Royally Seduced. Marie Donovan

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СКАЧАТЬ 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. СКАЧАТЬ