Читать книгу Royally Seduced - Marie Donovan - Страница 9

“I CAN’T believe this is in the middle of the city.” Lily gazed around the park in rapture. Fashionable young mothers in silk T-shirts and slim Capri cargo pants pushed babies in strollers, their gladiator sandals slapping the pavement. Older men strolled along the paths, conversing with enough upper body movement to qualify for a cardiovascular workout. She was the only tourist in sight. “How do you say the name again? The sign says Butts, but that can’t be right.”

“No, we have no ‘butts’ here.”

Lily sneaked a look at his, but those baggy shorts made it impossible to tell. Probably as lean as the rest of him. Rats! He caught her peeking. She fought a blush, and she hadn’t even seen anything. He was kind of cute with his warm brown eyes.

“You would pronounce it ‘Boot show-mon.’”

Lily never would have guessed that from the sign that read Parc des Buttes-Chaumont. “What does it mean?”

“Buttes are hills and Chaumont probably means ‘bald mountain.’ And parc means—”

She elbowed him, interrupting his chuckle. “Yes, thank you, I figured that out for myself.”

He wrapped his arm around her shoulders for a brief squeeze and then dropped it. “I am just teasing you, Lily. I admire your courage in coming by yourself to a country where you do not speak the language.”

“I wouldn’t have been on my own if my cousin hadn’t had wonderful news.” She found herself telling him about Sarah’s past problems having a baby, and he nodded as if he knew what she was talking about.

“Yes, yes, it was wise for her to stay at home. Pregnancy can be difficult in the first trimester, especially with a history of complications.” He cleared his throat. “But of course I am not an obstetrician.”

She laughed. He looked as little like any ob-gyn she’d ever met. She pulled out her camera and took a few shots of Parisians enjoying the fine summer day. “Come on, let’s walk.” She followed the path into the park and was surprised to find herself in almost a forest. “Wow, Jack, look at all these trees.”

“Yes, the park was commissioned by Napoleon III in the mid-1800s. Many of the trees were planted then.” Jack pointed to a curve. “Ah, turn here.”

All the noise of Paris had fallen away as they passed a red brick mansion in the park and crossed a terra-cotta-tiled bridge. “Down the steps?” Lily peered down a dark, cool tunnel.

“Exactement.” Jack went down a couple steep steps and extended his hand. “Watch your step. The rock can be slippery.”

Lily took his strong, warm hand. As they descended, she was grateful for his steady grip and her sturdy hiking boots. “How on earth did they ever make this park?”

“They shaped it from an old quarry and it took several years to finish.”

She concentrated on keeping her footing and only looked up when they emerged onto a long, narrow suspension bridge. It was as if they were in a misty watercolor illustration of a fantasy novel heavy with wizards and princesses. She couldn’t resist taking more photos, this time one-handed.

The bridge towered over a serene lake that reflected up the greens, yellows and reds of the surrounding trees. She realized they were still holding hands, but didn’t let go. She’d enjoyed Paris, but missed Sarah badly. Sightseeing by herself wasn’t as much fun as with someone else. A travel buddy gave her the chance to say, Wow, look at that, or even spotting something funny and giving a nudge to share in the joke.

Lily looked sideways at Jack and was surprised to see how much he had relaxed. “You’re not much of a city boy, are you?” They started to cross the wooden planks of the bridge, the steel railings making decorative geometric patterns of triangles and rectangles.

He smiled, his white teeth showing through his thick beard. She wondered what he looked like under all that hair. Just her luck, he would have no chin or a weird facial tattoo. “No, I would rather be in the country. Once I have finished in Paris, I am going south, to Provence.”

“Provence,” she tested the name on her tongue. “You’re from there.”

“My family is. I don’t get there as often as I like.” He cleared his throat. “But enough about me. What do you do when you are not traveling?”

Hmm. She didn’t want to tell him she was writing travel articles because he might worry she was writing down everything he said. “I’m a freelance writer. I write magazine and newspaper articles on anything I can get paid for—history, local sights—I’ve even covered school-board meetings and supermarket grand openings.”

“Ah.” He nodded thoughtfully.

“What, ah?”

“That is why you want to learn about the real Paris, the real France. People interest you as much as the places.”

“Hmm. I’ve never thought of it that way. I just wanted to keep busy and keep getting jobs.” They came to the end of the bridge and Lily pulled her hand free from his, pointing up to the Roman temple-looking thing on the hill in front of them. “Wow, look at that.” She supposed she could have used her other hand to point, but she was starting to like holding his hand a little too much.

