Blame It On Paris

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.

IT 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.'

He ushered her into his choice-Le Petit Saint-Benoit, in the Saint Germain. It was distinctly a French place, not so touristy, more a place that the locals guarded for themselves. It was a night spot, with a good share of tables set up outside, even though it was ball-bustingly chilly by then. Still, the decor inside was from the thirties, and the food was basic French, which meant damn good if not outright fabulous. They had all the basics. Shellfish. Good wines. Filet mignon so tender it could melt in your mouth.

'All day, everywhere I went, the women were wearing scarves,' Kelly, who'd already proved she could talk and look at everything in sight at the same time, noted. 'And what really irritates me is that they all know how to tie the scarves to look really chic. I mean, the real chic, not the cliche chic. I stick out like a sore thumb, don't I?'

'Sore thumb, no. Uniquely attractive woman, yes.'

'You don't have to butter me up. We're already sleeping together. And I meant, I stick out because I look like an American. Not like a Frenchwoman.'

He started to loosen his tie, then remembered he didn't have one on. It was the question that was constricting his airflow. 'I don't know. Would that be a good thing or a bad thing?'

She chuckled and pointed a shrimp at him. 'Are you afraid to answer the question, Maguire?'

'Of course I'm afraid. When women ask certain questions, a guy tends to feel like he's stepped in cow manure. No matter what he answers, he's gonna be in trouble.'

'But you're not going to step in cow manure if you tell me what the big deal is about your living in Paris. I