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“Great movie.” Garrett motioned a thumbs-up to Dylan, who’d made a successful catch. “I hope you get enough students to make your group, so we’ll get to see you.”
“Me, too.” The background sounds heightened as lockers slamming joined the mix. “And thanks for the number. Maybe I’ll see you in a couple of months.”
“We’ll look forward to it. See you, man.”
“Later, dude.”
The call ended before Garrett realized he hadn’t asked who needed a flat for a month—hadn’t even asked if the interested party was male or female. Man, he was slipping.
While he liked the idea of having someone from close to home in the building, he hoped whoever it was wasn’t interested in the flat across from them. He and Dylan would hate to give up their private recreation area. Would hate to give up their privacy, in general.
After the years of chaos with Angela, this terrace had become his and Dylan’s oasis of tranquility. Beyond the walls was one of the most exciting cities in the world, but here was quiet space.
He didn’t want anything to interfere with that.
Not even for a month.
CHAPTER THREE
TARA BREATHED A RELIEVED sigh as the key turned in the lock. Getting lost twice in the maze of dark, windowless corridors had her convinced she’d entered some kind of Parisian warp zone and might never find the flat she’d rented. The lights in the hallways were on a timer, and didn’t stay on very long. Just finding the switches was like being on a treasure hunt...blindfolded...with no map.
Elbowing the door open, she rolled the duffel into the small foyer, dropping it and her shoulder bag as she took in her new surroundings.
“Well...thank you, Josh...and whomever you got that number from.” Tara tried to recall the name—some college friend of Josh’s. It didn’t matter. What did matter was that this place, with its warm wood floors and modern furniture, was cheery and chic and perfect for a month’s stay. She would have to pick out a nice thank-you gift for the French teacher.
A quick tour found the rest of the apartment much to her liking, too. The bathroom seemed antiquated with its pull-chain to flush the toilet, but the living room and the bedroom both looked out on a terrace rimmed with ivy-covered lattice work and flower pots brimming with color.
A notebook lay prominently on the dining table. Lettering across its front spelled out the word tenant in several languages. She flipped the book open to the section labeled English. Coming to Paris had been such a quick decision that there’d been no time to study the French language in any depth. She’d hoped her two years of high school and college Spanish would help, but it hadn’t yet.
Everyone she’d been in contact with so far had spoken at least a little English, except for Madame LeClerc at the front desk. Hand gestures had been the language that had landed Tara the key to the flat. There were a few other gestures she’d wanted to use with the awful woman, but she would have hated to get kicked out before she got moved in.
Inside the notebook, Tara found a note of welcome, which she scanned for important information. “Oven temperature displayed in Celsius...shutters on a timer, which can be reset to your schedule...take key when you leave as the door locks automatically...terrace shared by one other flat...call if you are in need of any assistance.”
The words blurred on the page. The excitement of being in Paris for the first time and facing the opportunity to find her birth father was fast losing ground to jet lag. What she needed was a breath of fresh air, and with rain imminent, she’d better make it quick.
She unlatched the sliding door and stepped outside into the heat of the sultry morning, careful to close the door behind her so as to not allow any of the precious air conditioning to escape.
Latticework placed strategically around the large concrete patio gave some definition to what area belonged with each of the flats. Her section was a bit smaller than the other, but still quite large.
The sliding door to the other flat directly across from hers was open as were many of the windows of other flats. Vague sounds of morning with families and children drifted through.
Around the corner from her door and several yards away, a railing hung with flowerboxes added an explosion of color to the gray day. Below lay a courtyard with a lovely formal garden and a huge wooden door that looked as if it was left over from the Middle Ages.
She heard a shout, and a boy who looked to be eight or nine ran through the courtyard below, trying to make it to the wooden door ahead of something—or someone. At that point, the first drop of rain hit the top of her head.
Maybe the boy was trying to beat the impending downpour?
But then a second shout filtered up toward her, and two more boys appeared, larger and older than the first, who was frantically working to open the massive door.
One of the older boys pounced on the child from behind, pinning his arms behind his back while the third boy approached menacingly.
