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Royally Seduced
Marie Donovan
Once upon a modern time, there lived a freelance writer named Lily.When she journeys to the magical city of Paris, she meets the irresistible Jack Montford…but what Lily doesn’t know is that she’s flirting with a real prince in disguise!For the Comte de Brissard, spotting this Lily in the field might be the best thing he’s ever done.



“The South of France—this is so exciting!”
Jack had to agree with Lily.
Exciting…but damned inconvenient that his libido had come roaring back after being nonexistent for so long. And he’d just promised to take the sexiest woman he’d ever met to the most romantic place on earth—and treat her as a sister.
Lovely. Lovely Lily, with sparkling green eyes and glossy peach lips begging for him to kiss them. For him to pull her into his lap and show her what real French kissing was about. But…no.
“When do we leave?”
“If we take the high-speed train, we can leave early tomorrow and be in Avignon in under four hours.”
“Only four hours,” she breathed. “I won’t get a wink of sleep tonight.”
Jack gave her a dry smile.
Neither would he…but for a much different reason.

About the Author
MARIE DONOVAN is a Chicago-area native who got her fill of tragedies and unhappy endings by majoring in opera/vocal performance and Spanish literature. As an antidote to all that gloom, she read romance novels voraciously throughout college and graduate school.
Donovan worked for a large suburban public library for ten years as both a cataloguer and a bilingual Spanish story-time presenter. She graduated magna cum laude with two bachelor’s degrees from a Midwestern liberal arts university and speaks six languages. She enjoys reading, gardening and yoga.
Please visit the author’s website at www.mariedonovan.com.

Royally Seduced
Marie Donovan





www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
To my own Eleanor of Aquitaine.
A sunny French book for a sunny girl.
With much love always.

1
LILY ADAMS STOOD in front of her New Jersey apartment building shivering in the predawn morning skies. Although it was July, the air was still damp and chilly at four in the morning. Her cousin Sarah and her cousin’s husband Curt should be here any minute to take her and Sarah to the airport. She and Sarah were less than a year apart in age. Sarah’s dad was the brother of Lily’s late father, and he had done his best to act as a stand-in dad. Although Lily and Sarah had grown up in different suburbs of Philadelphia and gone to different schools and colleges, they had gone to summer camp together and shared major milestones.
And now they were sharing a fabulous trip together. Lily shivered again, this time in anticipation. Her first time in Europe! Sarah had studied in France and was a high-school French teacher, but Lily was a total newbie. A European newbie, so to speak.
After graduating from college with a somewhat-less-than-lucrative journalism degree with an even-less-lucrative English-literature minor, Lily had decided to remedy a childhood of never going anywhere by starting a modest career as a travel writer. So far, she had done several articles on her native city of Philly and had branched out to New Jersey and New York.
But writing articles for the local parenting magazine on top ten historic sites for kids in Philly was shooting fish in a barrel. Adventure lay outside the Tri-State area, so she’d scraped together enough money for a trip to France. Just her and Sarah for the next few weeks.
She craned her neck. Yes, that was their car, a dark sedan that glided smoothly to the curb. Sarah hopped out…in her pajamas? Comfort was important for flying, but, well, okay. Lily didn’t much care what their fellow passengers thought of her cousin’s baggy pink T-shirt and red flannel pants, complete with monkeys dangling off palm trees. It was all good, as long as Sarah could pass through security without being tagged for crazy.
But Sarah also looked like death warmed over, her short brown bob scraped back by a linty black headband that looked like an Alice in Wonderland reject. Her face was pale even in the dim light, and her lips were dry and cracked.
“Um, are you okay?” Stomach flu on an international flight would be kind of dicey.
Sarah’s mouth spread into a wide grin and then she burst into tears of all things, clutching Lily as she sobbed. Curt hopped out of his side of the car and hurried to them. “What the heck is going on, Curt?”
“No!” Sarah jerked her head up, her expression alarmingly close to a snarl. “Don’t you dare say a word!”
Curt and Lily cringed. “Of course not, darling. It’s yours to tell, precious.” He wrapped his arm around his wife’s shoulder and kissed the top of her limp hair.
Darling? Precious? Curt was usually about as romantic as a rock.
“Sarah?” Lily said cautiously. She wasn’t sure what was going on, but she had a nonrefundable ticket to Paris leaving in about four hours.
Her cousin’s face smoothed out until it was almost beatific. “Lily, I’m pregnant!”
Lily shrieked loud enough to wake the neighbors, who wouldn’t bother calling the cops even if it were some mad strangler coming into her apartment. “Pregnant!” She started to jump up and down but quickly stopped when she saw the queasy look on Sarah’s face.
“I know, I know! After all these years, all those times when it didn’t work out…”
Lily gave her a quick kiss, remembering Sarah’s several miscarriages until the damn doctors had figured out she’d had a blood clotting disorder all along. This trip to Europe was supposed to be a kind of decompression from the pain and stress of her infertility and losses—no pressure to conceive with a husband five thousand miles away. “But how did you find out?”
Sarah giggled. “I’d been feeling kind of off for the past week but I figured it was a touch of flu. Then last night about eight, I started throwing up hard, and Curt was worried. He took me to the E.R. They put in an IV but also ran a pregnancy test.” She shrugged, her face splitting into a grin. “And here we are.”
“Well, of course you can’t go.” Lily wouldn’t have her cousin risk her baby on a strenuous overseas trip.
Curt’s shoulders sagged in relief. He had obviously expected some hassle.
“But, Lily, how will you manage all by yourself? You don’t speak a lick of French, and you’ve never been anywhere.”
Great for her self-confidence. “Didn’t you tell me that if you ever got pregnant again you would need very close prenatal care along with anticoagulant shots right from the start?”
“Yes,” Sarah admitted. “But I feel so terrible about abandoning you.”
“Please,” she scoffed. “I’m a big girl. I have my itinerary and my French phrasebook.”
Sarah winced. Lily had a terrible accent, being unable to master the sheer nasality of the language. “Well, at this time of year there are always English speakers roaming around if you get into a bind. And Curt and I will take you to the airport like we planned. I wish I had given you more notice than this,” she fretted.
“I wouldn’t change anything,” Lily told her, and that was the truth. Later on in the pregnancy, when her cousin felt more secure, Lily would inform her she was going to be the godmother. Maybe she would bring back a little French toy for the baby and keep it hidden until he or she was born.
Curt loaded her things into the trunk and they headed for the Verrazano Bridge to cross into New York. JFK Airport sat on a bay overlooking the Atlantic Ocean in Queens. At that early hour, the miles passed quickly and Lily found herself deposited on the sidewalk with all her luggage.
Sarah reached her hand out the window to grab her cousin’s hand. “Lily, Lily, please take care of yourself.” Her eyes were filling up. Lily’s were, too, only she didn’t have early pregnancy hormones to blame, thank God.
She blew Sarah a kiss. “Everything will be fine. I’ll text you once I land. You just concentrate on taking care of yourself—and your baby.”
Sarah waved as Curt pulled away from the curb. Lily took a deep breath and hefted her backpack onto her shoulders before pulling her medium-size rolling suitcase into the terminal.
Her first major trip anywhere. France, land of wine and roses, perfume and pomp. Wow, that sounded good. She grabbed her phone and quickly entered that phrase. She had her laptop all tuned up and ready for the great stories that would fall in her lap.
Lily was going to take France by storm.
JACQUES MONTFORD HOPPED off the Métro stop a few blocks from the family mansion on Rue de Faubourg St-Honoré. His mother, the Dowager Countess de Brissard, had wanted to send the family car to meet him at the airport, but he needed more time. Time to get out of the closeness of the airplane, the craziness of Charles de Gaulle Airport, time to get some fresh air—as fresh as Paris could provide.
He climbed the stairs to the street. Ah, the parfum de Paris in the summer. More than a hint of auto exhaust and pollution, but also a touch of garden from behind the high walls he passed. Jasmine, definitely rose and a touch of lily. But no lavender.
The only lavender in Paris was in the buckets in the flower market and maybe in a clay pot in some less sophisticated neighborhood than the one he walked through.
For real lavender, Jacques would have to leave Paris and go to Provence.
