Moonlight in Paris. Pamela Hearon

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 СКАЧАТЬ