Tara’s schoolteacher persona pushed to the forefront. She had to do something, but if she vaulted over the railing, she’d break her neck. And there was no way she could find her way back downstairs to that area in time to save the boy from whatever the ruffians had in mind for him. In desperation, she used her teacher voice and yelled over the railing, “Hey! Stop that! Leave him alone.”
The older boy paused midstride and turned toward the voice. He looked up with a sneer and made a gesture toward her that needed no translation. When he started back toward the younger boy, the child started to shriek and thrash about.
A whirring sound nearby jerked Tara’s attention from the tableau below to the sight of metal shutters closing over the windows of her flat. Mechanical storm shutters. Thank heavens! They would buy her more time here.
A shout obviously from an adult male came from below, and then a short, burly guy appeared, and the big boys immediately stopped their attack. With the rain coming harder, Tara could feel her curly hair growing bushier by the second, but she had to stay long enough to make sure everything was okay.
Even without understanding the language, she caught the word papa from all three boys often enough to figure out they were siblings and Papa was taking care of things. And just in time, as the sky opened up then, and rain pelted her full force.
Relieved that she was no longer needed, she sprinted in the direction of her door and rounded the corner, letting out a shriek of her own. “Eek! No!”
Storm shutters had been installed over the door, as well. She got there just in time to see them clamp down tightly, a metal fortress barring anything—or anyone—from entrance.
Frantically, she looked for a button. Surely there was an override. Lifting a metal flap exposed a numerical keypad, but, try as she might, she couldn’t recall anything about a code in the note she’d read. She tried a few random numbers...0000...1234...but soon gave up, realizing the futility. She wasn’t even sure it would be a four-number code.
“Damn it!” She gave the metal a swift kick. The barrier didn’t budge, but the action bruised her toe and her ego.
She was already soaked. The lemony, cotton sundress, which had made her feel so chic, now clung to her legs, directing the water flow into sodden ballet flats. She squished back around the corner, checking the windows, hoping for a breakdown somewhere in the system, but finding everything in dismally perfect working order.
She would have to wait it out. Crossing her arms, she leaned against the wall, and she was surveying her surroundings when the open door gaped at her from across the terrace. How many times had her dad preached about the open doors in life and choosing the right way?
Shielding her eyes from the pelting rain, she studied the door. No movement came from that apartment. The owners might be gone...might be trusting souls who left their back door open because they usually had no neighbors.
If she cut through their flat, she could find her way back down to Madame LeClerc—not a pleasant thought, but standing in a downpour wasn’t exactly the way she’d pictured her first hour in Paris, either. She could get...beg...the spare key, come back up and let herself in through her own front door.
While she pondered the plan, the sky grew blacker, and despite the heat, she began to get chilled.
A crack of lightning nearby made the decision for her. She loped across the terrace toward the safety of the open door, praying the occupants had left for work...or at least had a good sense of humor.
She paused for a few seconds just inside the door and knocked on the wall. “Bonjour?” she called. She was met by silence, but the luscious aroma of fresh coffee told her that the owners were out of bed...or awake, anyway. The scent had a magnetic pull that drew her a couple of steps deeper into the room.
“Bonjour?” she repeated, at a total loss to say anything else in her limited French. She cocked her head and listened, becoming aware of a sound only when it stopped. Running water, which she’d initially attributed to the rain outside. But this was inside. Someone who was in the shower had now gotten out.
Good Lord! Her predicament thudded into her stomach full force. What if the owner wasn’t sympathetic or amused? What if he or she called the police? She was in a foreign country where she knew no one.
Wouldn’t that be a lovely way to meet the father who didn’t know she existed? Hi there. I’m the daughter you didn’t realize you had. Would you mind coming to the police station to bail me out?
She shivered—not from a chill this time.
Thunder was coming right on top of the lightning, so going back outside was unthinkable. She’d choose arrest over electrocution any day.
Most people paused in the bathroom to put on lotion or shave after a shower. Maybe she could still make it out the front door without getting caught.
She started to tiptoe across the floor when the squish between her toes reminded her how wet her shoes were. Toeing out of them, she clasped the soggy slippers in her hand.
She crossed the room and turned down a hallway only to find light creeping from beneath the door along with a shower-fresh scent.
