Confessions in the Dark (29 page)

Jeanette Grey started out with degrees in physics and painting, which she dutifully applied to stunted careers in teaching, technical support, and advertising. When she isn't writing, Jeanette enjoys making pottery, playing board games, and spending time with her husband and her pet frog. She lives, loves, and writes in upstate New York.

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I
t was ridiculous, how pretty words sounded on Kate's tongue. Right up until the moment she opened her mouth and spoke them aloud.

Worrying the strap of her bag between her forefinger and thumb, she gazed straight ahead at the woman behind the register, repeating the phrase over and over in her head.
Un café au lait, s'il vous plaît.
Coffee with milk, please. No problem. She had this. The person ahead of her in line stepped forward, and Kate nodded to herself, standing up taller. When her turn finally came, she grinned with her most confident smile.

And just about had the wind knocked out of her when someone slammed into her side.

Swearing out loud as she was spun around, she put her arm out to catch herself. A pimply teenager was mumbling what sounded like elaborate apologies, but with her evaporating tenth-grade knowledge of French, he could have been telling
her
off for running into
him
, for all she knew. She was going to choose to believe it was the apologizing thing.

Embarrassed, she waved the kid away, gesturing as best she could to show that she was fine. As he gave one last attempt at mollifying her, she glanced around. A shockingly attractive guy with dark hair and the kind of jaw that drove women to paint stood behind her, perusing a French-language newspaper with apparent disinterest and a furrow of impatience on his brow. The rest of the people in line wore similar expressions.

She turned from the kid, giving him her best New Yorker cold shoulder. The lady at the register, at least, didn't seem to be in any big rush. Kate managed a quick “Désolé”—
sorry
—as she moved forward to rest her hands on the counter. She could do this. She smiled again, focusing to try to summon the words she'd practiced to her lips. “Un café au lait, s'il vous plaît.”

Nope, not nearly as pretty as it had sounded in her head, but as she held her breath, the woman nodded and keyed her order in, calling it out to the girl manning the espresso machine. Then, completely in French, the woman announced Kate's total.

Yes.
It was all she could do not to fist-pump the air. She'd been exploring Paris now for two days, and no matter how hard she rehearsed what she was going to say, waiters and waitresses and shopkeepers invariably sniffed her out as an American the instant she opened her mouth. Every one of them had shifted into English to reply.

This woman was probably humoring her, but Kate seized her opportunity, turning the gears in her brain with all her might. She counted in her head the way her high school teacher had taught her to until she'd translated every digit. Three eighty-five. Triumph surged through her as she reached for her purse at her hip.

Only to come up with empty air.

Oh no. With a sense of impending dread, she scrabbled at her shoulder, and her waist, but no. Her bag was gone.

She groaned aloud. How many people had cautioned her about exactly this kind of thing? Paris was full of pickpockets. That was what her mother and Aaron and even the guy at the travel store had told her. An angry laugh bubbled up at the back of her throat, an echo of her father's voice in her mind, yelling at her to be more careful, for God's sake. Pay some damn attention. Crap. It was just— She swore she'd had her purse a second ago. Right before that kid had slammed into her…

Her skin went cold. Of course. The kid who'd slammed into her.

Tears prickled at her eyes. She had no idea how to say all of that in French. Her plans for a quiet afternoon spent sketching in a café evaporated as she patted herself down yet again in the vain hope that somehow, magically, her things would have reappeared.

The thing was, “watch out for pickpockets” wasn't the only advice she'd gotten before she'd left. Everyone she'd told had thought her grand idea of a trip to Paris to find herself and get inspired was insane. It was her first trip abroad, and it was eating up pretty much all of her savings. Worse, she'd insisted on making the journey alone, because how was a girl supposed to reconnect with her own muse unless she spent some good quality time with it? Free from distractions and outside influences. Surrounded by art and history and a beautiful language she barely spoke. It had seemed like a good idea. Like the perfect chance to make some really big decisions.

But maybe they'd all been right.

