Once in Paris

“Great. You can be my designated driver. Come on.”

“But I don’t have a car,” she protested.

“Neither do I, come to think of it. Well, in that case, we don’t need a designated driver.”

He led her to a corner table where a square whiskey bottle, half full, sat beside a squat little glass and a taller one with what looked like soda in it. There was a bottle of seltzer beside them and an ashtray where a thick cigar lay smoking.

“I guess you hate cigar smoke,” he muttered as he managed to get into the booth without falling across the table. Obviously he’d been there for a while.

“I don’t hate it outdoors,” she said. “But it bothers my lungs. I had pneumonia in the winter. I’m still not quite back to normal.”

“Neither am I,” he said on a heavy breath. He put out the cigar. “I’m not anywhere near back to normal inside. It’s supposed to get better, didn’t you say that? Well, you’re a damned liar, girl. It doesn’t get better. It grows like a cancer in my heart. I miss her.” His face contorted. He clenched his fists together on the table. “Oh, dear God, I miss her so!”

She slid close to him. They were in a secluded corner, not visible to the other patrons. She reached up and put her arms around him. It didn’t even take much coaxing. In a second, his big arms encircled her slender warmth and crushed it to his chest. His face buried itself hotly in her neck, and his big hands contracted at her shoulder blades. She felt him shudder, felt the wetness of his eyes against her throat. She rocked him as best she could, because he was huge, all the while murmuring soothing nothings in his ear, crooning to him, whispering that everything would be all right, that he was safe.

When she felt him relax, she began to feel uncomfortable and a little embarrassed. He might not appreciate having let her see him so vulnerable.

But apparently he didn’t mind. He lifted his head with a rough sound and propped his big hands on her shoulders, looking at her from unashamedly wet eyes.

“You’re shocked? American, aren’t you, and men don’t cry in America. They bury their feelings behind some macho facade and never give way to emotion.” He laughed as he dashed away the wetness. “Well, I’m Greek. At least, my father was. My mother was French and I have an Argentinian grandmother. I have a Latin temperament and emotion doesn’t embarrass me. I laugh when I’m happy, I cry when I’m sad.”

She reached into her pocket and drew out a tissue. She smiled as she wiped his eyes. “So do I,” she said. “I like your eyes. They’re very, very dark.”

“My father’s were, and so were my grandfather’s. He owned oil tankers.” He leaned closer. “I sold them all and bought bulldozers and cranes.”

She laughed. “Don’t you like oil tankers?”

He shrugged. “I don’t like oil spills. So I build oil drilling platforms and make sure they’re built properly, so they don’t leak.” He picked up his glass and took a long sip. As an afterthought, he passed it to her. “Try it. It’s good Scotch whiskey, imported from Edinburgh. It’s very smooth, and it has enough soda to dilute it.”

She hesitated. “I’ve never had hard liquor,” she confessed.

“There’s a first time for everything,” he told her.

She shrugged. “Okay, then, bottoms up.” She took a big sip and swallowed it and sat like a statue with her eyes bulging as the impact almost choked her. She let out a harsh breath and gaped into the glass. “Good heavens, rocket fuel!”

“Sacrilege!” he chided. “Child, that’s expensive stuff!”

“I’m not a child, I’m nineteen,” she informed him. She took another sip. “Say, this isn’t so bad.”

He took it away from her. “That’s enough. I’m not going to be accused of seducing minors.”

Her eyebrows rose. “Oh, would you, please?” she asked brightly. “I’ve never, you see, and I’ve always wondered what makes women take off their clothes for men. Looking at statues in the Louvre isn’t really the best method of sex education, and just between us, Madame Dubonne seems to feel that babies are brought by seabirds with big beaks.”

His own eyebrows rose. “You’re outrageous.”

“I hope so. I’ve worked hard enough to get that way.” She searched his dark face quietly. “Feeling better?”

He shrugged. “Somewhat. I’m not drunk enough, but I’m numb.”

She put her fingers over his big hand. It was warm and muscular, and there were thick black hairs curling into the cuff of his long-sleeved white shirt. His fingernails were wide and flat and immaculately cleaned and trimmed. She touched them, fascinated.

He looked down, studying her own long, elegant fingers with short nails. “No paint,” he mused. “How about on your toenails?”

She shook her head. “My feet are too stubby to be elegant. I have useful hands and feet, not pretty ones.”

His hand turned over and caught hers. “Thank you,” he said abruptly, as if it irritated him to speak the words.

She knew what he meant. She smiled. “Sometimes all we need is a little comfort. You’re no weakling. You’re a tough guy, you’ll get through it.”

He shrugged. “Maybe.”

“Certainly,” she said firmly. “Shouldn’t you go home now?” she asked, glancing around. “There’s a very slinky-looking woman over there with platinum hair out of a bottle giving you the eye. She looks like she’d just love to lead you home and make love to you and steal your wallet.”

He leaned toward her. “I can’t make love,” he said confidentially. “I’m too drunk.”

“She wouldn’t care, I think.”

He smiled lazily. “Would you?” he mused. “Suppose you come home with me, and we’ll give it my best shot.”

“Oh, not when you’re soused, thanks,” she replied. “My first time is going to be fireworks and explosions and the 1812 Overture. How could I possibly get that from a drunk man?”

He threw his head back and burst out laughing. He had a nice laugh, deep and slow and robust. She wondered if he did everything as wholeheartedly as he grieved.

“Take me home, anyway,” he said after the laughter passed. “I’m safe enough with you.” He hesitated after he’d laid the bills on the table. “But you can’t seduce me, either.”

She put her hand on her heart. “I promise.”

“All right, then.” He stood up, weaving a little, and frowned. “I don’t even remember coming here. Good God, I think I walked out in the middle of negotiations for a new hotel!”

“They’ll still be going on when you get back,” she chuckled. “Heave ho, Mr. Hutton. Let’s find a cab.”

Chapter Two

Pierce Hutton lived in one of the newest, most exclusive hotels in Paris. He fished out his key for her as they passed the doorman, who looked suspicious. So did the desk clerk, who approached them at the elevator.

“Something is wrong, Monsieur Hutton?” he asked pointedly.

“Yes, Henri. I’m very drunk,” he replied unsteadily. His big arm tightened around Brianne. “Do you know my business associate’s daughter, Brianne? She’s in school in Paris. She found me at Chez Georges and brought me home.” He grinned. “She saved me from a femme du nuit who had her eye on my wallet.”

“Ah,” Henri said, nodding. He smiled at Brianne. “Do you require assistance, mademoiselle?”

“He’s rather heavy, but I think I can cope. Will you check on him later, just to make sure?” she added with genuine concern.

The last of Henri’s misgivings evaporated. “It will be my pleasure.”

She smiled shyly. “Merci beaucoup. And please don’t reply with more than il n’ya pas de quoi,” she added quickly, “because that’s the entire extent of my French vocabulary, despite Madame Dubonne’s most diligent efforts.”

“You are at La Belle Ecole?” he exclaimed. “Why, my cousin is there.” He named a girl whom Brianne knew just faintly.