Royally Seduced

Right before she got back to her seat, she passed the Frenchwoman again. “Excuse me,” she said in English.

“Of course. American?”

“Of course,” Lily parroted back to her, feeling a tinge of jealousy at the dark-haired woman’s overall ease. Ease in English, ease in how her hair fell onto her shoulders, how her clothes were fashionable but comfortable. And how in the world did she keep linen pants from wrinkling on a train ride?

But Lily wanted to be a better person than that. “You have a lovely country.”

“Thank you. I have been to New York. Parts of it are nice.”

Damned by faint praise. “As are parts of Paris.”

But her return crack went over the woman’s head because she was staring at Jack. “Your lover is very handsome.” She was right—not about the lover part, but about him being handsome. Jack did look particularly gorgeous, almost like a Renaissance painting of a sleeping shepherd boy with his pale skin and reddish-brown hair, which curled slightly around his ears and neck.

Lily’s hackles rose and she gave her a tight smile. She was about to say he wasn’t her lover, but then realized, why give Frenchie an opportunity? “He is, isn’t he?” A little devil made her say, “And wonderful in the bedroom, as well. So inventive.” She fought back a blush.

“Frenchmen usually are, unlike American men.” Touché. But Lily wasn’t about to defend the lovemaking abilities of her country’s male population, especially since she pretty much agreed.

“But he looks familiar.” The Frenchwoman wrinkled her perfect brow as she examined the sleeping Jack.

Nice try, sister, she’d heard that before. “I don’t think so. Now if you would excuse me…” She slipped into her chair and deliberately opened her laptop, typing words like skhjaldhfkjhioeurio and dkoiasuejndkjfioadioufi in an attempt to look busy. She peered at her screen. Geez, the mess looked like a cross between Greek and Old Norse. She backspaced until the nonsense syllables were gone.

Jack had fortunately slept through her bragging on his sexual prowess. She didn’t know what had made her do that.

Yes, she did. Her face started burning. She’d been wondering about his sexual prowess ever since he’d turned up sexy and clean-shaven and she’d accidentally rubbed her thigh all over his.

She quickly opened a new document and began a blog post on travelling the TGV—Train à Grande Vitesse, the Train of Great Speediness. Like most things, it sounded better in French.

Like her name, Lily. Your average flower that showed up every Easter at the grocery store, like it or not. But it sounded better in French—Lee-lee. And even Jack’s full name, Jacques. Exotic and adventurous, or was she reminded of old Jacques Cousteau specials on the nature channel?

“Jacques,” she whispered his name, just to hear it from her own mouth.

He bolted upright, his eyes wide and staring. “Quoi? Qu’est-ce qu’il y a?”

“Oh, my gosh, I’m so sorry.” She grabbed his hand. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“What?” He turned to her, his eyes coming back into focus. “Are you all right?”

“Fine.” She patted his hand. “Go back to sleep. We still have a couple hours left.”

He rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “No, I’m awake now. I thought I heard someone calling me.”

Cringe. “I was chatting with this woman. Maybe you overheard us.”

“Maybe. Do you have anything to drink? My mouth is very dry.” She passed him a water bottle and he drained it.

“I’ll get another.” He stood and stretched, his shoulders filling out his thin pale green cotton T-shirt. “Do you need anything?”

Yeah, a cold shower for her libido and a bar of soap to wash her mouth out for lying. But since those weren’t options…“How about an orangeade?”

JACK STOOD IN a quiet corner of the train’s bar, sipping his own orangeade as he checked his voice mail. Four frantic messages from his maman, despite the fact he’d called her after leaving to apologize again for the ruins of her well-meaning, if not well-thought-out, party. He’d made it clear he and Nadine were permanently over, but her romantic soul probably thought they’d had a lovers’ tiff. Not one voice mail or text from Nadine. Good. She’d gotten his message, then.

A voicemail from Frank in Portugal and a text from George—who knew where George was? He was traveling frequently back and forth to New York to spend time with his fiancée, Renata, a wedding-dress designer who specialized in vintage styles. Apparently Stevie was wearing one of her creations, and that was how she and George had met.

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