Not wanting to reveal the security wallet she had strapped around her waist beneath her shirt, she wrote off all her plans for the day. She'd just head back to the hostel. She still had her passport and most of her money. She'd regroup, and she'd be fine.

“Mademoiselle?”

Her vision was blurry as she jerked her gaze up. And up. The gorgeous man—the one with the dark, tousled hair and the glass-cutting jaw from before—was standing right beside her, warm hand gently brushing her elbow. A frisson of electricity hummed through her skin. Had he really been this tall before? Had his shoulders been that broad? It was just a plain black button-down, but her gaze got stuck on the drape of his shirt across his chest, hinting at miles of muscle underneath.

His brow furrowed, two soft lines appearing between brilliant blue eyes.

She shook off her daze and cleared her throat. “Pardon?” she asked, lilting her voice up at the end in her best—still terrible—attempt at a French accent.

He smiled, and her vision almost whited out. In perfect English, with maybe just a hint of New York coloring the edges, he asked, “Are you okay?”

All those times she'd been annoyed when someone spoke English to her. At that moment, she could have kissed him, right on those full, smooth lips. Her face went warmer at the thought. “No. I—” She patted her side again uselessly. “I think that guy ran off with my wallet.”

His expression darkened, but he didn't step away or chastise her for being so careless. “I'm sorry.”

The woman at the register spoke up, her accent muddy. “You still would like your coffee?”

Kate began to decline, but the man placed a ten-euro note on the counter. In a flurry of French too fast for her to understand, he replied to the woman, who took his money and pressed a half dozen keys. She dropped a couple of coins into his palm, then looked around them toward the next customer in line.

“Um,” Kate started.

Shifting his hand from her elbow to the small of her back, the man guided Kate toward the end of the counter and out of the way. It was too intimate a touch. She should have drawn away, but before she could convince herself to, he dropped his arm, turning to face her. Leaving a cold spot where his palm had been.

She worked her jaw a couple of times. “Did you just pay for my coffee?” She might be terrible at French, but she was passable at context clues.

Grinning crookedly, he looked down at her. “You're welcome.”

“You really didn't need to.”

“Au contraire.” His brow arched. “Believe me, when you're having a terrible day, the absolute last thing you should be doing is
not
having coffee.”

Well, he did have a point there. “I still have some money. I can pay you back.”

“No need.”

“No, really.” Her earlier reservations gone, she reached for the hem of her shirt to tug it upward, but his hands caught hers before she could get at her money belt.

His eyes were darker now, his fingertips warm. “As much as I hate to stop a beautiful woman from taking off her clothes. It's not necessary.”

Was he implying…? No, he couldn't be. She couldn't halt the indignation rising in her throat, though, as she brushed aside his hands and wrestled the hem of her top down. “Stripping is
not
how I was going to pay you.”

“Pity. Probably for the best,” he added conspiratorially. “The police are much more lenient about that kind of thing here than they are in the States, but still. Risky move.”

Two ceramic mugs clinked as they hit the counter, and the barista said something too quickly for Kate to catch.

“Merci,” the man said, tucking his paper under his arm and reaching for the cups.

For some reason, Kate had to put in one more little protest before she moved to grab for the one that looked like hers. “You really didn't have to.”

“Of course I didn't.” Biceps flexing, he pulled both cups in closer to his chest, keeping them out of her reach as she extended her hand. “But it sure did make it easier for me to ask if I could buy you a cup of coffee, didn't it?”

For a second, she boggled.

“Come on, then,” he said, heading toward an empty table by the window.

This really, really wasn't what she'd had planned for the day. But as he sat down, his face was cast in profile against the light streaming in from outside. If she hadn't lost her bag, she'd have been tempted to take her sketchbook out right then and there, just to try to map the angles of his cheeks.

As she stood there staring, all her mother's warnings came back to her in a rush. This guy was too smooth. Too practiced and too handsome, and the whole situation had
Bad Idea
written all over it. After the disaster that had been her last attempt at dating, she should know.