The idea of another trip at that point seemed exhausting. More exhausting than staying with his mother in Paris? That remained to be seen.
He rounded the corner to the house and took the steps before knocking on the wide wooden door. He hadn’t bothered to take his key ring on his trip to the Southeast Asian typhoon disaster area. As a relief-work physician, he’d had plenty of important medical supplies to carry with him. It was typical to bring one backpack of personal items and a couple of large suitcases filled with medicine, bandages and emergency surgical instruments. In fact, he was wearing his trusty backpack right now. He couldn’t wait to drop it in his suite of rooms, take a shower and grab something to eat in the large kitchen. A quick knock, the door opened and he was officially in hell.
“Surprise!” A crowd full of people he didn’t know greeted him, slapping him on the back and shaking his hand.
His mother, her hair an exact color match for his thanks to the hairdresser, fought her way to him, kissing him on both cheeks twice and crying prettily, though not enough to either ruin her mascara or redden her eyes. “Jacques! Mon petit Jacques is finally home!” she announced. His mother’s guests cheered again.
He was a rich lady’s prize poodle being trotted out for admiration. And for his next trick, he will administer oral rehydration salts and give measles vaccinations!
He felt like turning around and leaving. But the crowd filled in behind him and Bellamy was taking his beat-up backpack from him.
His mother clutched his shoulders. “Ah, Jacques, your hair. Why so long?” She fingered his long ponytail of chestnut-brown hair. “And la barbe that hides your handsome face?” She tapped his beard. “You look like one of those scruffy men who live in the subway.” She, of course, was impeccably turned out in a flowing silk peach-colored lounge suit, the perfect outfit for an evening party at home.
“Maman, please.” He took her hand away from his face but kissed the back of it so she wouldn’t fuss.
She dimpled at him. “Someone else is waiting to kiss you,” she said coyly.
He had no idea who. “Bellamy?” He was their ancient butler and the idea of being kissed by the old English fossil made him crack the first smile of the evening.
Unfortunately his mother misunderstood. “Oh, you funny boy. But that smile tells me you know who I mean.”
“Actually, Maman, I don’t…” he began, and then his teeth clicked together in shock at the person she intended him to kiss.
He’d rather have dysentery again.
“Nadine.” It was difficult to pronounce his ex-fiancée’s name from a clenched jaw, but he did just fine.
She took that as an invitation instead of an expression of dismay. “Oh, mon amour!” She flung her expensively dressed arms around his neck and tried to kiss him, but he turned his head and was happy to see her spitting out strands of his hair instead.
He took her by the upper arms and tried to set her away from him, but her grip reminded him of a gecko he’d watched while lying in a hospital bed in Thailand. That sticky-footed lizard could walk upside down on the ceiling and even across glass without falling. Of course it could also lick its eyes with its tongue, something that Nadine had not mastered—as far as he knew. What she did with her tongue was none of his business anymore. It was what she had done with it while it had been his business that had caused their breakup.
So why was she here, reenacting The Hero’s Welcome from a black-and-white postwar movie? Jacques looked around at his proud mother and her well-lubricated guests eyeing him and beautiful blonde Nadine fondly. Nadine wisely decided not to kiss him again and instead threaded her arm through his, snuggling into his side. A hired waiter pressed a glass of champagne into his hand that wasn’t suctioned to Nadine, and his mother raised her own glass. “To my son, Jacques Charles Olivier Fortanier Montford, Comte de Brissard.” As usual, she forgot the title he valued the most—doctor.
But the guests cheered anyway. Perhaps his beard hid what had to be a sour expression. Huzzah, huzzah. All that was needed was a rousing orchestral version of “La Marseillaise” as the weary warrior came limping back to Paris. He started to sing under his breath. “Allons, enfants de la Patrie…”
Nadine gave him a strange look and he remembered his precarious situation. She wanted nothing better than to be Madame la Comtesse de Brissard, and Jacques’s paltry wishes were the only impediment to her desire to enter the noblesse.
He detached himself from Nadine and raised his glass in fake cheer when he caught his mother staring at them. “Come with me, Nadine.”
He hurried her into the small hallway leading to the back stairs. Nadine looked at him apprehensively but reached out her arms to him.
Jacques folded his. “Nadine, what the hell are you doing here?” She started to pout, but he ignored it. “Were you hoping I’d developed amnesia along with dysentery?”
“Jacques!”
He was too tired to be kind anymore. “Go away, Nadine. I don’t know what you’ve been telling my mother all these months, but it doesn’t seem to have been the truth.”
“But, mon cher, we just had a little misunderstanding before you left. If you had stayed instead of going to that dreadful typhoon, we would have smoothed things over in no time.”
His jaw fell. “Nadine, I caught you having sex with your personal trainer. In our bed.”
“I know, I know.” She pasted an anguished expression on her face. “And I feel terrible about that. I made a mistake.”
I, I, I. Or as his Portuguese friend Francisco would say, Ay, ay, ay. It was all still about her.
“No, Nadine. We were through as soon as you undressed for that hairless, muscle-bound refugee from the tanning salon.”
Her lips tightened, and he realized the Neckless Wonder might still be her “workout partner.” She scoffed, apparently deciding to take the offensive. “Jacques, you know marriages among our class are not necessarily exclusive. Don’t be so bourgeois.”
“Genetically impossible, chérie. As you well know, I am the Count de Brissard,” he taunted her.
The look in her eye made him glad the guillotine had been retired two hundred years ago. “You have the soul of a peasant.” And she meant it to sting.
Too bad for her he spoiled it by laughing. “I take that as a grand compliment. As a rule, peasants do not cheat and then have the gall to mock the person they cheat on.” Although he had had a few months to come to terms with her infidelity, it still angered him and he started to raise his voice.
“You are the most selfish man I ever met!” she shouted at him.
“Selfish? Because I do not care to share my fiancée sexually?”
“Pah! If you would have stayed in France for more than two weeks, perhaps I wouldn’t have needed to find companionship elsewhere.”
“Bien, so I am selfish for leaving this mansion and going to the absolute hellholes of the world to help people who have nothing? Sick people? Dying people? Et toi, how do you help anyone but yourself?”
“Eh, oui, Saint Jacques of Paris. Any more of your ‘good works’ and they will be carving a statue of you for the Cathedral de Notre Dame. Make sure they get your sweaty hippie hair and beard correct. Cochon!” Her face reddened.
He didn’t know if she was calling him a pig because of his hair or his personality, and he didn’t care. “You are unbelievable. I am grateful I saw your true character before marrying you. I’m sure you would have cost me plenty to divorce you once I found out.”
Her mouth twisted, about to fire more insults at him, but he couldn’t take it—couldn’t take her—any longer. He rounded the corner leading back to the party and stopped short.
His mother stood stricken in the hall, her hand covering her mouth—like he wished he had done to himself. The guests stood behind her, their expressions ranging from shocked to sly to amused.
Even Bellamy was shaking his dignified gray head. If Bellamy heard them yelling, they must have been loud indeed.
“Maman.” He lowered his head to hers. “I am so sorry to ruin…” Out of the corner of his eye he caught a young man with disheveled blond hair surreptitiously taking his photo with his phone.
Was nothing private anymore? He couldn’t even talk to his mother in their own home without some idiot and his camera phone?
“Eh, you!” he shouted at the man. “No photos. Give me that phone.”
The guy clutched his phone to his chest but Jacques easily wrestled it from him and deleted the picture.
But that first man was not the only one. A larger camera took his picture—several times. Had his mother hired a photographer for the party? No, he noticed a polished brunette standing next to the photographer, taking copious notes.
“Reporters, Maman?”
Her stricken expression confirmed it. “Just the society page. They asked to come when we got news of your return.”
“I don’t want to be on the society page.” That was a big reason he didn’t stay in France for very long.
“I’m so sorry, Jacques.” Her big blue eyes started to tear. “I missed you so much and wanted to welcome you back.”
The large room started pressing in on him. “No, Maman, I’m sorry for embarrassing you. But I can’t stay.”
“What?” Her forehead creased. “But, Jacques, you just got home.”
