Blame It On Paris

CHAPTER FOUR

Somewhere around ten the next night, they both woke up. hungry. It wasn't the first meal Will had brought back to bed. This time he made melted cheese sandwiches, and carted them in with chips and cookies.

She laughed, knowing they were going to sleep with crumbs, not caring any more than he did. Still, something was different when she woke up this time.

It was as if. in the past twenty-four hours, she'd been Will-drugged. Still was, when he carried in the tray, buck naked. The man didn't have a modest bone in his entire long, strong, deliriously male body. But suddenly she felt different. Different enough to tuck the sheet securely under her arms. It seemed silly, when he'd obviously seen every inch of her body in exquisite, thorough detail, but somehow she felt the odd need to hide all the love bites and nuzzle marks he'd left.

He plunked down beside her and they dove into their makeshift meal. She didn't try talking until she'd devoured a second sandwich, but after that, she swiftly ducked under the sheet, pulled up his fluffy comforter and snuggled into the pillow.

"Will…" Outside, it was still pouring, lightning spearing the sky. wind howling through the cracks. "What are we going to do?"

"As soon as we're both done eating, I'm guessing we're going to sleep. You wore me out, woman."

"That's what I've been trying to grapple with. It's not possible that we've been doing this. That I've been doing this. It's seriously wrong." She recognized that her entire behavior had led him to believe otherwise. Hell's bells, her entire behavior had led her to believe otherwise, but there it was. Reality seemed to have shown up out of nowhere. Or maybe she'd finally caught a couple seconds where she wasn't sucked under by all that wicked, powerful passion.

He lowered his empty plate to the floor, switched off the lamp and eased down next to her, pillow to pillow. He didn't brush her off. He could have. Didn't roll his eyes at her sudden attack of regretful guilts, either, and for damn sure, he could have done that.

"Just for the record," he said. "I've never gone near a woman who ever took me under before. Not like this. I mean it. Ever."

"Yeah, well. It's totally my fault, not yours."

But he wasn't playing scorekeeper on the guilt record. "I don't do guilt. It's one of the best things about giving up Catholicism. Truth is, I don't think people need guilt to keep them in line anyway. Most people seem to get up every day. trying to be the best people they can be at that moment in time." He ran his fingers through her hair, looking thoughtful, as if confused how that bit of philosophy had sneaked out of him. In other ways he was being careful, like in not touching body parts. More, he was keeping in touch, with that finger-light caress. "So I don't know how to draw conclusions about what's going on with us…except to say that you and I seem to fit. To be right together. I wasn't looking for it. wasn't expecting it. But that's sure how it is. At least for me."

"For me, too." Since he was doing that finger-caress thing, she did. too. On the slope of his shoulder, gleaming in the rain-light. "In fact, that's exactly what's scaring me. What's confusing me. I've never done casual relationships. Ever. It's not possible. If you just knew me…"

No smile. But he suddenly loomed over her, an expression on his face that she'd never seen. Tenderness. And something else. Something…that invoked a soft shiver all through her.

"I do know you," he said. "I know you like this…"

And he showed her.

WILL FIGURED it had to be around three in the morning. If there was a fire, he doubted he could find the energy to move. Not that he'd say it out loud, but he'd always considered himself a good lover. Certainly he'd never had a problem with some eloquent sustaining action, so to speak.

But they'd made love how many times?

His legs were limp. His body was limp. Even willie was limp. He could have slept naked in a snowstorm. He was that wiped. His eyelids were too tired to open.

But Kelly was still talking.

"Okay," she said. "So self-discipline didn't work for us. Or denial. Or pretending this wasn't going to happen again. Or guilt. And I know you don't do guilt. Will, but I do. And it doesn't seem to make a lick of difference. I still want to be here, right here. With you."

He managed to find the energy to open one eye. "Do you have to sound so miserable?"

"I'm not miserable. That's the whole problem." She shifted on top of him. her elbows digging into his shoulders, using his body for her own personal mattress. But then she bent down and kissed him. And even though willie was wiped, even though he was too tired to breathe, he felt her soft skin from breast to tummy to thighs, layered against him. As if she had the right. As if he did.

When she lifted her head, her lips still just inches from his, she murmured, "You know what you taste like?"

"What?"

"Hot sex. Love. Wonder. Magic." She sighed. "I can feel him. You'd think he'd be tired by now."

"He is, he is."