But the fact was, she really wanted that cup of coffee. And maybe the chance to make a few more mental studies of his jaw. It wouldn't even be that hard. All she had to do was walk over there and sit down across from him. Except…

Except she didn't
do
this sort of thing.

Which might be exactly why she should.

Fretting, she twisted her fingers in the fabric of her skirt. Then she took a single step forward. She was on vacation, dammit all, and this guy was offering. After everything, she deserved a minute to let go. To maybe actually enjoy herself for once.

Honestly. How much harm could a little conversation with a stranger really do?

Rylan Bellamy had a short, well-tested list of rules for picking up a tourist.

Number one, be trustworthy. Nonthreatening. Tourists were constantly expecting to be taken advantage of.

Number two, be clear about your intentions. No time to mess around when they could fuck off to another country at the drop of the hat.

Number three, make sure they always know they have a choice.

Lifting his cappuccino to his lips, he gazed out the window of the café. It hadn't exactly been the plan to buy the girl in front of him in line a cup of coffee or to pick her up. It
definitely
hadn't been the plan to get so engrossed in the business section of
Le Monde
that he'd managed to completely miss her getting pickpocketed right in front of him. But the whole thing had presented him with quite the set of opportunities.

Trustworthy? Stepping in when she looked about ready to lose it seemed like a good start there. Interceding on her behalf in both English and French were bonuses, too. Paying for her coffee had been a natural after that.

Clear about his intentions? He was still working on that, but he'd been tactile enough. Had gotten into her space and brushed his hands over her skin. Such soft skin, too. Pretty, delicate little hands, stained with ink on the tips.

Just like her pretty, pale face was stained with those big, dark eyes. Those rose-colored lips.

He shifted in his seat, resisting looking over at her for another minute. The third part about making sure this was all her choice was necessary but frustrating. If she didn't come over here of her own free will, she'd never come to his apartment, either, or to his bed. He'd laid down his gauntlet. She could pick it up right now, or she could walk away.

Damn, he hoped she didn't walk away. Giving himself to the count of thirty to keep on playing it cool, he set his cup back down on its saucer. Part of him worried she'd already made a break for it, but no. There was something about her gaze. Hot and penetrating, and he could feel it zoning in on him through the space.

He rather liked that, when he thought about it. Being looked at was nice. As was being appreciated. Sized up. It'd make it all the sweeter once she came to her decision, presuming she chose him.

Bingo.

Things were noisy in the café, but enough of his senses were trained on her that he could make out the sounds of her approach. He paused his counting at thirteen and glanced over at her.

If there'd been any doubts that she was a tourist, they cleared away as he took her in more thoroughly. She wore a pair of purple Converse that all but screamed
American
, and a dark skirt that went to her knees. A plain gray T-shirt and a little canvas jacket. No scarves or belts or any of the other hundred accessories that were so popular among the Parisian ladies this year. Her auburn hair was swept into a twist.

Pretty. American. Repressed. But very, very pretty.

“Your coffee's getting cold,” he said as he pushed it across the table toward her and kicked her chair out.

A hundred retorts danced across her lips, but somehow her silence—and her wickedly crooked eyebrow, her considering gaze—said more. She sat down, legs crossed primly, her whole body perched at the very edge of her seat, like she was ready to fly at any moment.

He didn't usually go in for skittish birds. They were too much work, considering how briefly they landed in his nest. He'd already started with this one, though, and there was something about her mouth he liked. Something about her whole aura of innocence and bravery. It was worth the price of a cup of coffee at the very least.

She curled a finger around the handle of her cup and tapped at it with her thumb. Wariness came off her in waves.

“I didn't lace it with anything,” he assured her.

“I know. I've been watching you the whole time.”

He'd been entirely aware of that, thank you very much. He appreciated the honesty, regardless. “Then what's your hesitation? It's already bought and paid for. If you don't drink it, it's going to go to waste.”

She seemed to turn that over in her mind for a moment before reaching for the sugar and adding a more than healthy amount. She gave it a quick stir, then picked it up and took a sip.