One Kiss in... Paris. Robyn Grady

le loup and cache-cache, or hide and seek. One little girl, Clairdy, stole her heart. Only five, Clairdy had white blond hair and the prettiest violet colored eyes. She never stopped chatting and singing and pirouetting. By the end of the afternoon, Bailey’s stomach ached from laughing and her palms were pink from applauding.

      For dinner they gathered in the dining hall. When Nichole said a prayer before the meal, Bailey’s awareness of her surroundings swelled again and, from beneath lowered lashes, she studied her company, particularly the man seated beside her. How amazing if she could see all the world with Mateo. Even more incredible if, in between, they could stay here together in France.

      Bailey bowed her head and laughed at herself.

       If fairy tales came true …

      After the meal, she and Mateo said good-night to the children, Madame Garnier and the others, saying they would be back the next day, then slipped outside and back into the convertible. As they drove down those same dirt ruts, Bailey searched her brain. At no time had Mateo discussed where they would be staying.

      “Have you booked a room in town?” She asked, rubbing her gloved hands, relishing the car’s heat.

      “I own a property nearby.”

      “Well, it can’t be the Palace of Versailles,” she joked, thinking of his three story mansion in Sydney. But he didn’t comment, merely smiled ahead at the country road, shrouded in shadows, stretching out ahead.

      Within minutes, Mateo pulled up in front of a farmhouse, similar to the one they’d stopped to study earlier that day. With the car’s headlights illuminating the modest stone facade, Bailey did a double take. No immaculate grounds. No ornate trimmings. This dwelling was a complete turnaround from Mateo’s regular taste.

      As Mateo opened her car door and, offering a hand, assisted her out, Bailey slowly shook her head, knocked off balance.

      “We’re staying here?”

      “You don’t like it?” he asked, as he collected their bags.

      “It’s not that. In fact …” Entranced, she moved closer. “I think it’s wonderful.” She had only one question. “Does it have electricity?”

      “And if it didn’t?”

      “Then it must have a fireplace.”

      “It does, indeed.” His smile glowed beneath a night filled with stars as they walked to the door.

      “In the bedroom?” she asked, imagining the romantic scene.

      “Uh-huh.”

      She studied his profile, so regal and strong. “You never stop surprising me.”

      At the door, he snatched a kiss. “Then we’re even.”

      A light flicked on as they moved inside and unwound from their coats. The room smelled of lavender and was clean—he must have had someone come in to tidy up—with a three seater settee, a plain, square wooden table and two rattan backed chairs. Bailey’s sweeping gaze hooked on the far wall and she let out a laugh.

      “There’s a fireplace in here too.”

      He’d disappeared into a connected room, reemerging now minus their bags. Crossing over, he stopped long enough to brush his lips over hers before continuing on and finding matches on the mantel.

      “Let’s get you warmed up.”

      Feeling warmer already, she unraveled the scarf from around her neck while taking in the faded tapestries on the walls as well as the flagstone floor, hard and solid beneath her feet. Feeling as if she’d stepped into another dimension—another time—she fell back into the settee and heeled off her shoes.

      “How long have you owned this place?”

      “I stayed here the first year,” he said, hunkering down before the fireplace. “I came back and bought it soon after.”

      She hesitated unbuttoning her outer shirt. “Eight years ago?”

      He’d struck a match. His perplexed expression danced in the flickering shadow and light as he swung his gaze her way.

      “Why so surprised?”

      “Why haven’t you pulled it down and built something more your style?”

      When his brows pinched more than before he turned and set the flame to the tinder, Bailey’s stomach muscles clenched. She wasn’t certain why, but clearly she’d insulted him. He was all about working hard to surround himself with fine things. Possessions that in some way made up for being cast off with nothing as a child. She’d have thought that here, next door to the heart of those memories, his need for material reassurance would be greatest. It was obvious from Madame’s testimony and the well-equipped state of the orphanage that Mateo wanted those children to benefit from pleasant surroundings.

      Still, whatever she’d said, she didn’t want it to overshadow the previous mood.

      “I’m sorry,” she said, curling her chilled feet up beneath her legs.

      “No need to be,” he replied, throwing the spent match on the pyre. “You’re right.”

      Finding a poker, he prodded until the flames were established and the heat had grown.

      “I had planned to build something larger,” he said, strolling back toward her. “But after I spent a few nights under this roof, I found I didn’t want to change a thing. In some ways I feel more at home here than I do in Sydney.”

      Not so odd, Bailey thought as he settled down beside her. Roots and their memories run deep.

      His gaze lowered to her hands. Holding up her wrist, he smiled. “Do you know you play with this bracelet whenever you’re uncertain?”

      Studying the gold links and charms—a teddy bear, a heart, a rainbow—she shrugged. “I didn’t know, but I guess it makes sense.”

      He rotated her wrist so that the flames caught on the gold and sent uneven beams bouncing all over the room. Bailey moved closer. The heat of his hand on her skin was enough to send some of her own sparks flying.

      “I’ve never seen you with it off your arm,” he said.

      “My mother put it together for me. A charm for each birthday.”

      Lowering her wrist, he searched her eyes.

      “Until you were fourteen?” he said. Until the year your mother died.

      “I knew about the bracelet all those years before. It was supposed to be my sweet-sixteen gift. But then Dad refused to give it to me, so …”

      “You took it anyway?”

      “No. This bracelet belonged to me but I would never have taken it without my father’s consent. When my sixteenth birthday came and went, I begged for him to give it to me. It was a connection … a link to my mother that I’d waited for all that time. He said he wasn’t certain I could look after it, but he didn’t have the right to keep it from me.”

      “He gave it to you in the end.”

      “He never really spoke to me again after that.”

      “Sounds as if you both miss her very much. You’d have a lot of memories you could share.”

      She huffed. “You tell him that.”

      “Why don’t you?”

      “He wouldn’t listen.”

      “You’ve tried?”

      “Too many times.”

      He sat back, absorbed in the crackling fire. After a time, he said, “I’d give anything to speak with my biological father.”

      “What would you say?”

      He thought for a long moment and then his