"Yeah, right." She let out a long-suffering sigh, but there was something in her eyes. A gleam. A wickedness. The way she wiggled her hips was hardly the act of an inhibited, guilt-ridden, goody-good kind of woman. And then she took a nip out of his neck. Not a big one. Not drawing blood or anything like that. Just a nip. With her teeth, then her lips, then her tongue. She whispered, "You'd better hold on to the headboard, because I think this could be a real rough ride."

He said primly. "I don't do bondage with women I barely know."

"You'd do bondage with any woman who'd let you get away with it." she corrected him.

Well, hell, she already had his number. There was no point in fighting with her, when making love with her was so much more fun.

WHEN THE ALARM CLOCK BUZZED at seven, the word work entered Will's brain…welcomed on a par with tetanus shots, cavities, the flu. It couldn't be Monday morning. It just couldn't be.

He pried open one bleary eye. Then the other.

There seemed to be a naked woman standing in front of him. holding a steaming mug of coffee. Hazelnut. He could smell it. He lurched out of the bed, nose-first, realizing at that instant that he was hopelessly in love.

The first sip of joe confirmed it. "I can forgive a woman anything who makes outstanding coffee," he told her.

"Oh, good. Then you don't mind if I empty out your bank accounts, trash your place and decorate your living room pink?"

"You're going to still make the coffee, though, right?"

She chuckled. There was no way, no possible way, she could be this perky. Neither had had any sleep. Her hair was messy, and she was sashaying around the room naked as if she had the cutest boobs, the sassiest butt, the skinniest legs this side of the Atlantic.

Which she did.

Damn, but she did.

"What'd you do with all your Catholic guilt?" he asked her a few minutes later…which was after a shower, after he'd finished the first cup. after he'd yanked on a starched shirt and pants and found-ye gods-breakfast waiting for him in the minikitchen.

"It hasn't disappeared. I just figured this whole thing out."

"Uh-oh." He didn't mean to say that aloud, but it slipped out. He wasn't thinking that coherently when he saw her lift the skillet and plop a light, fluffy omelet on a plate for him.

"I'm just going to be part of your life until the money gets all straightened out. And my passport. The stuff I have to have to survive again."

"And then…" He motioned, waiting for the next part.

But apparently there was no next part. "That's it. The end of the plan. You're in Paris. I'm going back to South Bend. We're not hurting anyone if no one else ever knows anything about this. I mean, you and I could hurt each other. But it's just about you and me. No one else."

He took another bite, but he was watching her bright eyes. She'd pulled on a shirt by then. His shirt. A blue one. It made her look like the most feminine bit of fluff ever born. Times ten. Something made him want to argue with the plan, but he couldn't put a frame on it. It should be exactly what he wanted- sneaky, free sex-yet somehow, the last bite of delectable omelet didn't want to be swallowed.

"You're going to shake the fiancé when you go back." Will didn't phrase it like a question, although it was. For whatever reason, he needed to know.

She bounced up to refill both their mugs. "Well, that was my theory, too, when I tried to call him on Saturday morning. But now I think that stinks. It would be plain wrong and cowardly to try to say anything serious to him in a phone conversation. So there's nothing I'm going to do about Jason until I get home."

He put down his fork altogether. "But then you're going to shake the guy."

"Hey. This is the deal. You and I are going to be our own personal Vegas. What's between us this week stays between us. But there's no point in doing before-and-after analyses. I mean, you're not coming home to South Bend, right?"

"Right," he affirmed.

She nodded, as if to say they were both in agreement.

Only they weren't.

Will couldn't very well babysit her all day. She had a ton of stuff to do, all of which was fraught with peril-for a tourist, an American, an adorable woman who was an American tourist, and specifically for Kelly, who didn't seem to have the directional sense of a stone. But he left her maps. He left her lists. He left her money, his cell phone, his telephone number at work and instructions to check in every two hours so he'd know she was okay.

At the doorway, when he was leaving for work, she interrupted all his considerate help to say mildly. "You really think you're a lazy, live-for-today, happily irresponsible, completely recovered Catholic, huh?"

Which just went to show, he thought when he climbed into his Citroen, that you could make love to a woman for three days straight and still, she didn't know you at all.

Twenty minutes later, he parked the car-feeling victorious when he fit into a spot smaller than a dime-and ambled into the office with a lazy stride.

The building was older than the guillotine, dark, crowded and drafty. "Bonjour, m'sieur," said Marie, of the Antoinette temperament. She ran the place, something he'd realized the day he applied for a job here.

