Jennifer Greene - Blame It On Paris

So how was she supposed to know if what she felt for Will was real?

If it could last?

Or if loving him would cause repercussions through her whole life, the way loving the wrong man had affected her mother's?

Will didn't usually shop at sex-toy stores before a date. In fact, he'd never shopped at a sex-toy store, ever, but after trying two drugstores and a department store for the item he needed-an item he'd have thought would be easy to find-he gave up and went to a source he knew would carry it.

Come to think of it, he'd never gone to this much trouble for any date, ever.

Not that he minded. Not for Kelly. But he was edgily aware that the stakes were damn high-and increasing by the day.

When he pulled into Kelly's driveway, he remembered how she'd described the confrontation with her mother. All this time, she'd been too upset to bring up the subject. All this time, she'd felt so wounded that her mother had lied to her about keeping her father's existence and identity a secret.

Thunder grumbled in the west. Clouds scudded overhead like tumbling balls, one falling over the other, each darker than the last. The first fat drop of rain splashed on his head, but he was prepared for that, too, and put up an umbrella before he climbed the steps to Kelly's door.

He rapped. Waited. He was still thinking about what she'd said about her mother, that her mom had lost her head in Paris, believing Rochard had loved her, then had become disillusioned.

Somewhere in her mother's story was the reason for Kelly's fears. Though he didn't totally understand it, he sensed the bottom line-that the only thing really keeping Kelly from taking off with him to Paris was this. She needed to feel sure of herself and what she felt for him. with him.

Sure that he wasn't a guy like Rochard. Sure that he wasn't feeding her a fantasy.

He was about to rap on the door again when it abruptly swung open.

His mouth framed a hello, but no sound emerged.

It was the yellow that locked up his vocal cords.

He'd never seen her in yellow before. And this wasn't yellow-yellow, more like a pale butter color, and he wasn't dead sure if it was a dress or underwear. The indefinably dangerous garment had tiny shoulder straps. After that it was simply silky fabric that fell from a bodice to above her knees.

He would have bet-even in Vegas-that she wasn't wearing a bra.

Or underpants.

He opened his mouth to greet her again, and again lost his voice. This time, though, his gaze narrowed on her face.

Smoky eyes met his. Of course, Kel had always had smoky eyes, but tonight the lashes looked long and sultry, the brows arched with a delicate curve. Her lips had this…this red on them. Not siren-red. Just…sex-red. Her hair was scooped up in a messy little heap on top of her head. And the expression on her face was pure…tease.

"I got a little dressed up," she murmured.

"I can see that."

"You said this was a payback dinner. That you owed me. So I figured I'd make you pay back big."

"I'm already paying," he assured her drily, making her laugh.

"Not that kind of paying, you nut. I meant…a seriously good dinner. Like lobster or something."

"Trust me," he said in the same dry voice, "you can have whatever you want for dinner. Lobster. Me. Steak. Ribs. Me-"

She rolled her eyes. "You are so easy…and speaking of sex objects, you look edible yourself."

He'd tried. His sisters were responsible for anything decent in his closet, since the girls had told him from birth that he had no taste and they did. So the dark blue shirt and black summer slacks were supposed to be the right thing.

As long as Kel liked them, that was all that mattered. "You're going to get a fancy dinner, I swear. But the place we're going is a surprise."

"What kind of surprise?" she asked suspiciously.

"The kind of surprise you can't guess."

As expected, she looked completely bewildered when he turned into a neighborhood near the Notre Dame campus, and even more confused when he pulled into the driveway of an unfamiliar house.

"We're eating with friends of yours?" she asked.

"Nope." The street was shaded by fat, old maples. Most of the homes were brick with landscaped yards, the tip of ND's golden dome visible in the distance. "An economics professor used to live here," he said as he opened the car door and motioned her toward the front.

"And now who lives here?" she asked.

He grinned. It wasn't a big house, just one of those English Tudor bungalows-redbrick with a high-peaked roof and dormer and a pretty oak door. When he unlocked the front door, she stepped inside.

The foyer was a semicircle of cherry paneling. The paneling was unique, but the wood floors definitely needed a refinish. A thin set of stairs led to a single giant bedroom and bath upstairs, not that Kelly could see those from here.

The immediate view showed a small living room with a bay window and white stone fireplace. Beyond was a dining room, looking over a shaded backyard, and beyond that was the kitchen. The kitchen had old appliances, but the room had been renovated fairly recently with cobalt-blue counters and white trim.

Kelly glanced around, then back at him. and when he didn't produce immediate answers, she started ambling around. The more Ms. Curious poked and prodded, the more confused she appeared. Apart from a full downstairs bathroom, done in a ghastly shade of pink, the downstairs held two more rooms- one long, narrow family room, and the other a medium-sized den. where she paused in the doorway.

The den had ceiling-to-floor bookcases and a corner fireplace. Dusty, long drapes fell to the floor.

"There's no furniture in this place," Kelly said bewilderedly.

"I know."

"Except that I smell food in the oven."

"Yup, you're right again."

When she looked back into the den, it had to be pretty obvious where they were eating. On the carpet. He'd been here ahead, of course, set up an old blue blanket, opened the merlot to let it breathe, absconded with major-size pillows from his sister's place and a tray of vanilla candles. Late-afternoon sun was still filtering the west windows for now, though, making candlelight a little premature.

"Okay," she said. "Cut out the suspense. You know I can't stand it. You said an economics professor used to live here. But who does now?"

"You do. If you want."

"Huh?'

There. The look of stunned surprise was worth all the running around he'd done to put this together- and of course, this was just the first part of the evening, and not the end of the surprises. But it was a pretty good zinger for an opener, if he said so himself.

Dinner wasn't too challenging. Wine. Strawberries dipped in cream cheese and brown sugar. Fresh bread, just baked. A crab salad and some sushi and other delicacies he knew she liked, followed by a complete tray of desserts. It wasn't exactly his kind of meal, but when he'd called his favorite restaurant to cater, he was thinking of what worked for her. Chocolate. French pastries. The ease of bread and fruit and all, where they wouldn't need knives and spoons, so much, just an occasional fork.

By the time he had her shoes off-which didn't take long-she was sitting cross-legged on the blanket, the silky yellow dress bunched between her legs for modesty. She was still trying to absorb what he'd told her, but it was uphill getting her to accept this particular gift.

"Maguire's owns the house. Actually, the family owns a fair amount of real estate around the university. Anyway, the economics professor who lived here got a divorce, moved away in the middle of the semester. That left us stranded in more ways than one. You'd be doing me a favor if you lived here."