“It’s that obvious?” I ask, silently reprimanding myself for my continued bad manners.

“Very.” As the waitress appears, Chantal says, “I’ll order for us.”

I would have tried to understand a few words of their exchange if not for the sudden prickling sensation on the nape of my neck again. The same sensation I’d had at the airport just before being welcomed to France by a pickpocket.

Instinctively I grab my purse, place it in my lap, and hold tight. Fighting the urge to turn to look behind me, for fear of being rude or seeing the man next to me eating raw meat, I shift in my seat. I’m in a new country, only days after Ava tried to kill me, just to name a few of my recent nightmares, and it’s making me paranoid. That’s all this is. Nothing more.

Except my urge to turn is intense—overwhelming, even.

The waitress walks away and I’m oicially crawling out of my own skin. “I’m going to the bathroom,” I announce, and push to my feet. I’ll be able to check out the seats behind me when I return.

“Toilette,” Chantal corrects, calling after me.

Without turning, I wave my understanding. Thankfully, I ind the “toilette” easily. With no one else present in the two-stall facility, I press my hands on the sink and stare at myself, seeing a too-pale brunette who’s the most uncultured person on the planet. I can’t even enjoy a meal in Paris.

Worry threatens to go wild and explode into all kinds of unproductive directions. What if I hate Paris, when Chris loves it and wants to live here? Even if I convince him to come back to the States, will he feel like I do here? No. No. He likes the States. But still, he wants to be here.

I shake my head. This is nuts. I’m overreacting. Just because I’m not immediately falling in love with Paris doesn’t mean I won’t it in or I won’t like it. I’ll like it with Chris. I’m sure of it. Very sure.

Needing to hear his voice, but knowing that isn’t possible right now, I dig out my phone to text him. That way he can answer when he has a break from his meeting.

Do you eat tartare, aka raw meat?

Hate it, comes his instant reply.

My shoulders relax and I smile at the fast reply and his answer. Snails?

Not a fan.

Fish?

Depends.

I’m allergic, I type, not sure I’ve ever told him that.

My phone rings and I feel guilty when I see Chris’s number. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have bothered you.”

“You aren’t bothering me. I needed a break from the egos about to blow the doors of the conference room. Where are you?”

“Some restaurant I can’t say the name of. I also can’t read the menu, and I don’t think I’d like it any more if I could.”

“No worries, baby. We Americans living in Paris know all the places to go to get the food we like. It’ll be better when you’re with me.”

He’s right. It will. The part where I’m with him will be wonderful. The rest, though . . . “I know. You’re right.”

There is a brief pause and he says, “You don’t know, do you?”

“I do.”

“You aren’t convincing me.”

“I just don’t love the food so far. It’s nothing more.”

“I don’t love the food, either.”

I watch my brows knit together in the mirror. “You’re so confusing sometimes.” Actually a lot of the time, but I keep that to myself. “If you don’t like the food, why do you want to live here? Food is such a big part of life.”

There is a heavy silence, and then, “Sara—”

He stops at the sound of a male voice speaking rapidly in French. I hear Chris reply to the visitor with a tone that says he’s not pleased, and guilt twists inside me again. I feel shallow and selish for bothering him about unimportant things.

“Sara—” he starts again, but I don’t let him inish.

“I’m sorry. You need to be taking care of business and I’m interrupting you.”

“You aren’t bothering me.”

“I am and I love you, Chris, and I don’t care about raw hamburger. I care about you. Your involvement there means great things for the museum and for your charity. I believe in what you’re doing and in you. Go. Work.”

He hesitates. “You’re sure?”

“Absolutely positive.”

“I’ll take you to eat someplace you’ll like tonight. Then I’ll take you home and show you how much I missed being with you today.”

Take me home. Oh, how I love those words. Home. Home.

Home. I have one, and it’s with Chris. I smile into the phone.

“Sounds perfect.” Then I toughen my voice. “Now go kick some big egos around, and make them listen to reason.”

“I will.” The relief in his voice tells me he was far more worried about my reaction to Paris than I’d noticed. “I’m not sure what time I’ll get out of here. I’ll call you when I know. I love you, baby.”

We say a quick good-bye and I put my phone away, lean on the sink, and look at myself in the mirror again. This time I see a woman in love, who is eager to explore the world she hasn’t seen with the man in her life. I head back to the table to eat my grilled ham and cheese, which thankfully has no egg on top.

When I glance at the two tables positioned behind my chair, they’re empty and complete with place settings. No one had been sitting there. I silently laugh at myself for my jittery mood.

There was never anyone watching me.

Nine

I know why Chris is drawn to Paris when Chantal and I walk through the main entrance of the Hôtel de Ville, or City Hall, a spectacular building resembling a castle that spans several blocks.

This very building and the city itself are a celebration of the art Chris and I both love.

In awe, I step to the side of the doorway and pause to absorb what surrounds me. Everywhere—from the antique furniture and the masterpieces on the walls to the marble loors—there is beauty. What really steals my breath, though, is the spectacular architecture woven with art. White pillars, archways, and inely crafted trim work are frames for intricately drawn paintings on the ceilings and walls.

“This is even more magniicent than the outside,” I murmur. Far more than what I expected of a political oice with a public afairs division.

“There’s a museum here, too, but you have to schedule tours.”

“Really?” I ask excitedly, tearing my gaze from a mural to return my attention to her. “What do you know about it?”

“I hear it has Picassos, but I’m not really into art so I’ve never visited.”

Picasso. I’m in the same building as a Picasso. Just across the city in the Louvre is the Mona Lisa. Oh, yes. I do think Paris can grow on me.

