Royally Seduced

Silke immediately answered, “Oh, it is very nice here.”

“Ja,” Hans agreed.

The elevator opened and they walked out to the lobby. “But what do you really think?” she insisted.

Silke looked around furtively. “It is not very organized. Sometimes the attractions do not open on time.”

“Twenty minutes late, even,” Hans threw in. “And they close for lunch at all hours—not what the sign says.”

Lily smiled. Ah, punctuality. The more laidback French attitude did not sit right with German precision. “I can see how that would be a problem. But perhaps some spontaneity is a good thing on vacation?”

They gave her identically puzzled looks. Silke shrugged. “If they want to be open different hours, they should change the signs.”

And that was that. Lily waved goodbye as they set off for their sunny Parisian day of skulls and cemeteries.

Lily turned toward the door, but she bumped into another backpacker, a tall, lean man with a long brown ponytail and matching beard. “Oh, pardonnez-moi,” she tried her French on him.

“No problem,” he replied in perfect English with only a hint of an accent, as he adjusted the straps of his small black backpack.

Rats. “Is my accent that awful?” she burst out.

“What?” He looked at her, startled.

“My accent. My cousin Sarah says I have a terrible French accent, even on basic things like pardonnez-moi and merci.”

He gave a tiny wince as she pronounced those words.

“You hear it, too, don’t you?” she cried. “I must sound like the American village idiot trying to speak your language.”

“Hey, hey,” he soothed her. “How long have you been living in France?”

“I’ve been visiting for a couple days.”

He raised his shoulders in a typically French shrug. “And so you think your two days in Paris means you speak French perfectly?”

“Well, I guess not. But you speak English perfectly.”

“I should hope so. I lived in Manhattan for ten years.”

“Really? I’m from Philly, but I live in New Jersey right now.”

“Ah, Joisey,” he said in a perfect New Jersey accent. Was there no accent this man couldn’t do?

“Hey, don’t knock Jersey. Not all of us can afford Manhattan.” Although he didn’t look like he could afford even the student hostel. And if he’d lived in New York for ten years, he was probably older than the other backpackers, too.

He held up his hands in placation. They were big and nicely shaped, with long, strong-looking fingers.

“Do you play piano?”

“What?” He looked startled again. Lily was singlehandedly earning a reputation for all Americans as being slightly crazy.

“Piano.” She wiggled her fingers at him.

He looked down at his hands and then back at her. “Why? Do you want me to play a tune for you? Would you like ‘Alouette’ or ‘Frère Jacques’?”

“I can see you must be too busy to make conversation.” She lifted her nose like she’d seen her mother’s employer do a million times before to an impudent guest. Mrs. Wyndham was one of the grand ladies of Philadelphia’s upper crust and Lily’s mother was still her housekeeper, in charge of managing the myriad employees and tasks necessary for the smooth running of a historic mansion and busy social activities. “Thank you for your assistance, and have a nice day.”

She brushed past him out the door onto the busy French sidewalk. Fresh croissant or pain au chocolat for breakfast? Flaky French chocolate rolls sounded good. Before she could decide, she felt a touch on her elbow.

“Hey, hey.” Backpack Guy stopped touching her with his long piano fingers as soon as she stood still. “I’m sorry, mademoiselle. You caught me by surprise and I forgot my manners.”

“No problem.” Lily spotted a café down the street that she hadn’t visited yet. “I’m always grumpy before breakfast, and that chocolate roll is calling my name.” She eyed his spare frame. She didn’t think it was from too many cigarettes since he didn’t smell of smoke. In fact, for a guy who looked like he’d been sleeping on a park bench for a month, he actually smelled nice. “If you don’t mind my saying so, you could use a croissant.”

His mouth pulled into a wry grin. “Probably. Why don’t we get some croissants together?”

She leaned away from him and gave him a suspicious stare.

“I was a Boy Scout if that makes a difference.”

“Really? There are French Boy Scouts?” She perked up. This was the kind of thing she wanted to learn about his country—something that wasn’t in the tourist books.

“Come have a café au lait with me and I’ll tell you all about le scoutisme français.”

“Scoutisme? Is that a real word?”

“On my honor.” He raised his hand in what looked like a Boy Scout sign.

“Well, okay. And maybe you can help me with my French pronunciation.”

“I would be happy to.”

Lily turned to face him. “All right, I can’t call you French Backpacking Boy Scout, so you better tell me your name.”

He smothered a laugh. “No, that would be quite a mouthful. My name is Jack Montford.”

“Jack? Isn’t it actually Jacques?”

“Yes, but I started going by Jack when I lived in New York.”

“Smart move. I’m Lily Adams.” Lily set off for the café. “Come on, Jack-with-the-Backpack, let’s get you a couple croissants—with extra butter.”

