported the aristocratic âvonâbefore his surname, it had taken the Comte only seconds to realise that his unwelcome guest was his social equal. The knowledge eased him. The Major paraded none of the usual Nazi pretentions. He was a man who, in another place, another time, he would have liked greatly. In discovering that the Major shared his passion for polo and had played on the most prestigious circuit in Germany, he had forgotten that the man was his enemy. Only the shock and accusation in his daughterâs eyes brought him back to reality.
âMajor Meyer skied at Gstaad regularly before the war,â he finished lamely as Lisette sat still and silent, her face a polite, frozen mask. âHe used to stay at the Steigenberger.â
Lisette winced. The Steigenberger, Gstaadâs most luxurious hotel, standing in chocolate-box grandeur on the south-facing slopes, had been the setting for several childhood holidays. The knowledge that Major Meyer had also frequented it tarnished her many happy memories. Her fatherâs eyes were pleading. He needed her co-operation. Perhaps he had not yet gained Major Meyerâs permission to engage Marieâs ânieceâas cook.
She turned her head slowly towards the Major, her heart beating fast and furious. âHow nice,â she said politely, but the words did not come out cool and indifferent as she had intended. Her voice seemed to be filled with smoke and there was an underlying throb to it that would not be stifled.
He had resolved not to take the slightest notice of her. She was too disturbing. Too innocently provocative. A pine log fell and splintered, sending a flurry of sparks up the great chimney, filling the room with pungent scent. Her remark scarcely warranted a comment. With an imperceptible shrug of his shoulders he turned to her, about to make some meaningless rejoinder. His eyes met hers and desire sliced through him so naked and primeval that it almost robbed him of breath.
Her hair fell in one long smooth wave to her shoulders, pushed away from her face on one side with an ivory comb. Her eyes were violet dark in the pale perfection of her face, thick-lashed pools that drew him down and down, robbing him of logic and common sense. The high-necked sweater and country tweed skirt that she habitually wore had been, discarded. Her dress was of rose-red wool, the neckline deeply, cowled, the skirt clinging gently to her hips and flaring out around her knees. Her hands were clasped in her lap, the beautiful almond-shaped nails unpolished. Her legs were crossed lightly at the ankles, long and
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