Nancy Thompson - What Happens in Paris

What if you fail? Locking yourself away in your studio is so safe; you don’t have to put yourself to the test. What if you get to Paris and prove you’re a great big failure? What if you go all that way and they don’t want you anymore, just like Blake didn’t?

Okay, I thought. They lay Paris in your lap and you have to think about it? Oh, just kill me now. Or ask your son what he thinks about this….

And Ben had two simple sentences for me:

“Are you crazy, Mom? Go for it.”

Go for it.

I was finally going far away.

I was going to Paris.

Nancy Robards Thompson has reinvented herself numerous times. In the process, she’s worked a myriad of jobs, including newspaper reporting; television show stand-in; production and casting extras for movies; and several mind-numbing jobs in the fashion industry and public relations. She earned a degree in journalism only to realize that reporting “just the facts” bored her silly. Much more content to report to her muse, Nancy has found Nirvana doing what she loves most—writing romance fiction full-time. Since hanging up her press pass, this two-time nominee for the Romance Writers of America’s Golden Heart struck gold in July 2002 when she won the award. She lives in Orlando, Florida, with her husband, Michael, their daughter, and three cats, but that doesn’t stop her from dreaming of a life as a bohemian writer in Paris.

(STAYS IN PARIS?)

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Dear Reader,

I’m a firm believer in the old adage, “When one door closes a window opens.” Because sometimes what seems to be a devastating end is actually a blessed beginning, a window of opportunity to a better life path.

That’s exactly what happens to Annabelle Essex in my NEXT novel, What Happens in Paris (Stays in Paris?). The end of her marriage opens the door for her to discover her authentic self and fulfill unrequited dreams. When life pushes her out of her comfort zone, she steps up to the challenge with grace and dignity (after an initial period of kicking, screaming and cursing fate). In the end, her courage is rewarded in ways she could never have imagined had she not faced her dark hour.

Life does move in mysterious ways. Sooner or later, change knocks at everyone’s door. Sometimes we face the challenges willingly; often it’s with a great deal of angst and trepidation. The next time you find yourself standing at life’s crossroad, I wish you the courage to take a leap of faith that will land you on your best path.

Warmly,

Nancy Robards Thompson

This book is dedicated to Michael and that kiss we shared on the quay of the River Seine. Here’s to many more. Je t’aime.

And to Jennifer, who patiently understands that the only way books get written is when Mommy spends long stretches of uninterrupted time at the computer. Jen, you are my sunshine.

Je t’aime.

Thanks to my editor, Gail Chasan, Tara Gavin and all the

wonderful people at Harlequin who make it possible for me to

do what I love.

Thanks to my agent, Michelle Grajkowski, for everything!

Thanks to my critique partners, Teresa Brown,

Elizabeth Grainger and Catherine Kean, who make the hard

parts of writing fun. Special thanks to Elizabeth

for double-checking my French.

I couldn’t have written this book without valuable insight

from attorney Adam Reiss. Thanks for the lowdown on laws

pertaining to lewd and lascivious behavior, bailing oneself out

of jail and filling me in on other—umm—interesting aspects of

getting arrested; and special thanks to my good friend

Carol Reiss, who did not bat an eye when I told her

I needed to discuss lewd and lasciviousness with

her husband. It’s all in a day’s work, right?

“Grandmère, marriage is sacred,” says the girl.

The old lady quivers. “Love is sacred,” she replies. “Often, marriage and love have no connection. You get married to found a family and you found a family to constitute society. Society cannot do without marriage. If society is a chain, then every family is a link in that chain. When one gets married, one is bound to respect a social code…but one may love twenty times because nature has made us that way inclined. You see, marriage is a law, and love is an instinct that moves us to the right or to the left.”

—Conseils d’une Grandmère, Guy de Maupassant (1850–1893)

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

My first clue should have been the infestation of gold-embossed, cream-linen envelopes from various law firms. Thirty-three of them I counted in our mailbox on that otherwise ordinary Friday evening. Each one addressed to my husband, Blake Essex.

My second hint should have been the way Blake swept them out of sight, nonchalantly shrugging them off when I asked about them.

“Who knows?” he said. “If I had the money they spend on postage for the worthless junk mail I get, I’d be a wealthy man.”

That was enough for me. I mean, he was right. We did get an excessive amount of junk mail. Just never from attorneys. Still, it was Friday night and all I wanted was a gin and tonic—not a fight. I’d had enough stress at work that week. The wonderful world of marketing can take its toll.

I shoved all thoughts of the unopened lawyer letters to the back shelf in my mind—the place where I stored nagging doubts and discrepancies that didn’t quite add up but couldn’t be explained—and mixed us a drink.

We went on with our Friday-night ritual as we had for the past eighteen years, politely working together to get dinner, cleaning up afterward, watching a DVD, performing our bedtime routine, giving each other a peck on the lips, and falling asleep, back to back, on our separate sides of the big, king-size bed.

Standard MO for an old married couple.

That’s what I used to tell myself.

But now that I think about it, the letters weren’t my first clue. By the time they arrived, it was as if the universe was at its wits end and had resorted to slapping me up the side of the head and shouting, Open your eyes, you blind idiot. Can’t you see the truth?

Even so, I didn’t put two and two together until the next day when my sister, Rita, and I were on our way to Saint Petersburg to catch Le Cycle des Nymphéas—Monet’s water lilies—exhibit at the Museum of Fine Arts.

Rita was driving and I was reading the newspaper, skimming each page diligently to make sure the competition didn’t somehow get a leg up on the retirement company I do marketing and advertising for, scoring free press in the paper. I’d finished with the main section and moved on to the local and state when I spied mug shots of two men that gave me pause.

One man looked like Blake.

I did a double take and realized the name under the photo was Essex. The other was of a basketball coach at one of the high schools.

Every little inkling lurking in the murky shadows of my subconscious jumped to attention and my worst fears were confirmed—right there for all of central Florida to read in twelve-point type.