“I can’t,” he repeated. The noise, the bright lights, even the smell of the food was making him dizzy and disoriented. Nadine’s theatrical sobs in the background didn’t help, either. He pushed his way through the party guests and grabbed his beat-up backpack from near the door.
Ever the professional, Bellamy opened the door. “Good to see you again, milord,” the butler informed him. Jacques gave him an incredulous glance considering the mêlée coming towards them, but the old man was as unruffled as always.
“If you would permit some advice from a longtime family retainer, I would recommend a sojourn in the country. Perhaps some fresh air and hearty cooking would benefit your constitution.”
“That’s the best idea I’ve heard in a long time, Bellamy. Merci beaucoup.” Jacques spotted the ambitious reporter and her photographer gaining on him.
“Not to fear, sir, mum’s the word.” After delivering the quintessential English promise, Bellamy tipped him a wink before practically shoving him out the double doors.
Jacques darted down the steps and heard a thud against the door. Bellamy was holding off the savages at the pass, so to speak, so Jacques took advantage of the delay and made a beeline for the Métro.
He hopped a train to the Latin Quarter, a quirky neighborhood along the Seine that was home to the famous Sorbonne, the seat of the University of Paris. He knew of a student hostel there, and his scruffy appearance would blend right in. A bowl of soup in the café, a good night’s sleep and then out of the city.
He’d had enough of Paris, and he’d only been there about two hours. A new record, even for him.

2
LILY STEPPED INTO the elevator of the youth hostel. At twenty-six, she was a bit older than many of the backpackers, but they were an accepting bunch. She’d never had the money to take a year off and backpack through Europe, so she envied the young students.
Two of them called down the bare-bones hallway to hold the elevator, so Lily stuck her arm out to block the doors.
“Thank you, Lily. Where do you go today?” Blonde and German, Silke and her companion, Hans, had been very helpful since Lily’s arrival, pointing out tricks to getting around the Métro and giving her tips on cheap eats. To save money, Lily ate like the backpackers—rolls and café au lait at the bakery across the street for breakfast, a loaf of bread and ham along with some cheese and fresh fruit for lunch, and maybe a dinner out at a café if she could find one reasonably priced.
“I’m not exactly sure, but probably to la Madeleine.”
“Who?”
“La Madeleine is a giant church in the Opera Quarter. Napoleon helped design part of it.” Lily’s stomach growled. “Plus there’s a huge food mall and flower market next to it.”
“Ah, very good.” She gestured to her equally blond companion. “Hans and I are going to the cemetery in Montparnasse.”
Hans nodded enthusiastically. “Ja, many important writers and thinkers are buried there. Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir, Charles Baudelaire and—”
“And don’t forget Samuel Beckett. He wrote Waiting For Godot,” Silke added helpfully, in case Lily wasn’t familiar with that mind-numbing play. Thanks to her English degree, she unfortunately was.
“And if we have enough time, we will see the Catacombes. When they ran out of room in the city cemetery a couple centuries ago, they moved everyone there.”
“Everyone?” Surely they didn’t mean…
“They have walls of skulls and bones. That says so much about what life is all about. In the end, we are just piles of organic matter for others to stare at,” Silke finished.
Lily fought back a sigh. How very grimly existential of them. No wonder they were going into raptures about Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir, the king and queen of existentialism. Lily preferred to take a more cheerful view of life, but that didn’t seem to be the European way. No wonder they thought Americans were cockeyed optimists. And of course most Americans, if they thought of the French at all, imagined either mimes in white-striped shirts or else morose chain-smoking café dwellers dressed all in black.
Maybe that was a good blog article. “So what do you think of Parisians?”
Silke immediately answered, “Oh, it is very nice here.”
“Ja,” Hans agreed.
The elevator opened and they walked out to the lobby. “But what do you really think?” she insisted.
Silke looked around furtively. “It is not very organized. Sometimes the attractions do not open on time.”
“Twenty minutes late, even,” Hans threw in. “And they close for lunch at all hours—not what the sign says.”
Lily smiled. Ah, punctuality. The more laidback French attitude did not sit right with German precision. “I can see how that would be a problem. But perhaps some spontaneity is a good thing on vacation?”
They gave her identically puzzled looks. Silke shrugged. “If they want to be open different hours, they should change the signs.”
And that was that. Lily waved goodbye as they set off for their sunny Parisian day of skulls and cemeteries.
Lily turned toward the door, but she bumped into another backpacker, a tall, lean man with a long brown ponytail and matching beard. “Oh, pardonnez-moi,” she tried her French on him.
“No problem,” he replied in perfect English with only a hint of an accent, as he adjusted the straps of his small black backpack.
Rats. “Is my accent that awful?” she burst out.
“What?” He looked at her, startled.
“My accent. My cousin Sarah says I have a terrible French accent, even on basic things like pardonnez-moi and merci.”
He gave a tiny wince as she pronounced those words.
“You hear it, too, don’t you?” she cried. “I must sound like the American village idiot trying to speak your language.”
“Hey, hey,” he soothed her. “How long have you been living in France?”
“I’ve been visiting for a couple days.”
He raised his shoulders in a typically French shrug. “And so you think your two days in Paris means you speak French perfectly?”
“Well, I guess not. But you speak English perfectly.”
“I should hope so. I lived in Manhattan for ten years.”
“Really? I’m from Philly, but I live in New Jersey right now.”
“Ah, Joisey,” he said in a perfect New Jersey accent. Was there no accent this man couldn’t do?
“Hey, don’t knock Jersey. Not all of us can afford Manhattan.” Although he didn’t look like he could afford even the student hostel. And if he’d lived in New York for ten years, he was probably older than the other backpackers, too.
He held up his hands in placation. They were big and nicely shaped, with long, strong-looking fingers.
“Do you play piano?”
“What?” He looked startled again. Lily was singlehandedly earning a reputation for all Americans as being slightly crazy.
“Piano.” She wiggled her fingers at him.
He looked down at his hands and then back at her. “Why? Do you want me to play a tune for you? Would you like ‘Alouette’ or ‘Frère Jacques’?”
“I can see you must be too busy to make conversation.” She lifted her nose like she’d seen her mother’s employer do a million times before to an impudent guest. Mrs. Wyndham was one of the grand ladies of Philadelphia’s upper crust and Lily’s mother was still her housekeeper, in charge of managing the myriad employees and tasks necessary for the smooth running of a historic mansion and busy social activities. “Thank you for your assistance, and have a nice day.”
She brushed past him out the door onto the busy French sidewalk. Fresh croissant or pain au chocolat for breakfast? Flaky French chocolate rolls sounded good. Before she could decide, she felt a touch on her elbow.
“Hey, hey.” Backpack Guy stopped touching her with his long piano fingers as soon as she stood still. “I’m sorry, mademoiselle. You caught me by surprise and I forgot my manners.”
“No problem.” Lily spotted a café down the street that she hadn’t visited yet. “I’m always grumpy before breakfast, and that chocolate roll is calling my name.” She eyed his spare frame. She didn’t think it was from too many cigarettes since he didn’t smell of smoke. In fact, for a guy who looked like he’d been sleeping on a park bench for a month, he actually smelled nice. “If you don’t mind my saying so, you could use a croissant.”
His mouth pulled into a wry grin. “Probably. Why don’t we get some croissants together?”
She leaned away from him and gave him a suspicious stare.
“I was a Boy Scout if that makes a difference.”
“Really? There are French Boy Scouts?” She perked up. This was the kind of thing she wanted to learn about his country—something that wasn’t in the tourist books.
“Come have a café au lait with me and I’ll tell you all about le scoutisme français.”
“Scoutisme? Is that a real word?”
“On my honor.” He raised his hand in what looked like a Boy Scout sign.
“Well, okay. And maybe you can help me with my French pronunciation.”
“I would be happy to.”
Lily turned to face him. “All right, I can’t call you French Backpacking Boy Scout, so you better tell me your name.”
He smothered a laugh. “No, that would be quite a mouthful. My name is Jack Montford.”
“Jack? Isn’t it actually Jacques?”
“Yes, but I started going by Jack when I lived in New York.”
“Smart move. I’m Lily Adams.” Lily set off for the café. “Come on, Jack-with-the-Backpack, let’s get you a couple croissants—with extra butter.”