An about-face focused her on the door at the other end, where the hallway widened into a small foyer with a desk and, obviously, the front door.
She tiptoed as fast as she could in its direction, not even hesitating as the floor creaked and groaned beneath her.
A little boy appeared through a doorway to her right, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
He took one look at her and let out a terrified shriek.
* * *
HIS SON’S SCREAM propelled Garrett out of the bathroom with the towel he’d been drying himself off with still in his grip and his brain moving at warp speed to assess the situation before him.
Dylan’s eyes lost some of their terror as he scampered to safety behind his dad, but the same look remained fixed in the eyes of the stranger standing in their foyer—a young woman...obviously deranged.
Garrett scanned her quickly for a weapon but didn’t spot anything. The way the yellow dress plastered against her body would make it difficult to hide anything. She looked as though she’d just stepped out of the shower herself...fully clothed. The bright red bush of hair that sprouted from her head was tipped in blue and had an undeniable Medusa quality about it. The hand she used to push it out of her eyes was only half there.
Nine years with Angela made him a freakin’ expert on handling crazy women. No sudden moves. No shouting. But he gripped the towel tighter, thinking he could throw it over her head, then tackle her and keep her pinned while Dylan called the police.
“Pardon.” Her voice shook on the word as she raised her hands to shoulder height, one palm out in a show of surrender, the other clutching a pair of shoes. “Um...bonjour?”
Garrett tilted an ear in her direction to pick up more of the weird accent.
“Je...Je got locked out of my flat in the rain.” She kept her hands up, but flicked her fingers in the direction of the door that opened onto the terrace.
The accent dropped a pin on the map in Garrett’s brain—America...and most definitely the South. His guard dropped a smidgen by sheer reflex. “You’re American,” he said, at last.
“Oh, you speak English. Thank God.” The woman’s shoulders sagged and her eyes closed momentarily as if she were actually in prayer as she said those words. Her hands dropped limply to her sides. “I just got here.” Her eyes flicked from him to the terrace door. “I’m renting that apartment over yonder.” As she made jerky movements with her head in the direction of the terrace, the words came streaming as fast as her drawl would allow. “The automatic storm shutters closed, and I don’t know how to get them open.” Her eyes came back to him, flitted downward and upward just as quickly before a crimson flush started to steal its way from the neckline of her dress into her cheeks. “And I left my key inside on the table, so even if I get back to my apartment, I can’t get in.” She gave a frustrated sigh, running her fingers through her hair and squeezing the roots. “I’ll have to beg another one from Madame LeClerc, which won’t be easy because I’m pretty sure she already hates me.”
The Southern accent had started to lull Garrett into complacency. He relaxed completely when she called Madame LeClerc by name. Nobody got by Ironpants LeClerc without a confirmed reason to be in the building. He dropped the idea of using the towel to subdue the young woman, and used it instead in a more appropriate manner by wrapping it around his middle. “So you’re our new neighbor? Which flat are you in?” he asked as a final test of her veracity.
“Four C,” she answered, somehow making the phrase three syllables long. “We share the terrace.”
“She talks funny, Dad.” Dylan had moved around to stand beside Garrett—not clinging, but Garrett was aware of the shoulder pressing into his thigh.
The woman squatted down to be on eye level with his son. “Bless your heart. I’m so sorry, scaring you like that.” She offered her half hand for Dylan to shake. “I’m Tara O’Malley, by the way.”
Garrett felt his son tense as he gazed at the three fingers extended in his direction. Tara O’Malley didn’t move forward, just waited patiently as if she expected him to sniff it first. Finally Dylan stepped forward and took the hand, shaking it vigorously. “I’m Dylan Hughes.”
Pride swelled in Garrett’s chest. He offered his hand and helped Tara up as they shook. “I’m Dylan’s dad. Garrett Hughes.”
“Oh!” Tara’s face broke into a wide smile. “You’re Josh Essex’s friend. The one who gave him the number I used to find my flat.”