JACK DIDN’T KNOW quite how he’d wound up going out for breakfast with a woman he’d literally bumped into, but Lily Adams was right—he could use some calories. She’d thought he picked her out as an American from her accent, bad as it was, but he had picked her out as an American as soon as he saw her blond ponytail and cheerful expression. Her hazel-green eyes gazed eagerly at everything, as if she were trying to memorize details for later.

And to think she wanted to learn about French scouting, of all things. Not where to get the best-smelling parfum or cheapest designer knockoffs, but actual bits of real French life.

They stepped up to the café counter and Lily cleared her throat. “Je voudrais deux croissants et deux pains au chocolat. Oh, deux cafés au lait. Merci.”

Jack had to admire her tenacity when she knew she had difficulties with the language. He quelled the cashier’s incipient smirk with what he thought of his comte look.

Lily, happily oblivious, accepted the bag of pastries and handed him a cup of coffee.

“Merci,” he thanked her. “And you say de rien, which means, ‘It was nothing.’”

She practiced that a couple times as they walked to a bench along a pretty little park. Jack chewed a bit of pain au chocolat, mindful that his digestion was still a bit sensitive. Lily dipped her croissant into the milky coffee with gusto, not minding the flaky crumbs falling on her khaki cargo pants.

University students from the nearby Sorbonne argued about philosophy and politics while a young long-haired musician played guitar, his girlfriend staring up at him adoringly.

Nadine had stared at him like that while they were dating, but stopped soon after their engagement. It was as if she didn’t need to bother once she had his ring. And of course he had been gone many months out of the year with his disaster relief work. His closest friends in the world, Giorgio, Prince of Vinciguerra, and Francisco, Duke of Aguas Santas in Portugal, had warned him to slow down.

Jack found it easy to ignore their advice. They were ones to talk about slowing down. Giorgio ran his own country and Francisco owned not only a huge, busy estate in the Portuguese countryside but also a private island in the Azores.

If only his friends had grabbed him in person a couple months back, since it wasn’t hard to delete their phone and text messages.

He’d slowed down, all right, almost to the point of permanently stopping. When they’d heard he was sick, George and Frank first offered to fly to the hospital in Thailand to collect him. When that hadn’t been necessary, they threatened to confiscate his passport so he couldn’t leave France until George’s sister’s wedding.

George, Frank and Jack had met going to university in New York and had set up a nice bachelor pad for themselves when George’s parents tragically died in a car crash back in their small country Vinciguerra, on the Italian peninsula. George’s distraught twelve-year-old sister, Stefania, had come to live with them, along with a no-nonsense housekeeper.

End of their bachelor pad, but the beginning of the best time of his life. Stevie became one of the gang and the sister he’d never had. And now she was getting married.

Jack hoped she and her German fiancé looked at each other like the young guitar player and his girlfriend.

“Earth to Jack.” Lily peered into his face and waved a croissant. “You still hungry? You put away that chocolate roll pretty fast.”

He looked down into his lap. A small pile of crumbs was all that remained. Maybe the fresh air and quiet greenery was helping his appetite, but he didn’t want to push his luck. “You want to know about the real France?”

She rolled her eyes. “Of course. Who doesn’t?”

“Many people. For them, we are France-Land, a giant amusement theme park for them to visit. See the Eiffel, look at the Mona Lisa, hear the bells rung by the Hunchback of Notre Dame, and voilà! You have experienced the true France.”

She gave him a peeved look. “I don’t agree with that at all, and you have a pretty low opinion of tourists for a guy who’s backpacking his way around the country. Or is it just a low opinion of American tourists?”

“Well…”

“Aha. You, monsieur, are a snob. And see, I know that is a French word, too.”

“I am not a snob.” He was acquainted with many snobs and he wasn’t one, was he?

“When you lived in New York, did you go to the Statue of Liberty?”

“Of course. A gift from my country to yours.” Stevie had loved the green lady. If she hadn’t been Princess of Vinciguerra, Jack often thought, she would have become an American citizen.

“And the Metropolitan Museum of Art? And the Empire State Building?”

“Yes to all of those.”

“So why can’t we enjoy the Eiffel Tower, the Mona Lisa and the bells at Notre Dame Cathedral?”

He gave her a nod of apology. “Again, you have caught me without my manners. We are notably proud of those three things in Paris, and many more, of course.”

“So since I have already visited all those places, tell me where I should go next to get a sense of the real France.”

Jack made a split-second decision. His other belongings were safely stashed in a locker at the hostel for the day and he hadn’t made any firm plans to leave for Provence. What was one more day? The trains were always running to the south of France. “Why don’t I show you?”

Her pretty brow wrinkled again. “Show me what?”

“One of the most beautiful parks in Paris that only the locals know about. You like to hike?”

“I love it,” she promptly replied. “The Appalachian Trail runs through Pennsylvania, and I’ve hiked several parts of it.”

“Good, this will be easy for you. Do you have a Métro card?”

“All set.” She stood and dumped her empty cup into a nearby trash can. “Allons! Let’s go.”