JACK DIDN’T KNOW quite how he’d wound up going out for breakfast with a woman he’d literally bumped into, but Lily Adams was right—he could use some calories. She’d thought he picked her out as an American from her accent, bad as it was, but he had picked her out as an American as soon as he saw her blond ponytail and cheerful expression. Her hazel-green eyes gazed eagerly at everything, as if she were trying to memorize details for later.
And to think she wanted to learn about French scouting, of all things. Not where to get the best-smelling parfum or cheapest designer knockoffs, but actual bits of real French life.
They stepped up to the café counter and Lily cleared her throat. “Je voudrais deux croissants et deux pains au chocolat. Oh, deux cafés au lait. Merci.”
Jack had to admire her tenacity when she knew she had difficulties with the language. He quelled the cashier’s incipient smirk with what he thought of his comte look.
Lily, happily oblivious, accepted the bag of pastries and handed him a cup of coffee.
“Merci,” he thanked her. “And you say de rien, which means, ‘It was nothing.’”
She practiced that a couple times as they walked to a bench along a pretty little park. Jack chewed a bit of pain au chocolat, mindful that his digestion was still a bit sensitive. Lily dipped her croissant into the milky coffee with gusto, not minding the flaky crumbs falling on her khaki cargo pants.
University students from the nearby Sorbonne argued about philosophy and politics while a young long-haired musician played guitar, his girlfriend staring up at him adoringly.
Nadine had stared at him like that while they were dating, but stopped soon after their engagement. It was as if she didn’t need to bother once she had his ring. And of course he had been gone many months out of the year with his disaster relief work. His closest friends in the world, Giorgio, Prince of Vinciguerra, and Francisco, Duke of Aguas Santas in Portugal, had warned him to slow down.
Jack found it easy to ignore their advice. They were ones to talk about slowing down. Giorgio ran his own country and Francisco owned not only a huge, busy estate in the Portuguese countryside but also a private island in the Azores.
If only his friends had grabbed him in person a couple months back, since it wasn’t hard to delete their phone and text messages.
He’d slowed down, all right, almost to the point of permanently stopping. When they’d heard he was sick, George and Frank first offered to fly to the hospital in Thailand to collect him. When that hadn’t been necessary, they threatened to confiscate his passport so he couldn’t leave France until George’s sister’s wedding.
George, Frank and Jack had met going to university in New York and had set up a nice bachelor pad for themselves when George’s parents tragically died in a car crash back in their small country Vinciguerra, on the Italian peninsula. George’s distraught twelve-year-old sister, Stefania, had come to live with them, along with a no-nonsense housekeeper.
End of their bachelor pad, but the beginning of the best time of his life. Stevie became one of the gang and the sister he’d never had. And now she was getting married.
Jack hoped she and her German fiancé looked at each other like the young guitar player and his girlfriend.
“Earth to Jack.” Lily peered into his face and waved a croissant. “You still hungry? You put away that chocolate roll pretty fast.”
He looked down into his lap. A small pile of crumbs was all that remained. Maybe the fresh air and quiet greenery was helping his appetite, but he didn’t want to push his luck. “You want to know about the real France?”
She rolled her eyes. “Of course. Who doesn’t?”
“Many people. For them, we are France-Land, a giant amusement theme park for them to visit. See the Eiffel, look at the Mona Lisa, hear the bells rung by the Hunchback of Notre Dame, and voilà! You have experienced the true France.”
She gave him a peeved look. “I don’t agree with that at all, and you have a pretty low opinion of tourists for a guy who’s backpacking his way around the country. Or is it just a low opinion of American tourists?”
“Well…”
“Aha. You, monsieur, are a snob. And see, I know that is a French word, too.”
“I am not a snob.” He was acquainted with many snobs and he wasn’t one, was he?
“When you lived in New York, did you go to the Statue of Liberty?”
“Of course. A gift from my country to yours.” Stevie had loved the green lady. If she hadn’t been Princess of Vinciguerra, Jack often thought, she would have become an American citizen.
“And the Metropolitan Museum of Art? And the Empire State Building?”
“Yes to all of those.”
“So why can’t we enjoy the Eiffel Tower, the Mona Lisa and the bells at Notre Dame Cathedral?”
He gave her a nod of apology. “Again, you have caught me without my manners. We are notably proud of those three things in Paris, and many more, of course.”
“So since I have already visited all those places, tell me where I should go next to get a sense of the real France.”
Jack made a split-second decision. His other belongings were safely stashed in a locker at the hostel for the day and he hadn’t made any firm plans to leave for Provence. What was one more day? The trains were always running to the south of France. “Why don’t I show you?”
Her pretty brow wrinkled again. “Show me what?”
“One of the most beautiful parks in Paris that only the locals know about. You like to hike?”
“I love it,” she promptly replied. “The Appalachian Trail runs through Pennsylvania, and I’ve hiked several parts of it.”
“Good, this will be easy for you. Do you have a Métro card?”
“All set.” She stood and dumped her empty cup into a nearby trash can. “Allons! Let’s go.”
Jack smiled. Her dreadful accent was starting to seem rather cute. He immediately put the brakes on that idea. Lily was a tourist, and he was going back to Provence to sit in the sun, eat and regain his strength.
He grimaced. Kind of like the mangy stray cat his Provençal housekeeper Marthe-Louise had taken in and fattened up last winter. Ah, well, she’d be happy to do the same for him.

3
“I CAN’T believe this is in the middle of the city.” Lily gazed around the park in rapture. Fashionable young mothers in silk T-shirts and slim Capri cargo pants pushed babies in strollers, their gladiator sandals slapping the pavement. Older men strolled along the paths, conversing with enough upper body movement to qualify for a cardiovascular workout. She was the only tourist in sight. “How do you say the name again? The sign says Butts, but that can’t be right.”
“No, we have no ‘butts’ here.”
Lily sneaked a look at his, but those baggy shorts made it impossible to tell. Probably as lean as the rest of him. Rats! He caught her peeking. She fought a blush, and she hadn’t even seen anything. He was kind of cute with his warm brown eyes.
“You would pronounce it ‘Boot show-mon.’”
Lily never would have guessed that from the sign that read Parc des Buttes-Chaumont. “What does it mean?”
“Buttes are hills and Chaumont probably means ‘bald mountain.’ And parc means—”
She elbowed him, interrupting his chuckle. “Yes, thank you, I figured that out for myself.”
He wrapped his arm around her shoulders for a brief squeeze and then dropped it. “I am just teasing you, Lily. I admire your courage in coming by yourself to a country where you do not speak the language.”
“I wouldn’t have been on my own if my cousin hadn’t had wonderful news.” She found herself telling him about Sarah’s past problems having a baby, and he nodded as if he knew what she was talking about.
“Yes, yes, it was wise for her to stay at home. Pregnancy can be difficult in the first trimester, especially with a history of complications.” He cleared his throat. “But of course I am not an obstetrician.”
She laughed. He looked as little like any ob-gyn she’d ever met. She pulled out her camera and took a few shots of Parisians enjoying the fine summer day. “Come on, let’s walk.” She followed the path into the park and was surprised to find herself in almost a forest. “Wow, Jack, look at all these trees.”
“Yes, the park was commissioned by Napoleon III in the mid-1800s. Many of the trees were planted then.” Jack pointed to a curve. “Ah, turn here.”
All the noise of Paris had fallen away as they passed a red brick mansion in the park and crossed a terra-cotta-tiled bridge. “Down the steps?” Lily peered down a dark, cool tunnel.
“Exactement.” Jack went down a couple steep steps and extended his hand. “Watch your step. The rock can be slippery.”
Lily took his strong, warm hand. As they descended, she was grateful for his steady grip and her sturdy hiking boots. “How on earth did they ever make this park?”
“They shaped it from an old quarry and it took several years to finish.”
She concentrated on keeping her footing and only looked up when they emerged onto a long, narrow suspension bridge. It was as if they were in a misty watercolor illustration of a fantasy novel heavy with wizards and princesses. She couldn’t resist taking more photos, this time one-handed.
The bridge towered over a serene lake that reflected up the greens, yellows and reds of the surrounding trees. She realized they were still holding hands, but didn’t let go. She’d enjoyed Paris, but missed Sarah badly. Sightseeing by herself wasn’t as much fun as with someone else. A travel buddy gave her the chance to say, Wow, look at that, or even spotting something funny and giving a nudge to share in the joke.
