Chapter Five

“I can’t believe you told my sister that. What will she think?” Great. Gwen would have them married in six weeks. She was probably on the phone with someone right now spreading the word.

Niko dipped a spoon into his soup. “People will always think whatever they want. Your sister was worried about you. I merely directed her mind toward a different topic. Eat your soup.”

“Please don’t order me around as if I’m senseless. I’m older than you, after all.” She was still pissed over his remark about the red thong. Gwen was undoubtedly dreaming all kinds of sexual scenarios.

His spoon stilled in front of his very delectable lips. “Age is just a number. In Europe we don’t concern ourselves with such things. I didn’t mean to tell you what to do. Is that what your ex-husband did? Order you about?”

She nodded as she savored the best onion soup she’d ever had. “Oh, this is wonderful.”

He dipped his spoon into the beef broth. “I was hoping you’d like it. I stop here quite often for this soup whenever I’m working out of the Paris office.”

“Do you travel often in your job?”

“Not as much as I used to since I’ve been assigned to this unit, but it’s still more often than I like. It gets wearisome after a while, living out of a suitcase. A strange bed every few nights. Enough about me. We’re getting off topic. You were going to tell me about your ex-husband.”

“Was I? Or does your prying nature as an officer of the law have to know?”

“Are you saying I’m nosy like my sister?” He licked the melted cheese off his spoon, his eyes locked on hers.

She watched his tongue slowly move over the spoon and the moisture in her mouth traveled south. She had a quick visual of all the naughty, delightful things he could do with that tongue. Fighting back the urge to groan, she pressed her linen napkin to her lips.

“Or are you merely avoiding the issue?” He wasn’t going to let the subject drop.

“Perhaps.” She shrugged and looked up at four young men walking by. “I came to Paris to get away from the questions and the memories. Believe me, finding out someone you thought you knew is an entirely different person knocks you off your axis. Suddenly your whole life is in question.”

Niko waved the waiter over and ordered another glass of wine. “Would you care for another, Aly?”

“Yes, please.”

His eyes scanned the area even as he spoke. “What questions are you asking yourself?”

“Oh, mostly if I’m any judge of character. Charles—”she shook her head, recalling the way he told her he was known as Chaz within the gay community “—Chaz, as he goes by now, and I dated for two years prior to our marriage. We knew each other for over fifteen years. Why didn’t I see the signs?” She could now in hindsight. Being held at arm’s length. The lack of passion. Resisting her pleas to start a family. The criticisms of her femininity.

Niko laid his hand over hers. “If someone wants to hide what or who they truly are, they become experts at evasion. Don’t be so hard on yourself. How could you possibly see through a lifetime of secrets? We all have trouble doing that. I’m trained to, but at times I fail. Someone like you, someone sweet and gentle, would see only the good in others.”

“Is that how you see me? Sweet and gentle?”

“I see you as satin over steel. It’s a captivating image, don’t you think?”

The waiter appeared with their wine, and their conversation stopped. She looked at Niko while he conversed with the server and mulled over his description of her. It was strange he saw her that way, because she learned over the past year how strong she could be. She was a survivor and quite proud of it, even though very few people in her life saw her that way. Odd he could zero in on that quality when they only just met.

How would she describe Niko? Determined, for sure. Arrogant, without a doubt. Yet beneath his hard exterior was a man devoted to his family; it was that revelation that made him appealing. He exuded a quality of sagacity. Just how had a man so young become so wise? It was almost as if he could see into her soul to unravel her secrets.

She was surprised and secretly touched he was taking her side as if he were defending her. Few of her family and friends had. They insisted she should have known Chaz was homosexual had she only opened her eyes and paid attention. Yet none of them had ever voiced their concerns or suspicions to her.

His homosexuality wasn’t the issue. People’s sexuality was of no concern to her. She was a proponent of equal treatment and equal rights for all. However, it was his lies about his feelings, his pretending to love her when he didn’t and ultimately his breaking their vows in their marriage bed that destroyed her feelings of value as a woman. If only he was brave enough, man enough to come out of the closet before they married. He hadn’t. Instead, he’d lived a lie, destroyed her life and broke her heart. Truth be told, the man snuffed out her sensual nature with his coldness.

Yet here at a sidewalk café in Paris, sitting across from a very handsome, attentive male, while she wore high heels and a red thong, she felt very feminine. Almost alluring. She smiled into her wineglass before she sipped. How utterly delightful.

“Do you still live in the same town? You and Chaz?” Niko sat back as the waiter placed their entrees in front of them—baked flounder topped with crabmeat, almonds and fresh rosemary, surrounded by steamed broccoli florets.

