Perfect Strangers

If you knew me, you’d know that’s not a word I use lightly.

And my, oh my, what incredible eyes. Bluer than the cloudless heavens above and ringed by a thicket of black lashes, they’re potent. Piercing. Penetrating. And some other sexually suggestive words I can’t recall at the moment because the horrible realization that I’ve been caught staring at him has stalled my brain.

He’s staring right back.

“I was asking if you’ve been over to Café Blanc yet,” hollers Kelly, as if I’ve developed a hearing problem since we said hello. “Be sure you tell Henri I sent you or he’ll charge you double—he’s a friggin’ cheat!”

She says that last part with affection. There’s nothing she enjoys more than the enduring friendships she forms when someone unsuccessfully tries to swindle her.

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 shit 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 cocked. 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 cocks 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.

But when our gazes meet this time, I’m unprepared for the force of it.

I stepped on a live wire once. I was eight years old. A utility pole had been damaged in a storm and came down in our backyard. I ran outside to investigate before my father’s warning shout could stop me, and the power of the voltage that surged through my body when my bare foot touched the wire threw me halfway across the yard.

Looking into this stranger’s beautiful blue eyes feels exactly like that.

“I’m James.”

His voice has turned husky. There’s a new tension in his body, as if he’s restraining himself from reaching out and touching me.

Or maybe that’s my imagination, which excels in running wild.

“Olivia,” I manage.

In the silence that follows, the sounds of the café seem unbearably loud. Silverware clatters against plates. Chattering voices become nerve-scraping shrieks. The flush on my cheeks spreads down my neck, and my pulse goes haywire.

I’ve never been looked at like this by a man, with such raw, unapologetic intensity.

I feel naked.

I feel seen.

When the waiter appears beside me, I nearly jump out of my skin.

“Madame.” Dripping condescension, he holds out the dessert menu and offers me a mocking bow.

“I’ve changed my mind. I’ll just take care of the check and be on my way, thanks.” I yank my handbag off the arm of my chair and dig through it for my wallet.

“You said you were waiting for someone,” James reminds me.

“I lied.”

James leans back in his chair and considers me, his intense gaze unwavering. The waiter looks back and forth between us, arching an eyebrow, then says something in French to James, who shakes his head.

I get the feeling they know each other, that James is a regular, and decide I’m never coming back.

I toss a few bills onto the small black plastic tray that holds my check and stand, bumping the table and knocking over a glass in my haste, trying unsuccessfully not to notice how the three young women at a nearby table are looking me up and down and whispering to each other behind their hands.

Those catty giggles. Those snide, mocking smiles.

One day they’ll be like me, hurtling toward forty with stretch marks and wrinkles and a new compassion for others that only the decay of your own body and the weight of all your crushed dreams will bring, but for now they’re beautiful and smug, certain of their superiority to the awkward tourist lurching away in terror from the first real feeling she’s felt in ages.

I don’t look back on my way out, but I feel James’s burning gaze follow me all the way to the door.

Somehow, this time I know it isn’t my imagination.