Lily looked sideways at Jack and was surprised to see how much he had relaxed. “You’re not much of a city boy, are you?” They started to cross the wooden planks of the bridge, the steel railings making decorative geometric patterns of triangles and rectangles.
He smiled, his white teeth showing through his thick beard. She wondered what he looked like under all that hair. Just her luck, he would have no chin or a weird facial tattoo. “No, I would rather be in the country. Once I have finished in Paris, I am going south, to Provence.”
“Provence,” she tested the name on her tongue. “You’re from there.”
“My family is. I don’t get there as often as I like.” He cleared his throat. “But enough about me. What do you do when you are not traveling?”
Hmm. She didn’t want to tell him she was writing travel articles because he might worry she was writing down everything he said. “I’m a freelance writer. I write magazine and newspaper articles on anything I can get paid for—history, local sights—I’ve even covered school-board meetings and supermarket grand openings.”
“Ah.” He nodded thoughtfully.
“What, ah?”
“That is why you want to learn about the real Paris, the real France. People interest you as much as the places.”
“Hmm. I’ve never thought of it that way. I just wanted to keep busy and keep getting jobs.” They came to the end of the bridge and Lily pulled her hand free from his, pointing up to the Roman temple-looking thing on the hill in front of them. “Wow, look at that.” She supposed she could have used her other hand to point, but she was starting to like holding his hand a little too much.
Her danger signals were flashing: romantic park setting in Paris—check. Hand-holding with a well-spoken, seemingly decent guy—check. Not remembering the last time she held any male body part—check.
Jack pulled a water bottle from his small backpack and drank. “One more thing to see before we climb.” He took a deep breath and headed down the trail toward the lake.
Lily fought a pang of irrational disappointment that he didn’t take her hand again, but the man obviously could read mixed signals as fast as she sent them. She followed Jack and stopped next to a weeping willow tree, its yellowish branches and silvery green leaves drooping over the path. “Sing willow, willow, willow. Sing all a green willow will be my garland.” She couldn’t help grabbing a handful of branches and clutching them to her in pure dramatic fashion. She was such an English major geek.
Jack stopped. “Othello, right?”
Her jaw fell. He wasn’t even a native English speaker and he knew enough Shakespeare to understand her obscure reference? “Very good.” She sounded like Sarah at her most teacher-ish.
“Shakespeare in the Park.” Central Park, NYC, that is. He started walking again.
“I went to that once! But they did one of the comedies, not a tragedy. Which do you like better?”
“The comedies, of course. Real life has enough sadness already.”
“True. And I never liked the character of Othello. He had everything he ever wanted and tossed it away because Iago preyed on his insecurities. Weak.” She shook her head. “And strangling his wife, Desdemona—what a creep.”
“The man did die by his own hand in the end,” Jack pointed out.
“He should have done everyone a favor and done that first. Or maybe he could have even believed his wife was telling the truth about being faithful to him and then gone and kicked Iago’s ass for making trouble.”
“Unfortunately, marital fidelity and ass-kicking make for dull theater.”
“Not if they have a good fight choreographer for the ass-kicking scene. Those guys can make thumb-wrestling look fascinating.”
“Thumb-wrestling?”
Aha, so there was at least one American tradition he didn’t know about. She was about to lift her hand to show him but realized they’d be holding hands again, albeit in a combative manner. “I’ll show you later.” She dropped the willow branches and turned toward the sound of rushing water.
Jack stood there gazing up at the tree. “Aspirin is derived from willow bark—the scientific name salicylic acid comes from the willow genus Salix.”
She turned slowly to stare at him. “How do you know that?”
“Science class.”
Lily raised her eyebrows. “You must have paid better attention in science class than I did.” She was lucky to recall that the scientific name for humans was Homo sapiens.
“I know you have your own strengths.” He moved close and for a second, she thought he would kiss her under the umbrella of the bowing branches. But he must have picked up her hesitation again and withdrew, the gleam in his brown eyes shuttered. “Allons! Let’s go see the waterfall.”
“Okay.” She followed him, expecting to see a stream burbling over a shallow drop, but instead they stepped into another grotto, with a high waterfall thundering down to a pool at their feet. “Holy cow, look at that. And this is part of that same quarry?”
He nodded and tipped his face up to the water, little droplets condensing on his cheeks. She closed her eyes and did the same, exhaling deeply as some of her tension flowed away.
Traveling without Sarah had been more stressful than she realized. She had to be constantly alert to where she was and who she was near. And the language barrier—well, that wasn’t so bad. Sarah had been right that there were plenty of English speakers roaming Paris.
Like Jack. He was a bit of a puzzle—scruffy-looking but clean and obviously well-educated with a variety of knowledge. She opened her eyes to find him watching her with an enigmatic expression.
“You rarely find places like this in any city.”
“No.” She shook her head in agreement. “There’s nothing like it in Philadelphia or New York.”
“That is a replica of the Roman temple of Daphne.” He pointed up to the round Grecian-looking building. “It’s the highest point in the park and you can see all the way across Paris to the Sacre-Coeur Cathedral.”
“Great!” Lily checked her camera to make sure she had plenty of space on her memory card and set off after him. The stairs were cut into the rock as before and twisted around as they ascended. She was so excited that she didn’t realize Jack had fallen behind. He waved her on when she stopped. “Just getting a drink—I’ll catch up to you in a minute.”
She was too excited to drink and quickly got to the top. “Oh,” she gasped. It was just as Jack had said, the best view in the city. She looked down on all the cute neighborhoods and across northeast Paris to the white dome of Sacre-Coeur Cathedral. She grabbed her camera and took shots from every angle, zooming in on the cathedral and the houses below. The bridge made a cool composition with the surrounding trees reflecting in the water. “‘A favorite of local Parisians, Parc Butts-Something-Or-Other is a hidden treasure of greenery amidst the noisy city.’” Yes, that introductory sentence sounded pretty good, so she typed it into her phone.
But where was Jack? She peered around guiltily at being so caught up in her work. Had he twisted his ankle? “Jack?” she called, descending several steps. He stood below her, huffing and puffing.
“Stopped to take a drink.” He limped up the rest of the stairs.
“Hey, you’re gasping. Are you okay?”
“Fine,” he gritted out, bending over to rest his hands on his knees and sucking air at a pretty good pace.
Lily looked around, wondering what she should do if he keeled over. They were alone at the highest point of the park and she couldn’t exactly toss him over her shoulder in a fireman’s carry. “Do you need an inhaler?”
He shook his head. At least he wasn’t asthmatic. She could see herself calling the Parisian version of 911 and trying to ask for emergency medical help to come to some park with the word butts in the name.
He straightened, his face flushed with exertion and probably embarrassment, too. He pulled a bottle of water from his small backpack and sipped slowly.
She pulled out her own water and pretended they had stopped for a water break. Once he wiped his mouth and met her glance, she shook her head. “Too many cigarettes will kill your endurance.”
He gave a dry laugh that turned into a cough at the end. “I am not a smoker, Lily. I am probably the only man in France who doesn’t smoke.”
She had to agree with him there. The tobacco-free movement was about as welcome as a barge of plague rats floating down the Seine. “Well, you’ve got that going for you.”
“But not much else, eh?” His color seemed to be returning to normal. He spread his arms wide. “Ah, the perfect specimen of French manhood. I cannot even climb a hill without gasping like an old man with emphysema.”
“Have you been sick?”
Jack sighed. “Unfortunately, but I was hoping I was better.”
“Maybe you’re pushing it a bit to come to the hilliest point in Paris, don’t you think?”
He grimaced. “You are right. I should have known better.”
“What are you getting over, if you don’t mind my asking?” She hoped it was nothing awful like cancer or something serious like that.
The first glimmer of humor returned to his brown eyes. “Dysentery.”
“Dysentery?” she blurted. She found herself unconsciously stepping back from him, trying to remember if they had shared any food or drink. “How in the world do you get dysentery these days? I thought the tap water smelled a bit funny but I thought it was okay to drink.” Was that why everyone carried bottles of expensive spring water? Why didn’t Sarah mention this to her before she left? Don’t drink the water! Wasn’t that usually the last advice people shouted out the windows of their cars as they dropped you off at the airport for a journey to a foreign country?