Her danger signals were flashing: romantic park setting in Paris—check. Hand-holding with a well-spoken, seemingly decent guy—check. Not remembering the last time she held any male body part—check.

Jack pulled a water bottle from his small backpack and drank. “One more thing to see before we climb.” He took a deep breath and headed down the trail toward the lake.

Lily fought a pang of irrational disappointment that he didn’t take her hand again, but the man obviously could read mixed signals as fast as she sent them. She followed Jack and stopped next to a weeping willow tree, its yellowish branches and silvery green leaves drooping over the path. “Sing willow, willow, willow. Sing all a green willow will be my garland.” She couldn’t help grabbing a handful of branches and clutching them to her in pure dramatic fashion. She was such an English major geek.

Jack stopped. “Othello, right?”

Her jaw fell. He wasn’t even a native English speaker and he knew enough Shakespeare to understand her obscure reference? “Very good.” She sounded like Sarah at her most teacher-ish.

“Shakespeare in the Park.” Central Park, NYC, that is. He started walking again.

“I went to that once! But they did one of the comedies, not a tragedy. Which do you like better?”

“The comedies, of course. Real life has enough sadness already.”

“True. And I never liked the character of Othello. He had everything he ever wanted and tossed it away because Iago preyed on his insecurities. Weak.” She shook her head. “And strangling his wife, Desdemona—what a creep.”

“The man did die by his own hand in the end,” Jack pointed out.

“He should have done everyone a favor and done that first. Or maybe he could have even believed his wife was telling the truth about being faithful to him and then gone and kicked Iago’s ass for making trouble.”

“Unfortunately, marital fidelity and ass-kicking make for dull theater.”

“Not if they have a good fight choreographer for the ass-kicking scene. Those guys can make thumb-wrestling look fascinating.”

“Thumb-wrestling?”

Aha, so there was at least one American tradition he didn’t know about. She was about to lift her hand to show him but realized they’d be holding hands again, albeit in a combative manner. “I’ll show you later.” She dropped the willow branches and turned toward the sound of rushing water.

Jack stood there gazing up at the tree. “Aspirin is derived from willow bark—the scientific name salicylic acid comes from the willow genus Salix.”

She turned slowly to stare at him. “How do you know that?”

“Science class.”

Lily raised her eyebrows. “You must have paid better attention in science class than I did.” She was lucky to recall that the scientific name for humans was Homo sapiens.

“I know you have your own strengths.” He moved close and for a second, she thought he would kiss her under the umbrella of the bowing branches. But he must have picked up her hesitation again and withdrew, the gleam in his brown eyes shuttered. “Allons! Let’s go see the waterfall.”

“Okay.” She followed him, expecting to see a stream burbling over a shallow drop, but instead they stepped into another grotto, with a high waterfall thundering down to a pool at their feet. “Holy cow, look at that. And this is part of that same quarry?”

He nodded and tipped his face up to the water, little droplets condensing on his cheeks. She closed her eyes and did the same, exhaling deeply as some of her tension flowed away.

Traveling without Sarah had been more stressful than she realized. She had to be constantly alert to where she was and who she was near. And the language barrier—well, that wasn’t so bad. Sarah had been right that there were plenty of English speakers roaming Paris.

Like Jack. He was a bit of a puzzle—scruffy-looking but clean and obviously well-educated with a variety of knowledge. She opened her eyes to find him watching her with an enigmatic expression.

“You rarely find places like this in any city.”

“No.” She shook her head in agreement. “There’s nothing like it in Philadelphia or New York.”

“That is a replica of the Roman temple of Daphne.” He pointed up to the round Grecian-looking building. “It’s the highest point in the park and you can see all the way across Paris to the Sacre-Coeur Cathedral.”

“Great!” Lily checked her camera to make sure she had plenty of space on her memory card and set off after him. The stairs were cut into the rock as before and twisted around as they ascended. She was so excited that she didn’t realize Jack had fallen behind. He waved her on when she stopped. “Just getting a drink—I’ll catch up to you in a minute.”

She was too excited to drink and quickly got to the top. “Oh,” she gasped. It was just as Jack had said, the best view in the city. She looked down on all the cute neighborhoods and across northeast Paris to the white dome of Sacre-Coeur Cathedral. She grabbed her camera and took shots from every angle, zooming in on the cathedral and the houses below. The bridge made a cool composition with the surrounding trees reflecting in the water. “‘A favorite of local Parisians, Parc Butts-Something-Or-Other is a hidden treasure of greenery amidst the noisy city.’” Yes, that introductory sentence sounded pretty good, so she typed it into her phone.

