Pamela Hearon - Moonlight in Paris

“Mmm.” Henri smacked his lips appreciatively. “Two very sexy things, oui? An American woman speaking French with the American accent, and a woman from the southern United States saying anything at all.”

Garrett didn’t respond. He shifted in his seat, uncomfortable with the ideas of Tara and sexy being linked.

Henri dabbed the sides of his mouth with a napkin-swathed finger. “I see you brood all morning and now I have to wonder why an unexpected breakfast with a-little-wild-yet-nice woman would make you do that?”

Garrett twirled the demitasse spoon between his thumb and index finger. “She made me uncomfortable.”

“But you said she was very nice.” Henri’s bottom lip protruded in the quintessential French pout. Garrett had noticed Dylan doing the same thing lately.

“Oh, I don’t think she’s dangerous or anything...”

Henri pressed him more. “Then what is it about this woman that bothers you?”

“I don’t know.” Garrett was beginning to wish he hadn’t brought up this morning’s escapade. He’d only meant to entertain his friend with the story, and now Henri was trying to turn it into some deep analysis that Garrett was in no mood for. No doubt, the woman had dug up some buried emotions, but it was better to leave them in that dark hole within his psyche.

“Then you are in luck, my friend. I am the world’s greatest expert on...” Henri gave a vague nod in the direction of a middle-aged brunette wearing a power suit with a one-button jacket and, by all appearances, nothing underneath. “A-little-wild-yet-nice women—this new neighbor reminds you of Angela, oui?”

“No, not really.” Garrett shifted his gaze away from Henri’s knowing smirk. “Maybe a little...”

“Mais...?”

“When Angela went off her meds, there was no telling what she might do. She might disappear for hours with no hint of where she was and come home with a new piercing or another tattoo.” Garrett tossed the spoon on the table. “And once, after Dylan was born, when she wouldn’t take her meds and was swinging from one extreme to the other, she dyed her hair a hideous shade of pink.”

Every time he thought he was over his pity and his anger toward his wife, something would happen and those emotions would wash over him, drenching him and making him feel just as exposed as Tara had been in that damn transparent dress. He picked up the spoon again so he could have something to squeeze and transfer the emotion to.

“Many women have colored hair and piercings and tattoos, Garrett.” Henri checked his reflection in his own spoon and adjusted his tie. “This woman. This...”

“Tara. Tara O’Malley.”

Henri leaned forward again, peering closely at Garrett. “This Tara O’Malley is not Angela.”

“But she’s obviously got some of the same idiosyncrasies.”

Henri’s face broke into a wide grin. “You like her.”

Garrett saw where this was going. “Don’t. Don’t even start with all your matchmaking nonsense. Even if I liked her, which I don’t, at least not like you’re thinking...she’s only here for a month. I don’t want Dylan getting attached to anyone who’s just going to leave.”

“Pfft!” Henri waved away his argument. “You have already picked up on something within her that attracts you.” He wagged his finger “And you don’t want to get attached to her, either.”

Garrett opened his mouth to stretch away the tightness in his jaw. “You’re such a damn know-it-all, Henri. But you’re wrong this time. I’m not worried about getting attached to that freakin’ woman. She’s not my type.” He ran his hand through his hair. “The thing is, despite all my efforts to be everything he needs, Dylan misses having a mom. He’s vulnerable with women. I sure as hell don’t want anybody who’s just passing through—be it Tara O’Malley or someone else—to get close to my son. He doesn’t need another major loss in his life.”

Snap!

Garrett opened his hand and sheepishly dropped on the table two pieces of metal that had been a demitasse spoon.

“We will charge that to the company, oui?” Henri calmly adjusted his starched cuffs until the perfect amount showed from below the sleeve of his suit coat. “A spoon that is broken can be quickly replaced. The heart that is broken requires a longer time.”

* * *

MOTHER NATURE PROVIDED Tara with the perfect excuse to give in to the jet lag and slightly delay both her exploration of Paris and her search for Jacques Martin. She napped the rainy day away until late afternoon gave way to clear skies at last.

Calls were made to her family and Emma to let them know she’d arrived safely. They’d all been entertained by her tale of the morning’s adventure. And they’d all mentioned how typical it was for her to have such a strange thing happen, as weirdness seemed to keep her in its sights—but she’d only shared with Emma the splendid details of Garrett’s atypical nude appearance.

Need for sustenance finally prodded her out to rue du Parc Royal in search of a market, but not before she double-checked to make sure the key to her flat was in her possession. With no Garrett or Dylan in tow, it was doubtful that Madame LeClerc would give up the extra key a second time without requiring a pound of flesh as a deposit.

The third arrondissement, part of the area commonly known as le Marais, was every bit as charming and quaint as Josh had described. Narrow, cobblestone streets were lined with small, yet elegant boutiques and art galleries. Cafés occupied nearly every corner, and entire blocks were taken up by sprawling apartment buildings, whose ancient courtyards were protected by electronically locked wrought-iron gates that allowed spectacular views but no access.

Cars parked willy-nilly along the curb—and some up on the uneven stone walkways—gave the area a delightfully chaotic touch. Pedestrian traffic was heavy, and since the sidewalks were too narrow to accommodate two people passing, most people walked in the streets, stepping aside to let the occasional automobile by while dodging the plethora of bicycles.

A market turned up just two blocks from her building, but she passed it by for the chance to explore a bit longer with empty arms. A few more blocks brought her to a wide avenue—boulevard Beaumarchais—with one specialty food shop after another lining its sidewalks.

A variety of savory sausages hanging in the window of the charcuterie made her mouth water, enticing her to give it a go.

“Bonjour, mademoiselle,” the elderly butcher called as soon as the bell heralded her entrance.

“Bonjour,” she answered, to which he immediately replied something she didn’t understand. “Je voudrais...” She didn’t know the word for sausage, so she simply pointed to the kind she wanted in the case.

He smiled. “English?”

“Oui. Yes.” She gave a grateful nod.

He pulled the sausage from the case and cut off a small piece for her to try. The bite filled her mouth with a salty, savory burst that begged for a chardonnay to wash it down. Her accompanying “Mmm” brought a proud smile to the butcher’s lips.

“Is very good, oui?”

“It’s delicious. I can’t wait to have a glass of wine with it.”

“But of course.” Obviously, the wine was a given. “How much would you like?”

“A quarter pound?”

His eyebrows drew in. “No pounds in France. Kilos.”

Tara cringed. Kilos? She had no idea. “Um...” She hesitated.

The butcher picked up on her distress. “How many people?”

“One. Just me.”

He tilted his head and gave her a glance as if sizing her up. “No, mademoiselle. You are too beautiful to eat alone. This is Paris!” He gave a dramatic sweep of his arm toward the street. “Find someone to share.”