Garrett cringed inwardly as the pieces fell into place. “That’s right.” He was at least partially responsible for the crazy woman being here. “You and Josh work together?” Disbelief was evident in his voice, but the woman standing before him—who sported a tattoo beneath her ear, a pierced eyebrow and blue-tipped hair—didn’t look like any of the high school teachers he’d had. Of course, his teachers had all been Catholic nuns.
“I teach freshman English at Paducah Tilghman.” A subtle rise of one of her eyebrows seemed to add, “So there.”
Apparently the mention of Josh’s name loosened Dylan’s tongue. “What happened to your hand?” He pointed blatantly at her disfigurement.
“Dylan—” Garrett started to correct him.
“No, it’s okay.” Tara gave him a small smile, but then sobered when she looked back at Dylan. “Motorcycle accident.”
“Cool!” Dylan’s voice was filled with awe.
Bona fide crazy, Garrett thought.
Tara continued to address Dylan. “Yeah, motorcycles can be very cool, but they can also be very dangerous. Sometimes people driving cars don’t notice them, or they think of them as a bicycle. So don’t ever get on one without a helmet, and don’t ride too fast.”
“I won’t,” Dylan assured her.
“Well.” She sighed, and Garrett followed her eyes to the rain that was coming down so hard that her flat across the way was barely visible. “I’ve been enough trouble to y’all this morning. I’ll just mosey on back to my place.”
“Stay and have breakfast with us!” Dylan blurted, and Garrett’s jaw tightened at the suggestion.
“Oh, no, I can’t. I’m soaked to the skin. My hair’s a mess.”
Garrett’s logical side urged him to let her go on her way, but his emotional side, which was being suckered by the sultry, Southern accent, chided him for even entertaining the possibility.
“You can’t go out in this,” he said, ignoring the warning sirens blaring in his brain. “Although we’re just across the terrace, we’re actually on opposite sides of the building. You’d have to go literally halfway around the block to get back to the main entrance.”
“Well...”
She chewed her bottom lip as a visible shiver ran through her, making her suddenly appear delicate and fragile. Garrett felt a stirring below and realized he was still standing there wearing nothing but a towel.
“I’ll go get dressed and find you some dry clothes to put on. I think this rain has set in for a while.” He motioned to the pot of French-pressed coffee on the counter in the kitchen. “Help yourself to some coffee. We’ll be right back.”
“I’ll bring you some clothes!” Dylan was obviously excited to have an unexpected guest for breakfast. He ran ahead into Garrett’s bedroom.
Garrett lost no time rifling through a bottom drawer for the long shorts he shot hoops in. No doubt they would swallow Tara, but they had a drawstring that might, at least, help her keep them up. He grabbed a T-shirt from another drawer and thrust the pair toward Dylan, who was still in his pajamas. “Take these to our guest, sport, then go get dressed.”
A smile spread across his son’s face. “I like her, Dad. She’s cool.” He ran from the room, clutching the bundle.
“Of course you like her.” Garrett muttered under his breath as he closed the door. “She’s crazy. Just like your mom.”
He wasted no time getting dressed. Time alone between his son and the crazy woman wasn’t going to happen.
CHAPTER FOUR
PEOPLE STAYING AT bed-and-breakfasts do this all the time, Tara told herself as she passed the plate of croissants to the little boy who’d insisted on sitting beside her. Of course, it would probably have been easier to convince herself there was nothing weird about eating breakfast in a new country with total strangers if she hadn’t seen one of them naked a few minutes earlier.
She tried to focus on the inch-long scar that cut diagonally through the left side of Garrett’s upper lip—the one that disappeared almost completely when he smiled—rather than let her mind wander to the foot-long one on his thigh that pointed like an arrow to his masculine assets.
“I finally decided it was time to see Paris.” She answered Dylan’s last question just shy of the complete truth. “How long have you lived here?”
Dylan piped up before his dad could answer. “Three years. We moved here when I was three, but I’ll be seven soon, so I guess then I’ll have to start saying we’ve been here four years.”
Garrett used his spoon to point at his son. “Quit talking so much, sport, and eat your breakfast.”
With a grin that could charm the sweet spot from a Louisville Slugger, Dylan opened his mouth wide and shoveled in a spoonful of Greek yogurt and fresh berries.
