“Ahh, who cares. You need to quit worrying about things like that.” Easy for him to say. That kiss probably hung a new tabloid target around my neck.

Ryan’s press interviews started promptly at 9 A.M., held at a different hotel in Paris.

We were whisked away in yet another chauffeured town car, allowing me to gaze in wonder at the sights. That’s when it hit me—another moment of awe at how lucky I was.

I slipped my hand into Ryan’s, wondering how I could ever thank him for such a gift.

David, Trish, and Ryan’s agent, Aaron, were in the car in front of us. Mike stretched his arms out to shield us as we exited. The press, foreign paparazzi, and a small cluster of fans shouted for our attention, snapping photos of our arrival.

“How long are we going to be?” I asked Trish, secretly hoping to visit the opulent gift shop and maybe the boutique several doors down that had a really cool leather jacket displayed on a mannequin.

She looked at her watch. “About three hours.”

I clutched Ryan’s arm right before he got too involved in the commotion. I knew I wouldn’t be allowed anywhere near these rooms once the interviews commenced. The suite was prepped for the cast’s one-on-one interviews. The movie poster for Reparation was standing behind a high-backed chair.

“I’m going to do a little shopping, okay?” Ryan instantly tensed. “No.” Suddenly I felt caged, recalling the hours of boredom I sat through when we did this back in London. Made me regret not staying back in our hotel suite. In my mind I was going with or without his blessing.

“I just want to get a few souvenirs, and maybe find something more stately to wear to dinner tonight. I really want to make a good first impression.”

Ryan’s hard glare softened. “They will love you no matter what you wear. We have the gift thing with Burberry after this, so don’t bother. You’ll have a rack of free clothes to pick from.”

I didn’t want to leave it to chance that el-egant cocktail dresses would be among the freebies. It’s amazing how companies just give you stuff when you’re famous. Besides, I promised I’d get a cheesy gift for Marie in every city. I motioned to the door with my eyes, ready to see who’d win.

Ryan groaned.

“I really wish you wouldn’t.”

It was obvious that the last thing he wanted to do right now was get into a battle of wills with me. He relented. “I guess I can’t expect you to sit around doing nothing. See if you can find someone to go with you, okay? I think some of Jenna’s friends are floating around here. Just don’t go by yourself.” I brushed my fingers on his stomach, not wanting to impose on his co-star or her family. “You’ve got to quit worrying so much.”

My comment sparked a glare and an unspoken “no fucking way.”

His lips pressed into a hard line as he noted the time on his watch. “Don’t get lost.

Two hours and then you get your butt right back here.”

I didn’t wait for him to change his mind.

With a quick kiss, I made my way to the elevator, excited about the possibilities.

Forty feet to freedom and perhaps a cab ride to the Louvre? An opportunity to actually touch the Eiffel Tower? Tomorrow morning, 10 A.M., we’ll be on a plane to Barcelona and there is no time this evening to sightsee.

I was just putting on my sunglasses when I saw the paparazzi and a sizable crowd of women standing outside near the entryway. I stopped twenty feet from freedom.

Shoot. Will they recognize me? Will they even know who I am if I’m not trailing behind Ryan?

Screw it. Only one way to find out. I followed a few patrons who were leaving, and tried to escape unnoticed.

The rule of “try not to make eye contact with them” had been instructed numerous times. Although no cameras were raised, I saw one man elbow his comrade as he pushed away from the hotel wall.

I headed in the direction where I thought we had come from, hoping to find the window with the white mannequin and the waist-length leather jacket. One quick glance behind me confirmed that Creep One and Creep Two were following me. I glanced again as my pulse tripped into double time.

Shit. I thought they were paparazzi, but oddly neither one of them had a visible camera. Not good. Fortunately the sidewalks were busy enough and it was broad daylight.

Store, store, store . . . where the heck are you, store? I had walked three blocks already. Distance is deceiving when you’re being chauffeured.

Finally, at the end of the block I found the window I was looking for and sought out the solace waiting on the other side.

The two men stopped short, peering through the glass to confirm I was inside.

Perhaps it was the display of women’s panties that stopped them from entering?

My heart was thrumming much too fast for my liking.

An extremely thin blonde with razor-sharp cheekbones approached me and started speaking in French. By the inflection of her voice I could tell she was asking if I needed help but at that moment I didn’t know if I needed assistance with clothing or with creepy stalkers. I could always call for a taxi and head back to safety.

“Mademoiselle?”

My eyes were fixed on the window as I watched the two men trot across the busy street. At least they weren’t standing directly outside the shop anymore. Hopefully they gave up. The clerk touched my arm lightly, breaking me from my surveillance.

“Oui. Oui. Um, parlez-vous anglais?”

“Oui. Yes. Can I help you?” Now that the language barrier was bridged, it was time to get down to business.

I tried to check the street without being obvious, pretending to glance at clothing but more worried about the unknown men who had followed me. God, when did I turn into this paranoid mess? I spent my entire life not being frightened or having to look over my shoulder, worried that some asshole with a digital camera was going to catch me doing something embarrassing. And now I was on heightened alert of my every mannerism.

Even something so naturally innocent like scratching a boob or a butt cheek could be captured as the next photo to grace a gossip magazine cover. Suddenly the thrill of finding some new Parisian designer clothing was gone and replaced by fear and suspicion.

My first time in Paris was quickly turning sour.

I wondered how different things would be if I were here with Thomas. No one would give a shit about me then.

I squeezed my eyes shut, picturing his ruggedness vividly.

My mental reprimand swooped right in behind that.

I can’t believe I allowed that thought to cross my mind! That was so not fair to Ryan.