Jack 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. And I never liked the character of Othello. He had everything he ever wanted and tossed it away because Iago preyed on his insecurities. Weak.” She shook her head. “And strangling his wife, Desdemona—what a creep.”

“The man did die by his own hand in the end,” Jack pointed out.

“He should have done everyone a favor and done that first. Or maybe he could have even believed his wife was telling the truth about being faithful to him and then gone and kicked Iago’s ass for making trouble.”

“Unfortunately, marital fidelity and ass-kicking make for dull theater.”

“Not if they have a good fight choreographer for the ass-kicking scene. Those guys can make thumb-wrestling look fascinating.”

“Thumb-wrestling?”

Aha, so there was at least one American tradition he didn’t know about. She was about to lift her hand to show him but realized they’d be holding hands again, albeit in a combative manner. “I’ll show you later.” She dropped the willow branches and turned toward the sound of rushing water.

Jack stood there gazing up at the tree. “Aspirin is derived from willow bark—the scientific name salicylic acid comes from the willow genus Salix.”

She turned slowly to stare at him. “How do you know that?”

“Science class.”

Lily raised her eyebrows. “You must have paid better attention in science class than I did.” She was lucky to recall that the scientific name for humans was Homo sapiens.

“I know you have your own strengths.” He moved close and for a second, she thought he would kiss her under the umbrella of the bowing branches. But he must have picked up her hesitation again and withdrew, the gleam in his brown eyes shuttered. “Allons! Let’s go see the waterfall.”

“Okay.” She followed him, expecting to see a stream burbling over a shallow drop, but instead they stepped into another grotto, with a high waterfall thundering down to a pool at their feet. “Holy cow, look at that. And this is part of that same quarry?”

He nodded and tipped his face up to the water, little droplets condensing on his cheeks. She closed her eyes and did the same, exhaling deeply as some of her tension flowed away.

Traveling without Sarah had been more stressful than she realized. She had to be constantly alert to where she was and who she was near. And the language barrier—well, that wasn’t so bad. Sarah had been right that there were plenty of English speakers roaming Paris.

Like Jack. He was a bit of a puzzle—scruffy-looking but clean and obviously well-educated with a variety of knowledge. She opened her eyes to find him watching her with an enigmatic expression.

“You rarely find places like this in any city.”

“No.” She shook her head in agreement. “There’s nothing like it in Philadelphia or New York.”

“That is a replica of the Roman temple of Daphne.” He pointed up to the round Grecian-looking building. “It’s the highest point in the park and you can see all the way across Paris to the Sacre-Coeur Cathedral.”

“Great!” Lily checked her camera to make sure she had plenty of space on her memory card and set off after him. The stairs were cut into the rock as before and twisted around as they ascended. She was so excited that she didn’t realize Jack had fallen behind. He waved her on when she stopped. “Just getting a drink—I’ll catch up to you in a minute.”

She was too excited to drink and quickly got to the top. “Oh,” she gasped. It was just as Jack had said, the best view in the city. She looked down on all the cute neighborhoods and across northeast Paris to the white dome of Sacre-Coeur Cathedral. She grabbed her camera and took shots from every angle, zooming in on the cathedral and the houses below. The bridge made a cool composition with the surrounding trees reflecting in the water. “‘A favorite of local Parisians, Parc Butts-Something-Or-Other is a hidden treasure of greenery amidst the noisy city.’” Yes, that introductory sentence sounded pretty good, so she typed it into her phone.

But where was Jack? She peered around guiltily at being so caught up in her work. Had he twisted his ankle? “Jack?” she called, descending several steps. He stood below her, huffing and puffing.

“Stopped to take a drink.” He limped up the rest of the stairs.

“Hey, you’re gasping. Are you okay?”

“Fine,” he gritted out, bending over to rest his hands on his knees and sucking air at a pretty good pace.

Lily looked around, wondering what she should do if he keeled over. They were alone at the highest point of the park and she couldn’t exactly toss him over her shoulder in a fireman’s carry. “Do you need an inhaler?”

He shook his head. At least he wasn’t asthmatic. She could see herself calling the Parisian version of 911 and trying to ask for emergency medical help to come to some park with the word butts in the name.

He straightened, his face flushed with exertion and probably embarrassment, too. He pulled a bottle of water from his small backpack and sipped slowly.

She pulled out her own water and pretended they had stopped for a water break. Once he wiped his mouth and met her glance, she shook her head. “Too many cigarettes will kill your endurance.”

He gave a dry laugh that turned into a cough at the end. “I am not a smoker, Lily. I am probably the only man in France who doesn’t smoke.”

She had to agree with him there. The tobacco-free movement was about as welcome as a barge of plague rats floating down the Seine. “Well, you’ve got that going for you.”

“But not much else, eh?” His color seemed to be returning to normal. He spread his arms wide. “Ah, the perfect specimen of French manhood. I cannot even climb a hill without gasping like an old man with emphysema.”