2
Marta Proulx came to with a tasteless lollipop in her mouth. She’d always been partial to sucette—citron was her favorite. She loved anything lemon. Her mother’s lemon tarts were the best of any French pastry shop. This sucette had nothing to like about it, but she couldn’t find the energy to spit it out.
A man was tugging at her clothes.
She hit him.
Or tried to.
She felt as weak as a kitten and barely managed to hit him at all.
He shrieked as if she’d run him down with a her Peugeot.
“Do not do that ever again,” the man glared down at her. His accent was very British. Posh British.
“Then stop, monsieur, with the taking off of my clothes.” Somewhere in there was a coherent sentence.
“I will if you agree to stop bleeding.”
“I’m bleeding?” She shouldn’t be bleeding. Then she rem
