Blame It on Paris (7 page)

Her mom babbled on for a while, as if calling from Paris were as cheap as calling from next door, but eventually she wound down. “Okay, your turn. I can't wait to hear how Paris is, what's going on…”

Kelly may have misled her mom about the reason for the Paris trip, but there was no way she could hide her current mess, so she spilled. She made as light of the mugger business as possible and clearly outlined what she needed from her mom—faxing the passport copy, to where, how, wiring money, where and how much, the whole complicated rigmarole. “I
hate
asking you to do all this junk, Mom, but—”

“Don't be silly, you goose. I'm so glad you're all right. The rest of this is just details, and as soon as I hang up, I'll start getting it all cooking….” Her mother hesitated, her whole tone changing. “You know, nothing like this would have happened if you'd waited for Jason to make the trip with you.”

Just hearing Jason's name put a fresh nail of guilt in Kelly's coffin of a conscience. She sucked down another sip of strong coffee. “Jason didn't have the time off right now, and I did. Besides which, he never wanted to go to Europe.”

“So why go at all then? I never did understand why you were so insistent on this trip. Spending money you could have put into the apartment. Or your lives together.” Char sighed, then switched gears, both of them well aware they'd already argued about this several times and had gotten nowhere. “Jason's mother called me. We're going dress shopping together next week. Neither of us can make up our minds whether we want to go short or long, or what colors, and we don't want to clash, so we figured going together would be fun….”

Another nail of guilt stabbed Kelly. “Mom…don't you think you're rushing it? We exchanged rings. But we haven't even talked about setting a sure date—”

“I know, sweetie. But you've known each other forever. And Gaynelle and I have been talking—behind your backs, of course—for years. We're just having fun—”

“Mom,
wait
.”

Finally her mother seemed to hear the serious note in her voice. But when Kelly tried to talk, her throat seemed stuffed with cotton wool. She could hardly get the words out. “Mom, would it kill you if I changed my mind? About marrying Jason. About—”

Her mom laughed before she could even finish the thought. “Oh, honey, I've been waiting for the jitters to hit you. I'd have been amazed if they didn't. Sweetheart, you've loved that boy and he's loved you since you were in third grade. Weddings are just nerve-racking, that's all. Don't be scared if you get a few panic attacks. Every bride has them. You're going to look so gorgeous.”

Kelly sank into a corner of the couch, rubbing her forehead. Her mom was on a tear. It'd be easier for Congress to reform health care than get a word in edgewise for quite a while.

“…and your Aunt Willa was talking about getting you an Oriental carpet. Wouldn't that be a fabulous wedding present? And Susanna called me again. She's still scandalized that you two have already found an apartment together. I told her, get a life, what century was she living in, anyway…”

By the time the call ended, Kelly's mug was sitting cold and her stomach was kneading guilt into lumps like bread dough. Will's face flashed into her mind. She replayed his face, their lovemaking, this crazy, wild encounter she seemed to be having.

Her life—her real life in South Bend—all came back at the sound of her mother's voice.

In
real
life, she couldn't possibly be sleeping with a stranger. The
real
Kelly Rochard could never be in this apartment. Couldn't possibly have turned into a brazen, lusty, amoral hussy, much less with a stranger.

Only she had done all those things.

She wanted to look in a mirror and see if she recognized the face, because she no longer seemed to be Kelly Rochard. She wasn't sure what woman had suddenly taken up residence in her body, or where the totally responsible, serious Kelly had gone. She felt angry with herself. Ashamed. Confused.

Yet when she thought it would have been so much better if she'd never come to Paris, never met Will…

Her heart clunked as if a mountain had crushed it.

Maybe she was being terribly, terribly selfish, but she couldn't regret a single moment with Will. Couldn't give him up. Not now. Not yet.

And before she could further tangle herself up, going down that impossible emotional road a minute longer, she rose from the couch, figuring on getting dressed and taking off. Then she stopped, sucked in a breath and dialed Jason.

She didn't really want to talk to him, didn't want to pursue any kind of serious conversation with him on the phone. But if she didn't call, he'd worry and start wondering why she hadn't called. And since she was already miserable, she figured another heap of guilt couldn't make any difference.

Jason should have been home from work by about then, yet his voice mail kicked in after four rings. She left a message that she was fine, hoped he was, and she'd catch up with him soon.

All right, she told herself, that was enough trauma for one morning. Instead of driving herself crazy, she had a new plan. To visit her father's old address, the whole reason she'd come to Paris to begin with. And yeah, of course she had the whole mugger mess to work on. Her mom was faxing copies of her ID records to the consulate, then wiring money to the bank Will had suggested. But one way or another, she was going to make something positive of this day.

As she pulled on pants and walking shoes and a cream hoodie, it struck her as mighty ironic that the loss of identity was a double whammy. The mugger may have stolen her paperwork ID, but the identity she'd really lost had nothing to do with paperwork.

Hopefully finding out something about her father would help her with that.

Will's phone rang just as she was chasing out the door. It was Will.

“I told you I'd check in. You haven't been mugged in the past hour, have you? No more crises? No more questions? You know where you're going, how to get there? I left you enough money?”

It was flabbergasting. How the sound of his voice sent a sizzle straight to her nerve endings.

In one second, she was a guilt-ridden, ashamed, responsible young woman who'd grown up on the straight and narrow.

And the next she turned into a sappy marshmallow, smiling at the sunshine, high from the inside out. “Will,” she said, not wasting time answering any of his ridiculous questions. “You're a wicked, dangerous man. Did I remember to tell you that this morning?”