But where was Jack? She peered around guiltily at being so caught up in her work. Had he twisted his ankle? “Jack?” she called, descending several steps. He stood below her, huffing and puffing.

“Stopped to take a drink.” He limped up the rest of the stairs.

“Hey, you’re gasping. Are you okay?”

“Fine,” he gritted out, bending over to rest his hands on his knees and sucking air at a pretty good pace.

Lily looked around, wondering what she should do if he keeled over. They were alone at the highest point of the park and she couldn’t exactly toss him over her shoulder in a fireman’s carry. “Do you need an inhaler?”

He shook his head. At least he wasn’t asthmatic. She could see herself calling the Parisian version of 911 and trying to ask for emergency medical help to come to some park with the word butts in the name.

He straightened, his face flushed with exertion and probably embarrassment, too. He pulled a bottle of water from his small backpack and sipped slowly.

She pulled out her own water and pretended they had stopped for a water break. Once he wiped his mouth and met her glance, she shook her head. “Too many cigarettes will kill your endurance.”

He gave a dry laugh that turned into a cough at the end. “I am not a smoker, Lily. I am probably the only man in France who doesn’t smoke.”

She had to agree with him there. The tobacco-free movement was about as welcome as a barge of plague rats floating down the Seine. “Well, you’ve got that going for you.”

“But not much else, eh?” His color seemed to be returning to normal. He spread his arms wide. “Ah, the perfect specimen of French manhood. I cannot even climb a hill without gasping like an old man with emphysema.”

“Have you been sick?”

Jack sighed. “Unfortunately, but I was hoping I was better.”

“Maybe you’re pushing it a bit to come to the hilliest point in Paris, don’t you think?”

He grimaced. “You are right. I should have known better.”

“What are you getting over, if you don’t mind my asking?” She hoped it was nothing awful like cancer or something serious like that.

The first glimmer of humor returned to his brown eyes. “Dysentery.”

“Dysentery?” she blurted. She found herself unconsciously stepping back from him, trying to remember if they had shared any food or drink. “How in the world do you get dysentery these days? I thought the tap water smelled a bit funny but I thought it was okay to drink.” Was that why everyone carried bottles of expensive spring water? Why didn’t Sarah mention this to her before she left? Don’t drink the water! Wasn’t that usually the last advice people shouted out the windows of their cars as they dropped you off at the airport for a journey to a foreign country?

“No, I did not get dysentery in France.” He rubbed his cheek as if his beard itched. “I caught it in Myanmar.”

“Myanmar? Why on earth would you go there?” She’d never heard anything good about that place nowadays, ever since they stopped calling it Burma. It was definitely not on her list of places to visit.

Jack set off at an easy walk and Lily followed him. “They had a typhoon and I was an aid worker—food, shelter, healthcare, all the fundamental necessities. I accidentally drank some untreated water and…” He held out his arms. “Voilà.”

“Wow, you went there on purpose?” She realized that sounded kind of rude. “I mean, that’s noble work.”

“Not so noble when you get as sick as the people you are trying to help. I wasted many resources, especially when they had to take me to the hospital in Thailand.”

“You must have been severely ill, then.”

“Eh, there were many who would have benefited from hospital care but I was the one who was transferred out.”

“Guilt.” She raised her index finger to make her point. “You have survivor’s guilt.”

“What?” He gave her a funny look.

“Sure. You’re thinking, ‘Why me? Why did I get better medical treatment than the others? Why did I live when others didn’t?’”

He glanced down and away from her. “You may be right.”

“And what are the answers to those questions?” Lily gave an imitation-French shrug. “No one knows. Come on, you’re French. Use a little bit of that national tendency toward fatalism. It was meant to happen that way.” She peered into his face and gasped in pretend shock. “Surely you’re not an optimist, are you?”

A small smile crept across his lips. “Well…”

“Uh-oh.” She wagged her finger. “Watch out—someone might mistake you for an American if you’re not careful. An optimistic Frenchman. Tsk, tsk, who would have thought?”

“A personal failing.” He grinned at her. “Please do not tell anyone. I would like to keep my French passport.”

“Don’t let it happen again. If French people were all cheerful and friendly, what would tourists complain about?”

“Parisians are Parisians.” He gave that uniquely French shrug that she had tried to copy and failed. “You will find if you go to different areas of the country, people are more friendly.”