“For now. That’s one of the things I wanted to decide on my trip. Well, two things, actually. Do I want to remain in Asheville and do I want to keep teaching?” She’d moved into an apartment after the breakup. Staying in the house she once shared with her errant husband meant using the shower he used with his lover, to say nothing of the bed. There was no way she could do that. Every time she opened the shower door she remembered finding Chaz on his knees in front of his lover.

She left school early that day, in pain from her endometriosis. When she went upstairs, she heard a man moaning in the shower. Normally Charles was at the office where he ran a very successful construction firm. Concerned he might be ill, she hurried into the master bedroom, noticed the untidy bed and headed for their bathroom. Just as she was about to call out to her husband to ask if he were all right, she heard a strange male voice. “Oh, Chaz, you naughty boy!” No, she couldn’t stay in the house with that memory. The day she moved out, check in hand for her half of the house, the beach condo and boat, he moved his lover in.

Niko speared a broccoli floret. “Why would you leave teaching? Don’t you like it?” His question jarred her from the past, bringing her back to the present.

“I did when I started, but the students have changed these last thirteen years. They’re ruder, more violent, less respectful. And lazy. So incredibly lazy.” She took a bite of the flounder. “Oh this is fabulous. After all that running and emotional turmoil, I’m starved.”

“What would you do if you left teaching? You sketch quite well. People at Interpol remarked about the quality of your drawing of Dembri. Your attention to detail, recalling the scar through his left eyebrow in that sketch, is what evidently caught the attention of the computer when the analyst ran a match. Plastic surgery Dembri had didn’t correct that. So are you thinking of pursuing your art?”

Was the man crazy? “Live off my sketches? That’s not a very viable option.” Oh, but it was a secret dream. She had money from her divorce settlement, but she hated to dip into that until she made a final decision on where to live. Maybe she’d buy a townhouse or condo.

He sipped his wine, staring at her over the rim of his wineglass. “If one has talent, one should pursue it.” After taking another sip, he set the glass on the café table. “In France, being an artist of any kind is an honorable and desirable profession. Of course, you may have to work part-time at something else to pay the bills. At least until you’re discovered. In the meantime, your artistic soul will soar with happiness. You’ll be happy, Aly. Serene. Fulfilled. Maybe you could move back to New York City, rent a little apartment and work at your art.”

No one had ever talked to her like this. How had this man, this stranger, zeroed in on her secret desire? She shrugged. “I’ve ignored my sketching and painting for years. I’m so rusty.”

“Would you give me the honor of looking at your drawings?” He trailed a finger across her knuckles.

That sexual awareness she was just beginning to recognize flooded in, causing her blood to hum a low, sultry tune. Their eyes locked.

“Aly?”

Lord, she loved how he said her name with his accent. It was as if her name came from someplace deep and passionate. Surely she was imagining it. Get a grip. He’s ten years younger.

“If you’d really like to see my sketches, sure.” Tugging her sketch pad from her shoulder bag, she handed it to him. She pushed her food around on her plate, trying not to watch him peruse her drawings. Her palms were damp with nerves and she wiped them on her napkin. What if he found them lacking? Of course he would; how could he find them anything else?

“You’ve got talent, an eye for capturing emotion. This one,” he tapped the page with his forefinger, “of the elderly woman lighting a candle in the Saint German-des-Prés Church touches me. Her lined face holds more pain than happiness. Something about her reminds me of my Italian grandmother who lost her husband in World War Two.” He tilted his head and studied the drawing some more. “I wonder what her story is?” He flipped to the next page and smiled. “Ah, mon amour! The young couple kissing on a bench.”

Alyson knew which drawing he was referring to. The girl, early twenties, straddled the young man’s lap. Her long, dark hair created a curtain as she bent her head to her boyfriend’s. They blocked out the world with a long kiss. Seeing them so engrossed in each other was a bittersweet sight.

She was a few heartbeats away from forty and yet she’d never experienced such overwhelming passion. The sad thing was, at her age, she doubted she ever would. Of course, there was Niko’s kiss earlier along the street. Something else she best forget. “I’m glad you like the sketch. I call it ‘Youthful Passion.’”

“Passion knows no age. It only knows extremes—highs and lows. You’re very talented. Don’t ignore it. When God gives you a gift, you shouldn’t throw it away. Embrace it. Never, never belittle it.”

“Are you like this with everyone?” No man had ever encouraged her like this. Or made her as angry or as aware of her sexuality as he. Niko Reynard was a man who elicited emotions in others; not everyone had that ability.

“Like what?” He emptied his wine. Mercy, but he was gorgeous when he gave her that look with one eyebrow arched.

“Well, for starters, you pushed me back at the hotel, I think just to see if you could make me angry.” She saw the corners of his mouth twitch and the usual hard edge of his gaze soften. “You were, weren’t you? What was that about?”