“No, I did not get dysentery in France.” He rubbed his cheek as if his beard itched. “I caught it in Myanmar.”
“Myanmar? Why on earth would you go there?” She’d never heard anything good about that place nowadays, ever since they stopped calling it Burma. It was definitely not on her list of places to visit.
Jack set off at an easy walk and Lily followed him. “They had a typhoon and I was an aid worker—food, shelter, healthcare, all the fundamental necessities. I accidentally drank some untreated water and…” He held out his arms. “Voilà.”
“Wow, you went there on purpose?” She realized that sounded kind of rude. “I mean, that’s noble work.”
“Not so noble when you get as sick as the people you are trying to help. I wasted many resources, especially when they had to take me to the hospital in Thailand.”
“You must have been severely ill, then.”
“Eh, there were many who would have benefited from hospital care but I was the one who was transferred out.”
“Guilt.” She raised her index finger to make her point. “You have survivor’s guilt.”
“What?” He gave her a funny look.
“Sure. You’re thinking, ‘Why me? Why did I get better medical treatment than the others? Why did I live when others didn’t?’”
He glanced down and away from her. “You may be right.”
“And what are the answers to those questions?” Lily gave an imitation-French shrug. “No one knows. Come on, you’re French. Use a little bit of that national tendency toward fatalism. It was meant to happen that way.” She peered into his face and gasped in pretend shock. “Surely you’re not an optimist, are you?”
A small smile crept across his lips. “Well…”
“Uh-oh.” She wagged her finger. “Watch out—someone might mistake you for an American if you’re not careful. An optimistic Frenchman. Tsk, tsk, who would have thought?”
“A personal failing.” He grinned at her. “Please do not tell anyone. I would like to keep my French passport.”
“Don’t let it happen again. If French people were all cheerful and friendly, what would tourists complain about?”
“Parisians are Parisians.” He gave that uniquely French shrug that she had tried to copy and failed. “You will find if you go to different areas of the country, people are more friendly.”
“Like Provence?”
His face softened and he wore a faraway glance. “Exactly. The air is warm and light and the sky is pure blue. The hills are always green, and even the north wind, the mistral, brings clear, dry weather in its path.”
Lily was memorizing his description as best as she could, his words painting a vivid picture.
“Everything is more in Provence. The food is richer, the wine is crisper, the fish are bigger and the ducks are plumper. Have you ever had a day where everything comes together—the weather, the countryside and the food?”
Lily did. “Once, my mother and I packed a picnic and drove out to Washington Crossing Historic Park, where George Washington crossed the Delaware River to capture Trenton from the English. There is a huge wildflower preserve on the grounds, and Mom and I sat in the middle of the flowers, smelling the perfume, listening to the bees. The sky was bright blue with white puffy clouds and we ate chocolate éclairs and licked the melted smears off our fingers.” Funny how she hadn’t remembered that outing in so long. Despite her mother’s busy schedule, she carved out time to spend with Lily.
“Almost every day is like that in the Provençal countryside.” He sighed. “I have been away too long. But soon I will return.”
JACK FELT SLIGHTLY better talking about Provence, but the rest of his morning had been a severe humiliation. He’d finally caught his breath descending from the beautiful Grecian folly, but not without several worried looks from the lovely Lily, who fussed over him as if he were an old man.
He was a man who could land a twin-engine plane on a grass airstrip and immediately trek several miles through harsh jungle terrain, but he couldn’t manage a set of stairs in the middle of Paris. Pathétique.
But look, there was someone in worse shape than him. He stopped next to a young mother trying to carry her baby down the last set of stairs in one arm and her bulky carriage hooked over her other elbow. “May I help?”
The woman nodded gratefully and handed over the carriage. He carried it down for her but realized he was breathing hard and sweating again. How embarrassing, especially when Lily noticed, as well.
“Careful, Jack, you’re still getting over that case of dysentery.”
Unfortunately, dysentery in English translated to dysenterie in French and the young mother gave him a look of horror, yanking her carriage away.
“No, no, madame. I am all better now,” he tried to soothe her in French. She still looked panicked. “Trust me, I am a physician myself.”
“Then you should know better, monsieur. You should not be going about Paris infecting innocent mothers and babies.” She glared at him and scurried away, baby still in one arm and pushing the carriage with a couple finger-tips—probably home to disinfect everything he touched.
He sighed. “Lily, you can’t go around telling people I have dysentery. It makes them nervous.” That was an understatement. Instead of Typhoid Mary, he was Dysentery Jack.
“You mean she understood me?” she asked eagerly.
“The word is almost the same in both languages.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
“For that word, you have a perfect French accent.”
“Figures.” She laughed. “What are some other diseases I can learn in French and terrorize the local populace? How about dengue fever?”
He had to laugh in return. Oh, boy, did he know diseases. Most of them had been eradicated in developed countries, fortunately. “That would be la dengue.”
“Ho-hum. Typhoid?”
“Typhoïde.”
“Boring. Diphtheria?”
“Diphtérie.”
“Bubonic plague?”
Ah, he’d barely escaped an outbreak in Madagascar that had popped up just after his team had left a flood scene. Thanks to some heavy-duty antibiotics given in case, none of them had gotten sick. “That is la peste bubonique.”
“Really?” Her smooth forehead wrinkled. “You French must be pretty cool customers. Plague is a mere pest for you. And I know more French than I thought. Since you don’t want me telling people you’re getting over dysentery, if anyone asks me what’s bothering you, I can tell them you have la dengue, typhoïde, dipthérie or even la peste bubonique.”
He groaned, imagining the frantic calls to the Ministry of Health and the tabloid articles—The Count of Brissard, recently returned from a mysterious hospitalization in Thailand, is rumored to be carrying dengue fever, typhoid, diphtheria and bubonic plague. “Please do not. I have no desire to be thrown in quarantine for undetermined weeks. I spent enough time in the hospital already.”
“Okay, okay, I’m only kidding. You’re the only person I know in this whole country. I certainly don’t want you quarantined.”
“Good. Although I will have to keep on your good side, just in case.”
Lily laughed, the sound light and carefree. He hadn’t heard nearly enough laughter in how long? Months? There hadn’t been much to laugh about in typhoon country.
He wanted to hear more of Lily’s laughter. Before his rational, scientific mind could censor his previously undiscovered impulsive side, he blurted, “Come to Provence with me. You want to see the real France? I will show it to you.”

4
LILY SWIRLED HER pale golden chardonnay as she sat in a café across from the hostel. Its motion was almost hypnotic as it circled the glass. She was being more pensive than usual, but really, what was the point if you couldn’t visit Paris and wax philosophic over a glass of wine?
And she had plenty to think about. Coming to Paris alone had strained the boundaries of her capacity for adventure, but to set off for Provence with a near-stranger? Her warning bells were sending off a few clangs, and unfortunately, being the imaginative type, she could imagine the headlines: American Writer Disappears in Provence; in Unrelated news, the Grape Harvest Is Unusually Heavy in One Lonely Vineyard. Or, Notorious French Criminal Claims to be Aid Worker Recovering from Dysentery. Or would that be dysenterie?
But Provence…ooh la la. Summer in the South of France. Perfume, lavender, roses. She was really starting to love France and had even bought some new clothes to better fit in. Tonight she was wearing a floaty peach-colored silk top and a khaki miniskirt—even a pair of the gladiator sandals that she’d seen everywhere.
“Is this seat taken?” a familiar male voice asked.
Lily looked up from her wine. Was that…no, it couldn’t be, but it was. “Jack, what did you do with your hair?” she blurted.
“It’s in the wastebasket of a barber who wore almost the same look of horror when he first saw me.”
No, not horror. Shock and amazement that he would cover up such a nice face with a mop of hair. He was way past good-looking and into the handsome realm. She’d thought he was nice-looking in a kind of shaggy, granola-crunchy way before, but minus the surplus hair? He was downright sexy.
Of course he was a bit pale where his beard had covered, and still a bit too thin, but that actually made him look like he should be modeling fashionable skinny jeans and snug dress shirts with an expression of ineffable ennui.
