Blame It on Paris. Jennifer Greene

that kind of gut-level trust, had known each other forever. He’d gone to sleep wanting her again. Woken up wanting her. Found her hiding behind the couch and suffered yet another hard-on just looking at her.

      Given her cover-up clothes and shyness now, though, she clearly didn’t feel the same. Either he’d flunked in her bed-scoring class, or…or…or hell, he didn’t know what.

      “You need coffee,” he said, hoping to ward off conversation. Particularly the kind of conversation that was going to be some kind of rehash of what last night had meant.

      “I need to call my mother again.”

      “I know you do. You’ve got a whole list of have-to’s waiting for you. But it’s the weekend. Hopefully you’re going to reach your mom, get the paperwork going, get some money. Maybe we can even pick up the police report. But unless someone who’s worth a few billion is dying, the embassy and consulate will be closed tighter than a drum until Monday. So you might as well have some coffee. Some breakfast. And after that…”

      “After that what?” she asked, as warily as a rabbit in a fox’s lair.

      “After that, we might as well do more Paris.”

      He didn’t exactly have a plan, other than knowing she had to get the stolen-passport business moving or she was going to go nuts. The other major fret on her mind was her mom. Will pretty easily pictured her mother as an independent type, who could easily have shot off to see a friend or do a shopping spree for a couple of days, because Kelly kept saying there was no reason to worry just because her mother hadn’t answered her messages; sooner or later her mom would call back. The lack of response meant, though, that Kelly was still dead broke, still financially dependent on him.

      And that was killing her. Will tried to keep up a hustling pace to get her mind off it, but initially they only ran into more frustration instead of less. Their first stop was the specific commissariat—the police station. There, of course, the bureaucratic bullshit began. In order to obtain the required récépissé de déclaration de perte ou de vol—proof she’d been through a theft—she had to get two separate sets of receipts. One was for the passport papers, and one for any other type of stolen valuables. Everywhere there were lines.

      Because Will knew the system, he figured he’d stay cool, but by noon he was coming apart at the seams, like Kelly was. The solution was obvious. Get the hell out of Dodge. By midday Saturday, there was no real chance of getting business done anyway, so there was no reason not to aim for some fun.

      He picked Île de la Cité first. The island, located in the middle of the Seine, was sardine packed with history and monuments, a guaranteed attraction for tourists. Hell, even the locals loved it. So did he.

      It seemed the ideal place to get her out in the fresh air, removed from everything to do with the trauma of the mugger—and whatever else was haunting those wet-velvet brown eyes.

      That was the theory.

      The reality turned into something else. Getting her out in the fresh air pepped her up just fine. Only then she opened her mouth and never shut it again.

      “I’m sick of thinking about me, talking about me. God knows, it’s your turn. What’s your job, Will? Why’d you end up in Paris? You’re not planning on living here forever, are you?”

      That nasty line of conversation started when they were in sight of the Notre Dame Cathedral. He’d figured it was the one place guaranteed to brighten up her mood…and it did. Only after thirty seconds of awed, respectful silence, she turned her attention right back to him, waiting for a barrage of answers to her endless questions.

      He could only duck so far. “Fromage,” he said finally.

      “Fromage?” From the depths of her schoolgirl French, she suddenly remembered the word. “Cheese? Your job here is about cheese? Are you kidding?”

      He sighed. “It’s hard to explain.”

      “Why? What’s hard to explain about cheese?”

      The drizzling rain had stopped. A watery sun poked through the tufty clouds. Tourists, as always, were out in droves. It was spring, after all. Paris. And Île de la Cité had more old stone and romantic history than anyplace in the universe. She should have been entranced. They should not have been talking about cheese.

      “I came here originally to…well, to loll around. Play. Live my life. The idea was to take any job I could find that would support me, but otherwise, I wasn’t looking for career work. There’s no way I’ll ever be driven the way my father is. I’m not about to be chained to an office or living just for money.”

      She stopped dead, as if a lightbulb suddenly dawned in those far-too-smart brown eyes. “Oh my God, oh my God. Will…I know you said your last name was Maguire, but you’re not…” She gulped. “You’re not one of those Maguires, are you?”

      “Don’t go there,” he warned her.

      “Holy mackerel. You’re Aaron Maguire’s son? Good grief. Good heavens. Your family’s practically a dynasty in South Bend. Everybody knows they’re wallowing in money. Practically drowning in it.” She hustled in front of him on the sidewalk, walking backward to look into his face. “I’ll be darned. I’ve seen his picture a zillion times in the paper. You look just like him, except that he’s tall and distinguished, of course. Where you’re more on the plain old adorable side.”

      He rolled his eyes, than yanked her next to his side. Walking backward, she was creating an obvious hazard for the other pedestrians, not to mention herself. French drivers knew no mercy. Especially for Americans.

      “Could you focus on the important stuff here? We just passed the Palais de Justice. Couple blocks down, we’ll be at Saint-Michel, and after that we’ll be standing in line to get into Notre Dame like every other idiot tourist in the city. Notre Dame. The real thing. You’re supposed to be thrilled.”

      “I will be. In just a sec. I’m still having a heart attack over your family. I think you should tell a girl before you sleep with her when you’re part of a dynasty like that.”

      This time he narrowed his eyes. Give the girl a little sleep, and she was all sass and sparkle. He hooked an arm around her neck, and it wasn’t an affectionate gesture. “You know, you’re not the only one who gets to be nosy. It’s about time you answered a few questions yourself. Like how you hinted that you weren’t in Paris just for a vacation.”

      “I wasn’t hinting. There’s no secret.” She didn’t seem to mind the stranglehold he had on her neck. At least she wasn’t trying to break free from it. “Actually, I guess there is a little secret, because I didn’t tell anyone back home what I was doing. But that was because it was no one’s business. I came here on kind of a private quest. I wanted to find some information about my father.”

      Now there was a word guaranteed to stop him dead. “Oh. Fathers.”

      “Yeah, it wasn’t hard to guess we both had father issues…but in my case, it’s because I never knew my dad. He was French. From Paris. And he died when my mom was pregnant with me. So I never knew him or had a chance to know anything about him. That’s just the way it was.” Tears suddenly glistened in her eyes. “That was partly why the mugger upset me so much. I had some old letters in that purse, letters he’d written my mom way back when….”

      Hell. He loosened the grip on her neck. She was still talking. He’d figured out that when she started, it was like trying to plug a dike. Better not count on the flow stopping anytime soon.

      “Years ago, my mom threw out the letters when she married someone else. A man named George. That marriage only lasted a few years—but anyway, I was just a kid, saw her throwing out the letters and I saved them from the trash. There were only a few, but they were all I had of my dad’s. And on the envelopes, they had a return address, from where he grew up in Paris.”

      The little glisten in her eyes was one thing, but now a big, fat tear