He greeted her, then the office staff in the bull pen, then Yves, the owner. His boss was a prince of a guy, devoted to his family, but he both looked like and had the temperament of a high-strung terrier. Talk about a worrywart. He sprang up the instant he saw Will.

"You managed to connect on the Wisconsin thing yesterday?"

"Yup. No problems. All fixed." Except for having to do that wrangling on a Sunday, but not like doing a few phone calls at home killed Will.

"Several calls came up early this morning, backup on shipments. Catalog proofs are on your desk. Looks good to me, but if you can get to that today… and that advertising affecting Lucerne and Copenhagen…"

Will listened a while longer, took it on, then aimed for his office-such as it was. A trailer closet was bigger than his cubicle. There was just enough room for him to drop to the desk chair and wade into the five pounds of files and samples and folders and debris.

Kelly wasn't here, of course. If she saw the place, she might leap to the conclusion that he was a hardcore workaholic, busier than a one-armed bandit in a bank vault.

That would be the wrong conclusion, of course. From the minute he'd arrived in Paris, he'd committed to become the laziest, most irresponsible slacker on the planet. That was what he wanted to be.

That was what he'd been trying to be since he left South Bend.

THE MOMENT Will left the flat, Kelly felt her smile deflate like a needled balloon. The apartment felt alien and lonely without him.

Still, it wasn't as if she didn't have a full day of complications to deal with. As soon as she poured a last mug of coffee, she addressed crisis number one by dialing her mom. And this time, finally, Char Nicole Rochard Matthews answered.

"Mom! For Pete's sake, where have you been?"

"Out gallivanting." The sound of her mom's chuckle was as familiar as sunshine. "You were gone, and I had nothing on the agenda for the weekend. Mary and Ann and I got to talking and next thing I knew, the three of us were off on a road trip to Mall of America. We were only gone for three days. What a place that is…"

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.

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 cliché 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 realize I'm prying, but come on. what possible difference could it make if you tell me? I'm not telling a soul. You can get it off your chest. No one'll ever know."

"There's nothing to get off my chest."

"Fine." she said. "Be a martyr."

The waiter returned to pour more wine. He took one look at Will's face and brought another liter. "Did I know before sleeping with you that you could be a complete pain in the butt?"

He thought it was a pretty good insult, but she only chuckled. "Hey, I'd have 'fessed up to being a pain in the butt if you'd just asked. But it's okay. You can keep your secrets. I was just thinking of all the reasons why you might not want to go home. A warrant out for your arrest. Like for a murder rap. Or drugs-"

"Oh, for Pete's sake. It's nothing like that." He reached for the bread at the same time she did. Naturally the bread was fresh out of the oven, still warm, still wonderful. But every other woman he knew fretted whether stuff like bread went straight to their thighs. Kelly inhaled it faster than he did.

"My dad and I don't get along. Think of two quarterbacks from opposing teams," he said finally.

"Opposing quarterbacks play together every Saturday," she noted. "And you already told me that you and your dad have a really conflicted relationship. But it's still a stretch from not being close to feeling you have to live a whole continent away."

Hell. It went on. Past the bread and salad. Past a liter and a half of wine. Past the filet mignon, and then, when she saw the pastry tray, past watching her salivate as she made her choice.

Correct that. Choices.

"I've got three sisters. No brothers. So I'm the only male. My dad started Maguire's, built it into a monster-size corporation. But now he wants to retire, and he wants to do it by my taking it on."

"But pretty obviously you didn't want to, so you told him no."

"I've been telling him no since I was old enough to talk. He's heard it. He doesn't give a damn. Aaron Maguire wants me to do what he wants me to do." Will pushed away the plates, went for the demitasse. "And back when I was a boy. I really cared. I did everything but stand on my head to win his approval, his respect."

"But it was impossible?" she asked gently.

"Oh no. I got it just fine. As long as I do exactly what he wants, everything's always been hunky-dory. And that's the point. He doesn't just want me to run the company. He wants me to do it his way. Eighty-hour workweeks. Him involved in all the decisions. And then there are my sisters."

"Your sisters work at the company, too?"

"No. That's exactly the point. They don't. They want to live in the style he's let them become accustomed to. Lots of money, no responsibility. Bail them out whenever they lift a finger or run up a credit card bill or want a trip to Goa."

He wished she would look at him with a little more sympathy. Instead she kept asking more questions. "So you told your dad how you felt about that, too."