“Like Provence?”

His face softened and he wore a faraway glance. “Exactly. The air is warm and light and the sky is pure blue. The hills are always green, and even the north wind, the mistral, brings clear, dry weather in its path.”

Lily was memorizing his description as best as she could, his words painting a vivid picture.

“Everything is more in Provence. The food is richer, the wine is crisper, the fish are bigger and the ducks are plumper. Have you ever had a day where everything comes together—the weather, the countryside and the food?”

Lily did. “Once, my mother and I packed a picnic and drove out to Washington Crossing Historic Park, where George Washington crossed the Delaware River to capture Trenton from the English. There is a huge wildflower preserve on the grounds, and Mom and I sat in the middle of the flowers, smelling the perfume, listening to the bees. The sky was bright blue with white puffy clouds and we ate chocolate éclairs and licked the melted smears off our fingers.” Funny how she hadn’t remembered that outing in so long. Despite her mother’s busy schedule, she carved out time to spend with Lily.

“Almost every day is like that in the Provençal countryside.” He sighed. “I have been away too long. But soon I will return.”

JACK FELT SLIGHTLY better talking about Provence, but the rest of his morning had been a severe humiliation. He’d finally caught his breath descending from the beautiful Grecian folly, but not without several worried looks from the lovely Lily, who fussed over him as if he were an old man.

He was a man who could land a twin-engine plane on a grass airstrip and immediately trek several miles through harsh jungle terrain, but he couldn’t manage a set of stairs in the middle of Paris. Pathétique.

But look, there was someone in worse shape than him. He stopped next to a young mother trying to carry her baby down the last set of stairs in one arm and her bulky carriage hooked over her other elbow. “May I help?”

The woman nodded gratefully and handed over the carriage. He carried it down for her but realized he was breathing hard and sweating again. How embarrassing, especially when Lily noticed, as well.

“Careful, Jack, you’re still getting over that case of dysentery.”

Unfortunately, dysentery in English translated to dysenterie in French and the young mother gave him a look of horror, yanking her carriage away.

“No, no, madame. I am all better now,” he tried to soothe her in French. She still looked panicked. “Trust me, I am a physician myself.”

“Then you should know better, monsieur. You should not be going about Paris infecting innocent mothers and babies.” She glared at him and scurried away, baby still in one arm and pushing the carriage with a couple finger-tips—probably home to disinfect everything he touched.

He sighed. “Lily, you can’t go around telling people I have dysentery. It makes them nervous.” That was an understatement. Instead of Typhoid Mary, he was Dysentery Jack.

“You mean she understood me?” she asked eagerly.

“The word is almost the same in both languages.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“For that word, you have a perfect French accent.”

“Figures.” She laughed. “What are some other diseases I can learn in French and terrorize the local populace? How about dengue fever?”

He had to laugh in return. Oh, boy, did he know diseases. Most of them had been eradicated in developed countries, fortunately. “That would be la dengue.”

“Ho-hum. Typhoid?”

“Typhoïde.”

“Boring. Diphtheria?”

“Diphtérie.”

“Bubonic plague?”

Ah, he’d barely escaped an outbreak in Madagascar that had popped up just after his team had left a flood scene. Thanks to some heavy-duty antibiotics given in case, none of them had gotten sick. “That is la peste bubonique.”

“Really?” Her smooth forehead wrinkled. “You French must be pretty cool customers. Plague is a mere pest for you. And I know more French than I thought. Since you don’t want me telling people you’re getting over dysentery, if anyone asks me what’s bothering you, I can tell them you have la dengue, typhoïde, dipthérie or even la peste bubonique.”

He groaned, imagining the frantic calls to the Ministry of Health and the tabloid articles—The Count of Brissard, recently returned from a mysterious hospitalization in Thailand, is rumored to be carrying dengue fever, typhoid, diphtheria and bubonic plague. “Please do not. I have no desire to be thrown in quarantine for undetermined weeks. I spent enough time in the hospital already.”

“Okay, okay, I’m only kidding. You’re the only person I know in this whole country. I certainly don’t want you quarantined.”

“Good. Although I will have to keep on your good side, just in case.”

Lily laughed, the sound light and carefree. He hadn’t heard nearly enough laughter in how long? Months? There hadn’t been much to laugh about in typhoon country.

He wanted to hear more of Lily’s laughter. Before his rational, scientific mind could censor his previously undiscovered impulsive side, he blurted, “Come to Provence with me. You want to see the real France? I will show it to you.”