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“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.”
