Jennifer Greene - Blame It On Paris

Until the war, the Rochards hadn't had big wealth, but they'd been furniture makers, successful, thriving. Her grandfather had turned his loss and anger into a cause-seeking out old art treasures.

She'd found two magazine articles highlighting different aspects of her grandfather's life. Initially, justice had been Pierre Rochard's motivation for finding things that had once belonged to his family, and then he had wanted to help others do the same. But over the next couple decades, finding stolen treasures became his life's work.

"You know what I found amazing?" Kelly mused to Will. "That's what I do, too. I mean…I don't do anything as big or fascinating as what my grandfather did. But there's still a similarity. Tracking down credit card theft and fraud-it's all about the hunt, the search and the love for that kind of thing. You have to like poking into corners, people's private lives. You think that could be an inherited trait?"

Will appeared to consider this question, then gravely shook his head. "At a guess, I'd say nosiness at your level is probably a lot more of a practiced, perfected art form."

And then, just as she was about to smack him. he leaned over and came through with another kiss. It was another one of those forget-where-she-was, who-she-was kind of kisses, and she knew he'd done it deliberately.

"I'm on to you now," Kelly said, vaguely aware that the waitress was hovering with a tray.

"On to me about what?"

"About your wicked, manipulative ways."

"Yeah?" A quiet flush seeped up his neck. He was clearly delighted by the praise.

"Anyway," she said vaguely, and then picked up a spoon, unsure how a lemon ice had appeared in front of her. Her lips still felt kiss-stung. But eventually her mind wandered back on track to her father.

Her dad, Henri, had grown up with that background-only unlike his father, he tackled the treasure-hunting bug from a different angle. His work was insurance-insuring art treasures-while he developed a major collection of his own along the way. Kelly still hadn't grasped how that amounted to tons and tons of francs, but apparently it did.

"Thirty million. Isn't that what that last article claimed he was worth?"

"Something like that," Will concurred.

Bucks, francs, euros, who could keep them all straight? And Will didn't seem particularly impressed by the figure, but then his family already had money. Kelly was used to having none.

She motioned with her spoon. "I can't fathom how that number is supposed to mean something. I don't even know how many zeroes are on the end of that. I'm used to thinking in terms of clearance sales. I'm a hard-core T.J. Maxx-er. When I was little, my mom was a rummage-sale addict."

Will frowned. "What's a T.J. Ma-?"

"Nevermind. Trust me, you wouldn't understand. The point is I don't understand how my mom fit into this. I mean…some of what she told me had to be true. How else could she have met a Frenchman if she hadn't been over here studying at the Sorbonne? But from everything she said, even if she invented a bunch. I never had the impression she thought he had any money."

"Maybe he wasn't the kind of guy to show off his wealth. Your grandfather certainly sounded like a quiet, reclusive type. Every article we found on him made a big deal out of how quietly he lived, not wanting to be noticed."

Another thought occurred to her. "Now it makes more sense why my brothers-my half brothers-took such an instant dislike to me. I couldn't understand why they leaped to the conclusion so fast that I was a gold digger, but that was before I realized how much money there was. Now I get their attitude. And I have to tell my father that, Will. Now! Today! That I don't care about the money, that was never why I tracked him down, that I never even knew about that-oh my God!"

"Oh my God. what?"

"I just called him my father. As if I really believe it."

Will lifted a hand across the table and took hers. Met her eyes. "Now," he said gently, "I think you're ready to try calling him."

"No."

"Yeah, you are. You're ready to see him again, too."

"No, I'm not!"

"Uh-huh. I'll be right with you." He stood up, as if expecting her to rise, too. Granted, they'd finished eating ages ago and they'd already argued about the bill and then Will had paid it, and they couldn't very well sit there all afternoon.

But her eyes narrowed. Nobody bullied Kelly Nicole Rochard. Nobody. She wasn't going to do this until she was downright good and ready.

Only then, of course. Will kissed her again.

"DID I MENTION before that you're a manipulative, sneaky, underhanded son of a gun?" she asked him.

"Not in the last five minutes," Will assured her, and managed to park his Citroen in a space that couldn't possibly be more than five inches by six. She didn't notice his incomparable skill. She was too busy looking belligerent and strong-and grabbing his arm in a killer vise when he came around to her side of the car.

A few clouds fluttered overhead, but mostly the sky was a pure blue, with a warm sun beating on their heads…and the view. The 7th and 16th arrondissements were traditionally the most expensive real estate in Paris. They were only a skip away from the Eiffel Tower and Musée d'Orsay, but Will didn't suspect Kel would be up for sightseeing after this.

The Rochard house was classic-tall with a steep gabled roof, oriel and bay windows, leaded stained glass. Sculpted shrubbery framed the long steps to the front door, and a wrought-iron fence protected the Rochards privacy.

The place wasn't remotely ostentatious. It just looked like serious old money-well kept, well cherished. Somebody loved that house.

"Will," Kelly said firmly, "it's not fair that I dragged you into this."

"Sure it is. The man is nothing to me. If he's mean to you or makes you uncomfortable, I can deck him. No qualms. And if you two get on fine, then I'll go sit on the front step and smell the aristocratic air for a while. Great spring day, no sweat."

"I'm no coward."

"I know that, cookie. Cowards don't travel across the Atlantic alone."

"He can't really want to see me."

"He had a chance to say no when you called. Instead, he agreed to another meeting, so he must be willing to see you."

"But now I remember the way he looked at me the first time…believe me, he doesn't like me. Or want to believe I exist. He probably only agreed to see me this time because he was afraid I was going to be trouble."

"Honey, you are trouble. And if you're his daughter, you're damn well entitled to be trouble. Look at me." At the door, before knocking, he straightened her collar, pulled up her shoulders, smoothed her hair. Then he kissed her nose. "Let's do it."

He knocked. He didn't have a clue what she was barging into, but he was damn well positive no one was going to attack her. No, he didn't intend to deck anyone, but he knew exactly how rude the French could be-and how nontough Kel could be. Whether the meeting became awkward or awful or both, he wasn't about to let her face it alone.

Yet when the door opened, Will was tempted to gape. Maybe before, Kelly's story had seemed halfway like a fairy tale to him. but the man who opened the door was somewhere around his early sixties. His hair was distinctly brandy-brown. He was tall, no pansy in build, but still unusually fine-boned. And he had brown eyes so startling they made you want to stare. Like Kelly's. Exactly like Kelly's.

He had a thin mouth, sharply defined. Like Kel's.

He had the same perfect skin.

His nose was bigger, but the slant of cheekbones and the shape of his chin…hell. They were all Kel's.

No one could doubt the relationship. And from the sudden change of color in Henri Rochard's face, he realized exactly who Kelly was.