“What is that?” She stared at his chin. “Do you have a dimple in your chin?”
He sat down across from her. “Hush. Men don’t have dimpled chins, they have cleft chins.” The waiter appeared and Jack ordered a chardonnay as well. “Would you like another? My treat.”
“If you’re sure you have money after your haircut.” Everything in Paris was hideously overpriced, even barbers and basic chardonnay.
He smiled and her jaw dropped. She pointed a finger at him. “You have dimples in your cheeks, too—and don’t tell me they’re clefts. I majored in English and there’s no such thing as a cleft cheek.” He broke into laughter and her heart was pounding.
Oh, boy. His warm, golden-brown eyes lit up and his white, even teeth gleamed in the fading light.
“Ah, Lily, Lily.” He used the French pronunciation of her name—Lee-lee. “I have laughed more with you today than I have in the past month.”
“Laughter is the best medicine. Chardonnay is the second-best,” she quipped as the waiter set down two more glasses.
He raised his glass in a toast. “À votre santé. To your health.”
She touched her rim to his and drank. He did the same, stared at the wine and wagged his hand back and forth. “Eh, pretty good. You like white better than red?”
“Depends on what the meal is.”
“But of course.” He started to fiddle with his hair and dropped his hand sheepishly when it wasn’t there. “Anyway, I realized that I probably startled you earlier when I invited you to Provence.”
“A bit,” Lily allowed, strangely disappointed that he might be rescinding his offer—an offer she wasn’t seriously considering. Was she?
“Me, I am normally not so impulsive, but I thought if you wanted to see Provence, and I am going there, well, we could travel together. As friends, of course,” he hastily added.
“Ah.” She’d been attracted to his smart personality despite his shaggy looks—not her usual type at all. But clean-shaven and fashionably trimmed, he was a dangerous combo. “Look.” She spread her hands. “You seem like a nice guy, but I didn’t just fall off the turnip truck.”
He leaned forward. “That is a fascinating American colloquialism. I’ve never heard that before. It means that you are not naive, no?”
“No. I mean, yes, I am not naive.” His French-like use of double negatives was confusing her. “So why would I think it is a good idea to travel alone several hundred miles into remote countryside with a man I met this morning?”
“Of course!” He grinned. “You want my references. This is a very French custom.”
“Always glad to be culturally accurate,” she said dryly. “But really, you’re going to call your friends François or Gérard so they can tell me what a good guy you are? Men will say anything to help other men.”
“Pah.” He made a disparaging gesture with his free hand. “Men like that are cochons. That is a very useful word to know. Pigs. Or swine if you are in a more poetic mood. But I have an impeccable reference who would vouch for my good character and lack of maniacal tendencies.”
“I don’t know about the maniacal tendencies. You did go to Myanmar during a typhoon.”
“After a typhoon.” He waggled his finger at her. “There is a grand difference.”
“Well, you learned your lesson this time. At least in Provence you can drink the water.”
“Why would you, with all the good wine?” He laughed. “Does your laptop have a webcam?”
“Sure.” She’d “called” Sarah with it yesterday to assure her cousin she was still alive and walking around Paris. Sarah was still queasy, but that was the worst of it. Her OB had seen her the next day and had been horrified at the idea of an overseas trip.
“If I could borrow it, I can call one of my old teachers who would vouch for me. A lady teacher, if that would be better.”
It would. Still not believing she was even considering a crazy side trip like this, Lily fired up the webcam and Jack dragged his chair around next to her. The tables were close together as it was, so he was only inches away.
Up close, he was even sexier as he rested his arm along the back of her chair. She inhaled his woodsy cologne that smelled exotic and…erotic. Her nipples tightened under her thin silk T-shirt, and a long-forgotten throbbing started between her thighs. She crossed her legs to try to tamp that down and forgot she was wearing a skirt and that he was sitting so close.
Her bare leg briefly rested on his thigh—he was still wearing shorts. She pulled away but instead wound up running her calf down the length of his.
That certainly did not help her cool off. Or him, either, apparently. His eyes widened and his nostrils flared. Geez, why didn’t she just crawl into the guy’s lap?
“Sorry,” she muttered.
“No, no, it is very close in here.” He took a deep breath and shifted away slightly before turning the computer toward him. “I have an account, so you will not be charged.” He logged in and tapped in a web address. “Ah, here we are. Perhaps my former teacher is online now.”
The wine in Lily’s stomach hadn’t sedated the butterflies as she waited for the window to open. What would she decide if she found out Jack Montford was the best thing since sliced croissants?
JACK’S FORMER GOVERNESS appeared in the webcam window on the computer screen. Her gray hair was pulled into a bun as usual, a pencil shoved into it. She was probably working on another editing or translating project from her home in London.
“Bonsoir, Madame Finch. How are you tonight?” he continued in French.
“Jacques, it is good to see you in one piece,” she replied. “Why are we speaking in French?” Madame Finch was as English as Winston Churchill and had been Jack’s governess for many years until he had gone to prep school. They almost never spoke French together because he had needed to practice his English.
“I need you to vouch for my good character to this young lady.”
“What?” She wrinkled her brow. “You’ve never needed my help before to meet women. Surely your sterling personal qualities combined with the cachet of being the Count de Brissard are sufficient to impress the female sex?”
“Madame, I haven’t told her about my title. She is suspicious of upper-class men as it is.”
“Oh, a smart girl.” Madame smirked.
Lily was starting to wonder why they were only speaking French. “So, Madame, I need to assure her of my sterling personal characteristics. Oh, and don’t tell her I’m a doctor. She thinks I’m a regular disaster-relief worker.”
“Anything else?” she asked dryly. “You must really want her to like you for yourself.”
He stopped, struck by the truth of that statement. “Yes, yes, I do.”
“If you like her so much, you must tell her about your whole life, more than bits and pieces.”
“I will.” Madame was correct, as always.
“Good.” She switched into English. “Please do excuse our rudeness in speaking French in front of you, mademoiselle. I work as a French translator and editor and welcome any practice with a native speaker like Jacques.”
Lily smiled. “No problem. I’m Lily Adams, from Philadelphia, but I live in New Jersey now.”
Madame nodded. “Ah, an American. Jacques did enjoy his years there. I am Fiona Finch, and I was fortunate enough to be Jacques’s teacher when he was young.”
Good. She hadn’t called herself the governess. That would have raised certain issues.
Lily cleared her throat. “Yes, well, Jack and I just met today.”
Madame’s eyebrows shot up. “Today? Well, a true coup de foudre, right, Jacques?”
“Oh, what does that mean?” Lily asked him innocently.
He gave a strained smile. “A flash of lightning, something unexpected.” It also meant love at first sight.
“Yes, that’s true.” Lily smiled at Madame. “I bumped into him in the hostel lobby, tried practicing my French on him, and he responded in English because my French is obviously not very good. Then we started chatting, he took me to that park with butts in the name, and then he asked me to go to Provence with him. But I’m not going anywhere with a guy I met today because I don’t want to be one of those international stories that wind up on the twenty-four-hour news networks discussing, ‘Where could Lily Adams be?’” Lily wound down her worries, Madame nodding in agreement the whole time.
“I commend you for your sensibility. Unfortunately, Europe is full of handsome, unscrupulous young men.”
Jack made a noise of protest, but Lily ignored him, leaning in to peer at Madame. “That’s it exactly! I wasn’t planning to come by myself but my cousin is having a baby, after all, and she wants me to be very careful because I am alone.”
“You brave girl.” Madame was ignoring him now as well in a moment of female bonding. “Cads and bounders! Europe’s crawling with ’em these days. It’s a wonder girls don’t go missing by the trainloads considering the trash that dares walk the street.”
“Exactly!”
Jack didn’t see this going well for him. “But Madame—”
Madame was just warming up. “You should have seen the riffraff I encountered on my last trip. Utterly disgusting the way they act—”
“Madame, please!” Jack interrupted in desperation. “Lily is going to think I’m an axe murderer.”
Both women looked at him as if they’d forgotten his presence. Lily muffled a giggle and Madame frowned at him for his poor manners.
“Excuse me, Madame,” he apologized.