“This way to the marriage license oice,” Chantal says, pointing to an elevator.

Fifteen minutes later, after being sent to several diferent oices, Chantal and I stand at a counter in a large public room that resembles a registry of motor vehicles in the United States.

“What’s your friend’s name?” Chantal asks after speaking in French to the prim, ifty-something woman behind the counter.

“Ella Johnson,” I ofer quickly, eager for answers.

Chantal speaks to the woman, who then keys information into the computer and shakes her head. My stomach plummets to the loor. “What about the intended husband?” Chantal asks me.

I tell her and then hug myself as I wait for the dreaded next head shake. A few keystrokes later that’s exactly what I get, but the woman goes on to explain something to Chantal.

“She says,” Chantal relays, “that you have to have established residence in France for forty days and post a public notice before the wedding. Most foreigners do that at thirty days, but she sees no notice or application. Has it been at least thirty days?”

My stomach rolls violently. “Yes. She was only planning to be gone two weeks. She had to be back to work and she never showed.”

“Oh no,” Chantal replies, looking appalled. “You didn’t tell me. I had no idea.” She turns to the woman and they exchange a rapid back-and-forth before Chantal casts me a grim look.

“There just isn’t any chance she got married. They’d know.

Maybe she and her iancé were overzealous and didn’t do their research. They could have gone out of the country to get married since two weeks isn’t enough time here.”

Except there’s no record of her leaving, but I don’t say that.

“Thanks, Chantal. I’ll look into other options.” I ight the urge to call Chris and tell him what I’ve discovered. “I need to go to the consulate in the morning. I lost my passport and I want to ask questions about my friend. Could you go with me as part of my lesson?”

“Of course.” She reaches out and squeezes my hand. “Don’t fret. I’m sure she’s ine. In fact, I bet she loved the food so much, she decided to move here and they’ve planned a spectacular wedding event once they’ve settled in.”

My laugh at her joke is instant, and I embrace her suggestion with enthusiasm, hungry to believe Ella is safe and happy.

“Maybe she even likes tartare,” I joke.

She grins her approval. “I know what you’ll like.” She loops her arm in mine. “Let me show you what ‘chocolate’ French style is, and do some shopping. It’ll make you feel better.”

“Chocolate” turns out to be a hot-cocoa-like drink served with whipped cream on top at a little café of the Champs-

Élysées. Absolutely decadent, it’s so incredibly rich that even the chocolate lover in me can’t manage more than one small cup. After our stop in the café, Chantal and I spend an hour shopping at name-brand stores and I struggle with the returned sense of being watched. I’m beginning to think this creepy feeling has more to do with being in a wholly unfamiliar place than anything else.

I’ve just settled in a chair outside a dressing room while Chantal tries on a sexy red dress for a date she has Saturday night, when my phone rings. It’s Chris calling during a short break in meetings.

“How’s shopping going?” he asks.

“No luck yet.”

“Sara.” His voice is illed with part reprimand, part disappointment.

Why is he pushing me so hard on this? “I’m looking, I promise.”

Several seconds tick by. “I’m not your father.”

My lashes lower and I struggle with the history he’s hit me with; with a father who’d tried to hold me captive with his money. With my fear of becoming my mother, who was more my father’s subject than his wife.

“I know, Chris.” My voice is barely audible.

“Do you, baby? Because you aren’t convincing me.”

“Yes.” And I do. Chris is exactly what Chantal had said: special. “There’s no comparison.”

“You aren’t going to get used to having money again and then have me disappear on you. I’m not going anywhere. I made that mistake once. I won’t make it twice.”

“I don’t care about the money. I care about us.”

“Then get what you need and what you want. That’s good for us.”

I hear only sincerity and love in his voice. “This really means a lot to you, doesn’t it?”

“It’s part of us creating a new life, Sara. You have to be able to let go of the past.” He pauses. “And so do I.”

He’s right. And coming here was part of that, for him and me.

Unbidden, Ella slides into my mind. Maybe leaving her job and even me behind was the only way she could embrace her new life?

“I’ll ind something I love,” I promise. “How is it going there?”

We chat a bit more and we’re about to hang up when Chris says teasingly, “Spend money. That’s an order.”

To which I reply, “Or else?”

“You don’t want to know.”

Yes, I do. “Oh, now you’re just tempting me to burn this black AmEx you gave me.”

“Sometimes, Sara,” he says, his voice all sandpaper rough and wickedly suggestive, “the reward is better than the punishment.” He hangs up and I laugh, biting my bottom lip as potential rewards play in my mind.

Chantal exits the dressing room, a sexy vision in the clingy red dress. “Ooooh, that’s a devilish laugh you just gave. I’d love to have been on that call to hear what Chris said.”

“My lips are sealed.” I give her a once-over. “You’re looking pretty devilish yourself. I wonder if they have that in my size?”

Her expression lights with excitement. “Finally! Let’s get you out of denim and into red silk before you change your mind.”

Two hours later, Chantal and I exit one of many stores we’ve visited, and though it’s only ive thirty, we’re greeted by darkness, and the chilly weather makes me wish this black leather jacket was a bit thicker.

With seven bags of various sizes and weights now to my name, I am following Chantal to the entrance of a lingerie store, appalled to discover there is not a Victoria’s Secret in Paris, when Chantal’s phone beeps with a text. Chantal ishes her phone from her purse, her brow furrowing as she reads the message. “My mother’s sick with a stomach bug and needs me to look after my grandmother.” She looks up at me. “I’m sorry.

My grandmother had a stroke last month and she’s just come home from rehab.”

I can’t believe she’s apologizing. “Your grandmother is a million times more important than I am.”