The waiter set a plate of assorted cheeses on their table before taking away their dinner plates.

Niko gave that French arrogant I-know-what-I’m-doing shrug. “I like seeing the anger and passion spark in your eyes.”

“Passion?” Mercy, did she even have passion anymore? “You all but made love to my legs at the shoe store. Was that about passion, too?” He quirked that eyebrow again in mute concurrence. “Then you kissed me senseless on a public street. Of course, it didn’t faze you at all…”

“You think not?” He lifted her hand and turned it so he could press his warm lips to her palm.

A jolt of heat went straight from her palm to her groin.

“My first priority is to keep you safe, but that doesn’t mean I don’t feel things. You’re a very appealing woman.”

Okay, so what should she to say to that? Was he attracted to her? Surely not. Frenchmen merely enjoyed women. She was one of millions. Besides, in a few days, she’d be on her way home.

A young girl sashayed by in a short black leather skirt one could hardly call decent, wearing high-heeled black boots that went above her knees. His eyes pivoted to the girl and then quickly ricocheted back onto Alyson. She shifted in her seat, uncomfortable under his close scrutiny.

“Every French meal seems to end with an assortment of cheese.” She winced. Now there was an inane remark if ever she uttered one. But, really, it was the best she could do with his chocolate eyes melting all over her.

Niko laughed and sliced off a morsel. “So, you’ve noticed one of our loves. Charles de Gaul once asked how one could possibly govern a group of people who had over four hundred types of cheese, or fromage as we say in French. This is Comté. It has a strong, slightly sweet flavor.”

“Four hundred?” She opened her mouth when he held the morsel to her lips. No wonder the French seemed so cranky at times. They were probably bound up from all this cheese. Her gaze flickered to his. Thank goodness he couldn’t read minds. “Hmm, very good.”

He held out another piece. “Try this. It’s my maman’s favorite. Camembert. It’s from Normandy.”

After their meal, they walked down a narrow crowded alley. Alyson was beginning to realize there were no alleys in Paris, only narrow streets or rues, as the French called them.

Niko had his arm slung over her shoulders as they meandered, his attentions on the alert, eyes always scanning the crowds. “This is rue de la Hucette. One of the oldest streets in Paris. That is why it’s so narrow, too narrow for traffic. You can still see the chariot wheel grooves permanently worn into the cobblestones by the Romans centuries ago. Now it’s a tourist mecca.”

There were tiny shops selling T-shirts, iced fruit drinks and sandwiches made with meat shaved off whatever animal they had roasting on a rotating spit. Music danced out onto the crowded street from various shops, their doors hanging open. The atmosphere reminded her of carnivals and fairs back home.

Her protector removed his cell from his jacket pocket. “Pardon me while I call a police investigator. I’ve just identified a runaway I saw on a handbill this morning. Our unit is trying to improve relations with the local authorities. There’s been a bit of a turf war between our divisions. So we try to help without seeming intrusive. Office politics, you know.”

Alyson stopped to spin a rack of scarves positioned at the opened doorway of a tiny souvenir shop while he made his call. She chose scarves for Gwen and a few friends. They were kitschy enough to be cute, covered with pictures of Parisian landmarks.

An annoyed expression on his face, Niko held the cell away from his mouth, placed a warm hand over hers and shook his head. “No! Aly, they’re disgusting.”

Just to prove to him his opinion didn’t matter, she plucked another one off the rack for herself and stepped inside the miniscule shop to pay.

Niko was still relaying information to the investigator when she exited the store. A couple of teens throwing a Frisbee ran by, jostling her. When she stumbled, a band of steel wrapped around her waist, drawing her back against a very hard chest. She was relieved when she recognized the charcoal coat sleeve.

“You okay?” Niko whispered in her ear, feathering her hair and making her insides flutter.

“Yes, I’m fine. Thanks.” She stepped away, missing at once his warmth and security. When he wrapped his arm around her waist and drew her back to him, she was both surprised and oddly settled. Being close to him felt good. She rolled her eyes. Wouldn’t Gwen just love hearing that? Gwen who was probably telling everyone back home about the new man, ten years younger, in her sister’s life.

This was not going well. Not going well at all. A handsome, warm man was holding her close and, Lord, but he smelled like a dream. She wanted to put her nose against his throat and inhale his expensive cologne until she removed the scent from his neck and lined her lungs with it. She wanted to crawl up his leg and purr like a cat in heat. Nope, this wasn’t going well at all. She was in the arms of a man she met less than ten hours ago. A man who had his hands on her legs and his tongue down her throat. Much as she hated to admit it, she still hummed with a tinge of desire. Just how did one spell hussy in French?