She sniffed but inclined her head in acceptance of his apology. “So, Mademoiselle Lily, despite the preponderance of dubious characters, my former student Jacques is not one of them. He is diligent, hard-working, courteous and of the highest moral fiber.”
“He did say he was a Boy Scout.”
“Oh, my, yes. Earned the highest award in the organization. If he has promised to show you around Provence, you can be assured that he will conduct himself with the utmost of gentlemanly qualities. No need to fear he would pounce on you like a panther.”
“Oh.” Was it his wishful thinking, or did Lily sound a tiny bit disappointed? She sat up straighter. “I’m glad you vouch for his character.”
“Absolutely.” Madame gave him a steely glare. “And I will give you my phone number. Please call me if you have any concerns. I have many friends in the south of France and they would be happy to come to your assistance.” Jack winced—he’d better behave himself. Madame’s friends in the south of France were all his own friends and employees, as well.
“That would be wonderful.” Lily pulled out her cell phone and entered not only Madame’s two phone numbers, but her email address and home address.
“There.” His former governess sat back in satisfaction. “You’re as safe as you would be with your cousin, my dear. Master Jacques will care for you as if you were his own sister.”
“Of course.” He gritted out a smile. He didn’t have any sisters, and he certainly didn’t consider Lily as one. But a promise was a promise.
“Wonderful!” Lily threw her arms around him and kissed his cheek. “The south of France! Provence!”
Madame Finch grinned at him as she reached for her keyboard. “Bon voyage, you two. Lily, I am only a phone call away.” Jacques could have sworn he heard an evil-sounding chuckle as she terminated the web call.
Lily still had her arms around his neck, her smooth bare legs rubbing his, her thighs firm and tanned as her short skirt had crept up. “I can’t believe it—this is so exciting.”
He had to agree. Exciting, but damned inconvenient that his libido had come roaring back after being comatose for so long. And he’d promised to take the sexiest woman he’d met in years to the most romantic place on earth—and treat her as a sister.
Lovely. Lovely Lily, with sparkling green eyes and glossy peach lips begging for him to kiss them. For him to pull her into his lap and show her what real French kissing was about. But…no.
He patted her wrist and waved to the waiter for their check. She dropped her arms awkwardly and he pushed her wineglass toward her. “A toast to our trip.”
“Cheers.” She tapped her glass to his again. “When do we leave?”
“If we take the TGV high-speed train, we can leave early tomorrow and be in Avignon in under four hours.”
“Only four hours,” she breathed. “I won’t get a wink of sleep tonight.”
Jack gave her a dry smile. Neither would he, but for a different reason.

5
LILY COULDN’T HELP gawking at the TGV train, luxurious with comfortable red-and-gray seats. The seating arrangement in their car consisted of one seat on one side of the aisle and two seats on the other. There was the option of facing each other over a small table, which was what Jack had chosen when he’d booked their last-minute tickets.
They were on the upper level. Jack had called it a duplex, but Lily thought it was more like a double-decker bus, only with a roof, of course.
Lily handed Jack her suitcase and he tucked it into the bins at the end of the car. She took her purse and laptop with her, figuring the rest of her luggage was safe enough.
Jack settled into his seat across from her and was looking drowsy as the train pulled from the station. Lily was too excited to sleep.
He yawned and closed his eyes as the train gathered speed, passing through the Parisian suburbs.
Lily gasped as the train emerged from a tunnel into the countryside. It didn’t seem as if they were going about two hundred miles an hour—unless of course you looked directly at the trees and bushes close to the line. They were a green blur. “Look at that!” But he was sound asleep. He really had overextended himself with that hike yesterday—no walk in the park for him. Typical man, refusing to admit any weakness.
Lily could sympathize. How many times had she put on the infamous stiff upper lip during a difficult situation? Sometimes best to grit your teeth and soldier on. But now wasn’t the time for that. She opened her laptop and began making notes for an entry for their train trip.
After an hour or so, she decided to stretch her legs and stepped into the narrow aisle, nodding to a stylish young Frenchwoman who’d had the same idea. She found the restroom, bought a snack from the bar between first and second class and then made her way back. She was walking at almost two hundred miles an hour—and her old gym teacher said she was slow—ha!
Right before she got back to her seat, she passed the Frenchwoman again. “Excuse me,” she said in English.
“Of course. American?”
“Of course,” Lily parroted back to her, feeling a tinge of jealousy at the dark-haired woman’s overall ease. Ease in English, ease in how her hair fell onto her shoulders, how her clothes were fashionable but comfortable. And how in the world did she keep linen pants from wrinkling on a train ride?
But Lily wanted to be a better person than that. “You have a lovely country.”
“Thank you. I have been to New York. Parts of it are nice.”
Damned by faint praise. “As are parts of Paris.”
But her return crack went over the woman’s head because she was staring at Jack. “Your lover is very handsome.” She was right—not about the lover part, but about him being handsome. Jack did look particularly gorgeous, almost like a Renaissance painting of a sleeping shepherd boy with his pale skin and reddish-brown hair, which curled slightly around his ears and neck.
Lily’s hackles rose and she gave her a tight smile. She was about to say he wasn’t her lover, but then realized, why give Frenchie an opportunity? “He is, isn’t he?” A little devil made her say, “And wonderful in the bedroom, as well. So inventive.” She fought back a blush.
“Frenchmen usually are, unlike American men.” Touché. But Lily wasn’t about to defend the lovemaking abilities of her country’s male population, especially since she pretty much agreed.
“But he looks familiar.” The Frenchwoman wrinkled her perfect brow as she examined the sleeping Jack.
Nice try, sister, she’d heard that before. “I don’t think so. Now if you would excuse me…” She slipped into her chair and deliberately opened her laptop, typing words like skhjaldhfkjhioeurio and dkoiasuejndkjfioadioufi in an attempt to look busy. She peered at her screen. Geez, the mess looked like a cross between Greek and Old Norse. She backspaced until the nonsense syllables were gone.
Jack had fortunately slept through her bragging on his sexual prowess. She didn’t know what had made her do that.
Yes, she did. Her face started burning. She’d been wondering about his sexual prowess ever since he’d turned up sexy and clean-shaven and she’d accidentally rubbed her thigh all over his.
She quickly opened a new document and began a blog post on travelling the TGV—Train à Grande Vitesse, the Train of Great Speediness. Like most things, it sounded better in French.
Like her name, Lily. Your average flower that showed up every Easter at the grocery store, like it or not. But it sounded better in French—Lee-lee. And even Jack’s full name, Jacques. Exotic and adventurous, or was she reminded of old Jacques Cousteau specials on the nature channel?
“Jacques,” she whispered his name, just to hear it from her own mouth.
He bolted upright, his eyes wide and staring. “Quoi? Qu’est-ce qu’il y a?”
“Oh, my gosh, I’m so sorry.” She grabbed his hand. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“What?” He turned to her, his eyes coming back into focus. “Are you all right?”
“Fine.” She patted his hand. “Go back to sleep. We still have a couple hours left.”
He rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “No, I’m awake now. I thought I heard someone calling me.”
Cringe. “I was chatting with this woman. Maybe you overheard us.”
“Maybe. Do you have anything to drink? My mouth is very dry.” She passed him a water bottle and he drained it.
“I’ll get another.” He stood and stretched, his shoulders filling out his thin pale green cotton T-shirt. “Do you need anything?”
Yeah, a cold shower for her libido and a bar of soap to wash her mouth out for lying. But since those weren’t options…“How about an orangeade?”
JACK STOOD IN a quiet corner of the train’s bar, sipping his own orangeade as he checked his voice mail. Four frantic messages from his maman, despite the fact he’d called her after leaving to apologize again for the ruins of her well-meaning, if not well-thought-out, party. He’d made it clear he and Nadine were permanently over, but her romantic soul probably thought they’d had a lovers’ tiff. Not one voice mail or text from Nadine. Good. She’d gotten his message, then.
A voicemail from Frank in Portugal and a text from George—who knew where George was? He was traveling frequently back and forth to New York to spend time with his fiancée, Renata, a wedding-dress designer who specialized in vintage styles. Apparently Stevie was wearing one of her creations, and that was how she and George had met.

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