Perfect Strangers

3

Thinking her a hapless American tourist on her first visit to Paris during college, the café owner inflated the price of her meal. The ensuing argument has become something of a local legend. When I introduced myself to the hostess as a friend of Kelly’s, she asked if Kelly still keeps Henri’s left testicle in a jar on her kitchen counter.

I replied with a straight face that she keeps it in her fridge.

“I’m actually at Café Blanc as we speak,” I tell her, holding the stranger’s gaze.

“Awesome! It’s fantastic, right?”

The stranger’s blistering gaze drops to my mouth. A muscle in his jaw flexes. He moistens his full lips.

Holy…was that a hot flash or did someone just light a fire under my chair?

Whatever it was, it’s new. For years my body has felt nothing but a boneyard chill. Flustered, I say faintly, “It’s…gorgeous.”

“What?” Kelly thunders. “Babe, I can hardly hear you! Speak up!”

“I said it’s gorgeous!”

A waiter with no chin and a nose like a toucan’s bill materializes at my tableside, frowning at the phone in my hand. He speaks in French, gesturing sharply at the phone.

I don’t understand the language, but I get his gist: You’re being rude. How American of you. Perhaps next you’d like to s**t on the Eiffel Tower?

I frown at him, wishing there really was a testicle jar because I’d be adding a few more to it. “Gotta go, Kell. I’ll call you back later, okay?”

She’s still shouting on the other end when I hang up.

The waiter drops the check on the table then looks at me pointedly. He wants me to clear out so he can give my table to one of the lovely couples waiting in line at the door.

I was about to leave, but jerks bring out the stubborn Sicilian in my blood. I offer him a smile so sharp it could cut steel. “Another espresso, please. And a dessert menu.”

“Dessert? You haven’t ordered a main course yet.”

His English is heavily accented. His brow is c****d. His lip is curled.

Before now, I’ve never met a person who could sneer with his entire body.

I say, “Are you always so observant or is this a special occasion?”

With a huff and a flare of his enormous nostrils, he spins off.

That’s when I hear the chuckle.

What annoys me is that I know exactly from whom it’s coming. I don’t even have to glance over to know that the blue-eyed stallion witnessed my little drama with the waiter and found it amusing.

So I don’t look over. I’m not interested in being a comedy show for the hottie who’s got half the restaurant in thrall.

I know it’s a strange sort of prejudice, but I’ve always secretly thought that a man’s ethics exist in reverse proportion to his good looks. You just can’t trust a guy who can have his choice of any woman within shouting distance. That kind of power will corrupt even the saintliest soul.

Ignoring everything but the warmth of the sun on my face, I tilt my head back and close my eyes.

A moment later, a deep voice says, “May I?”

Startled, I look up. The blue-eyed stranger stands beside my table looking down at me, his hand resting on the back of the chair opposite mine. I can tell from his confident stance that he assumes my consent is forthcoming, which won’t do.

I refuse to be a foregone conclusion.

“No. I’m waiting for someone.”

Ignoring my answer, he sits.

Entitled jerk.

We recommence staring at each other, this time up close.

Despite my discrimination against his pretty face and his bad manners, I have to admit he’s incredibly attractive. Whatever DNA produces a jaw that square, he should clone it and gift it to my chinless waiter.

Gazing at me intently, he says, “I’d love to draw you.”

Don’t you just hate it when a man opens his mouth and ruins everything?

I suppose it shouldn’t be a shock that this guy hasn’t had to develop better opening lines than that cheeser he just laid on me. He’s probably had women throwing themselves at his feet since birth. Plus, beauty like his is rarely paired with equivalent intellect. But still, I have to force myself not to roll my eyes.

“Just out of curiosity, does that work?”

His dark brows draw down over his blue gaze. “Does what work?”

His English is perfect. He doesn’t have an accent, French or otherwise. He must be here on vacation from the Land of the Beautiful People Who Don’t Understand the Word No Because They’ve Never Heard It.

“That line. ‘I’d love to draw you.’ Do women really fall for that?”

Blue Eyes c***s his head, examining me. “You think I’m propositioning you.”

He says it as a statement, not a question. A statement underscored by a hint of laughter.

Cue my instant, scorching humiliation.

This guy isn’t trying to pick me up. His stares weren’t those of a man sexually attracted to a woman. He was merely curious, looking at me so alone and etched with grief as I am, sticking out like an unruly and unwanted weed in this garden of roses.

Aiming for nonchalant, I wave my hand dismissively. “My mistake. Sorry.”

“Don’t be. I am propositioning you.”

I start to blink and can’t stop. Now the humiliation is gone, but I’m confused and blinking like a crazed owl.

As I direct my attention to the tablecloth and my hand resting there, trembling slightly, Blue Eyes continues in a conversational tone, as if he hasn’t completely crossed my wires.

“To sit for a portrait, I mean. You’ve got an incredible face. And your eyes, they’re…”

He trails off, searching for a word, then says quietly, “Haunted.”

My invisible shields slam down and envelop me, protecting my heart from the anguish welling up inside my chest. I’ve spent a long time developing my shields, and until I look up again they’ve never failed me.