So she left the place, humming, skipping down the boulevard, high as the spring breeze. Yes, of course, she had to deal with the extremely serious chaos she'd thrown herself into. But temporarily, she focused her attention on Will.

He wasn't lost, the way she was.

But he had twists and secrets in his personality, too. All the big money in his family, yet his denial of it. His claim of being lazy, when his place was neat to a fault. His claim of being irresponsible, when he'd stepped up to take care of a complete stranger—and an incorrigibly nosy stranger, besides.

Why
was
he living here instead of home? And how come there wasn't already a woman in his life? Parisian women couldn't all be crazy.

Not that his love life was any of her business, of course. Nor were his family or career, for that matter.

She wouldn't interfere for the world.

 

I
T HAD BEEN
a long day and looked to be turning into an even longer night, Will thought. The waiter had just brought the wine and left menus when Kelly started in. “So…what's the real story? Why are you living here instead of back home?”

Will wanted to shake his head. She looked so sultry and sexy, in slinky black slacks and a red silky top, something kohl-dark on her eyes and something shiny sex-red on her mouth. Nothing about her resembled an elephant, but damned if she didn't have a memory like one.

“You remembered that question from early this morning?” he asked in disbelief.

“Of course. And we've been talking about me nonstop. I'm sick of me. It's your turn.”

It was true he'd grilled her on her paper situation from the minute he got home from work. Nothing miraculously fast had happened, but she should have her own cash by tomorrow, which was exactly how she'd talked him into going out to dinner, as payback for his being so good to her.

Of course it was on his tab, but she ardently promised that she'd be paying back every dime. And in the meantime, she'd pored through her tourist books and come up with a list of restaurants.

He'd tried to talk her out of that list. He'd specifically tried to talk her out of this one, but she had heart set on it. The name was L'Alivi, a restaurant famous for its interesting decor and Corsican cuisine. It
was
good. But the food definitely wasn't for every taste. When he caught her reading the menu with a sudden frown, he said, “I tried to warn you.”

She flashed those brown eyes up at him again. “Warn me about what?”

“This place. The guidebooks never tell you the whole story. I'm pretty sure you're not going to be happy.”

“Hey. I'm not remotely fussy. I can eat anything. I'm just having a little trouble reading the menu.” Then, like a hound who couldn't quit worrying a bone, she went for a perky tone. “So, what's the
real
deal on your doing the expatriate thing?”

She'd planned this, he thought. Not the restaurant. The inquisition. She'd planned it when she put on that red top and the slinky slacks. The top, she'd worn braless. He hadn't been initially aware of that until they'd got here. Someone had decided to keep the restaurant around thirty degrees. Her nipples were puckered up like bitsy soldiers standing at attention.

“I'll tell you what,” he said. “I'll answer the questions. But let's order first. I'm starving. Okay?”

“Sure…” Again, her gaze dropped to the menu. Again, she frowned. When she glanced up again, Will promptly jerked his attention from her frozen nipples to her face.

She wasn't fooled. “Be good,” she scolded.

“I
am
being good. At least until after dinner.”

“Well, dinner's exactly the issue. I thought I wouldn't have any trouble translating food words, but apparently—” she motioned “—I just have to be wrong about this. I mean sardines? Fresh sardines?” She started to laugh, then looked at his face.

“Fresh sardines with fennel.”

“So I was translating it correctly.”

“Afraid so.”

“Really. Oh, well.” She gulped, looked again and let out another short, uneasy laugh. “Okay, I have to admit my school French is turning out to be useless, but on the second line down, they couldn't
really
mean pigeons stuffed with figs, could they?”

“Afraid so.”

“Pigeons? They'd kill pigeons? I mean…pigeons coo. And they walk right up to you in a park. They make a mess, I know, but they're so sweet and friendly. I can't even imagine anyone killing pigeons to
eat.
”

He sighed. “We're not going to end up eating here, are we?”

She had another restaurant on her list. It was one more place Will tried to talk her out of, but not for long. The more time they spent together, the more he got the big picture. Kelly had the memory of an elephant, the stubbornness of a hound and the absolute capriciousness of a woman.

“I
have
to prove to you that I'm not a fussy eater now,” she insisted. “Normally I really can eat anything. I love to experiment and try new stuff. Honest!”

Uh-huh. This round, they got as far as the outside of the restaurant, where a menu was posted in the window. She looked at it for a long time, while she stood there shivering in spite of his jacket around her shoulders.

“It's a very famous restaurant,” she began.

“Uh-huh.”

“The food is undoubtedly fabulous. It's listed in every single guidebook.”

“Uh-huh.”

She sighed. “It's the black,” she admitted in a small voice. “It just seems…unappetizing…for all the food choices to be black.”

“Is it the black truffle pizza that got to you or the black hors d'oeuvre plate?”

“Both.”

He grinned, tucked her inside his shoulder and said, “My turn to pick. You're out of votes.”

She'd forgotten about the personal questions, he thought. But God knows that didn't mean she'd run out of conversation.

“I don't quite get the difference between a bistro and a brasserie.”

“Well, a bistro's just a little restaurant. Usually it's owned by a family, and a bistro tends to serve regular meals, you know, lunch, dinner. But
brasserie
is the French word for brewery. You can usually get some kind of food in a brasserie, but it's a guarantee they'll serve beer and wine. And both kinds of places are informal.”