She started to protest, then realized he was likely wanting to buy her new clothes just for self-preservation. For a man as sleekly sophisticated as Alex Falconeri, seeing her in an old, worn T-shirt and tiny shorts likely hurt his eyeballs. Remembering Great-aunt Odette’s adjuration to let him pay, she sighed. “If you must.”
Alex slowly looked her over again. “I must.” He abruptly looked away. “But not today. Today we...”
“We what?”
“Today I’m going to show you Paris.”
And Alex did. After they came out of the five-star hotel on the Champs-Élysées, with Rosalie wearing just a simple blouse and flowing skirt against the cool, drizzly gray day, she discovered a Rolls-Royce and French-speaking driver, who tipped his hat.
“Mademoiselle.”
She looked at Alex in surprise. “What happened to your Lamborghini?”
“I had it sent on,” he said.
“Sent on? All the way to Venice?”
He shrugged, then held out his hand. “We have other things to do.”
For the rest of the day, they saw the most famous sights of Paris. Traveling in luxury and comfort, they bypassed lines. Doors fell open to them as if by magic. The Eiffel Tower was first, followed by lunch at the most difficult-to-book restaurant in the City of Light. Afterward, they enjoyed a speed tour of the Louvre, including the Mona Lisa. Then they visited the Arc de Triomphe, the bookstores of Saint-Germain-des-Prés and ate buttery fresh-baked croissants in the Marais.
Through it all, Alex was beside her, telling her stories about the history of the city, about this shocking general, or that scandalous queen.
“How did you learn all this?” Rosalie blurted out in the back of the Rolls-Royce as twilight finally fell across the city.
“I lived here long ago, studying wine.” He shook his head. “But don’t ask me about that, or I will bore you to tears with stories of vintners that are not quite so interesting, unless you’re fascinated by the Great French Wine Blight of 1871.”
“Fascinated,” she repeated, staring at the curve of his sensual lips.
“In the mid-nineteenth century, the phylloxera aphid blight destroyed most vineyards in France, forcing winemakers to try an American’s crazy idea of grafting hardy Texas rootstock onto their vines. It worked, the vineyards were saved, and a cowboy was awarded the Légion d’honneur by the French government...”
She watched his lips move as he spoke, wondering what it would feel like if he kissed her.
“Rosalie.” His voice was suddenly low and hoarse. “Don’t.”
She looked up. “What?”
“Just don’t. I want to take good care of you. But there are some things I cannot do.” He looked abruptly out the window. “We’re almost there.”
Humiliation made her cheeks blaze. Why did she keep doing this, revealing her desire? They’d spent a lovely day together, he’d been gentlemanly and kind, and she’d wrecked it all by staring at his lips!
Why did she keep embarrassing herself, forcing Alex to remind her that she could never be more to him than the mother of his child, a partner, or maybe if she was very lucky, a friend?
“Thank you for showing me Paris.” She looked out at the twinkling lights of the city beneath the rising purple night. Her stomach rumbled. “Are we going to dinner?”
“Yes. But you’ll have to wait for it.” The car stopped outside the Gare de l’Est. “Here.”
As she got out of the Rolls-Royce, she tilted her head back to look at the nineteenth-century building. “We’re eating at the train station?”
“We’ll be eating on the train.” He grinned. “Call it fast food.” Looking at her expression, Alex gave a low laugh. Taking the two satchels from the driver, he said, “Follow me.”
He led her into the train station. When she finally saw their train, her jaw dropped. It was a good thing she wasn’t carrying a bag, because her knees went weak.
“Our train is...is...” She swallowed hard, then breathed, “The Orient Express?”
Alex smiled almost shyly. “I saw your book, and I thought...”
Putting her arms around him, Rosalie lifted up on her tiptoes and kissed him.