Tracy Kelleher - The French Connection

“Miss McCleery?”

She smiled wider. Conjuring up a deep male voice with a French accent was a particularly nice touch to her daydream. The sensual sound embossed her colorful images.

“Miss McCleery?”

The voice became more insistent.

Shelley wrinkled her nose. It wasn’t good when a daydream ran away with itself. She concentrated on retaining the mood. The heat. The languor. The big, oversize hero.

Then she felt a light squeeze to her upper arm through her sleeve. Her eyes flashed open.

This was definitely not part of her dream.

Or maybe it was. A big, oversize hero appeared before her, his darkened figure outlined against the radiant blue sky.

She rubbed her eyes. A man. No question about it. Definitely a man. A man in what appeared to be a white, open-neck shirt, its sleeves pressed by the light sea breeze against his muscled forearms. He wore black trousers cut to perfection over his narrow hips and long, powerful legs. And as he arched his broad shoulders back upon returning to his ramrod-straight posture, she immediately thought of Marie-Jeanne.

Well, actually, she thought of Marie-Jeanne for no more than a nanosecond—posture was only posture, and he was a man, after all. “Quel homme!” What a man! as the teenager had exclaimed in her seventh-grade French textbook.

“Miss McCleery?” He turned his head at an angle, and Shelley caught the sparkle of even, white teeth.

She shaded her eyes from the sun and stared. If ever there was an excuse to ogle, this was it. “Oui, yes.”

“You were interested in the count?”

She lifted her chin, and with a slight smile that spoke of feminine wiles that appeared to have blossomed in the warmth of the French air, she replied, “Yes, I’m interested in the count.”

He lowered his chin. And slowly arched one eyebrow. “Then here I am.”

Shelley almost laughed. “Edmond Dantès, the Count of Monte Cristo?”

The corner of his mouth tilted up. His teeth glistened again. “No, Edmond, the Count de Montfort.”

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