"I've talked to him about all this fifty ways from Sunday. I also always met him more than hallway- like going to Notre Dame because he wanted me to. That was a smooth stretch, but the minute I graduated, the pressure started up again about my coming into the company with him. He wouldn't give up. He won't give up. And I just plain got tired of fighting all the time."

She fell silent, which was damned scary. She never shut up if given the opportunity to talk. By then she'd finished three desserts-three-explaining that they were pastries, after all. and she was only in France for a short time, and anyway, she couldn't help herself.

He found the crumb of Napoleon at the corner of her mouth and grinned. She just did everything so two hundred percent. And he was bringing her back here tomorrow, if he had anything to say about it. In the meantime, she claimed he'd have to carry her out of the place, because she was that stuffed.

He drove them back to his place, but then, instead of going in, he suggested taking a stroll down the boulevard. It was midnight by then. He had to work tomorrow, he knew. But it was a starry night, and even though she'd nagged him into talking about stuff he really didn't appreciate, he still didn't want the evening to end.

"A walk sounds good," she agreed.

So he wrapped his jacket around her shoulders and stuffed his hands into his pockets. They walked, hip to hip, working off dinner, doing a boulevard loop.

Finally, when they were almost back to his place, he said, "All right. Spill it out. I can't take much more quiet."

She obviously caught the long-suffering teasing tone in his voice, because she chuckled and deliberately bumped hips with him.

Then she answered. "I think you need to find a way to solve this problem with your dad. Because you're an American, for heaven's sake. You can't want to give up your country."

"Hey, I'm not. I wouldn't. I never said I was going to do anything like that."

"Okay. But then it means that you intend to come home, not live here forever. And that means you have to find a resolution with your dad."

There was a reason he never talked about this. With anyone. He was a grown man, had been for a long, long time. When you were a kid, talking about problems sometimes helped. But when you were an adult, talking often simply meant giving someone else the power to interfere. And somehow it thorned even deeper because Kelly seemed to think he needed to be interfered with.

"For now, this has to be the resolution. Moving a serious distance away was the only way to stop the constant war with him. I didn't want my mom upset all the time. And I won't and can't live the life my father insists on."

She said firmly. "And that would be fine, if living here was working for you. but it isn't. You're camping out here. You can't commit to a relationship, get married, have kids, set up house-not if you really don't want to stay here. So you've set yourself up in limbo. It sucks."

"Hey. It's not exactly a hardship to live in Paris," he said drily.

"It wouldn't be. Except that in the meantime, you don't get to see your family. Your sisters, your parents and friends. All the people and things you loved. How much pressure could your father possibly put on you?"

He said flat out. "Twenty million bucks' worth of pressure. Not counting compound interest and a few spare assets here and there."

Finally, something that took that wind out of her sails. "Whew. Okay. I have to admit that's some fair-size pressure." He heard her take a big, long breath. "But even so, that's just about some stupid money. It's not about anything that matters."

They seemed to be back at his front door. In the shadowed arch, he dug out his key. While she waited, Ms. Hardcore-Idealist lifted her head, taking the moment to smell the fresh spring leaves, to savor the crescent moon cradled in a wisp of clouds. She was relaxed and happy, now that she'd scratched all his emotional allergies.

"Did anyone ever tell you," he said, "that maybe it's easier to give advice when you've never had to walk in their shoes?"

"Oh, yes. Lots of times. I've ticked off reams of people with my nosiness and my opinions. Zillions. Hordes. Trust me, I've just irritated you this time. If I really got going, I could probably tick you off enough to throw me out forever-"

There seemed only one way to shut this down.

He moved her against the old brick, in the shadow of the doorway. When her head shot up-mouth still open, of course-she stilled, just for a second, when she saw his eyes.

Then he bent down and took her mouth. Feasted on it. more like. For a kiss that was clearly intended to communicate some annoyance and impatience and maybe even a little temper, it somehow turned out wrong.

It turned out tender.

Damnably tender.

She looped her arms around his neck, closed her eyes and sank into him on a sigh.

He couldn't understand it. One minute he was ticked off at her. The next, she was his whole world. Times ten. He couldn't kiss enough, taste enough, touch enough.

He fumbled with the key, groped to turn it, not severing the connection to her mouth for even a second. The door finally creaked open, then crashed against the far wall. He kissed her in, kicked the door shut, kissed her down the hall, kissed her into the velvet shadows of the bedroom, kissed her as he started peeling off layers of clothes. His. Hers.

The clothes fell in a matching heap.

And so did they.