Trey blinked.
“You’ve heard of fun?”
Trey blinked again.
“Have you never been spontaneous?” she asked, only half facetiously. Perhaps he’d made every decision using logic and business sense. “It requires—”
“I can be spontaneous,” he said, sounding offended. He made to snatch the list from her hand. A rogue burst of wind caught the sheet and it rose into the air, its edges flapping like a bird’s wings. They both jumped for it, bumping chests, but it eluded their grasp and floated on the breeze as they ran to keep up with it, dodging bemused pedestrians and stodgy cement planters.
Mia’s silent curses turned to out-loud laughter as she watched debonair Trey Blackthorne, half a block ahead, vault over a standard poodle wearing a jeweled collar and then nearly be taken down by the leashes of a pair of little black terriers that wrapped around one ankle.
She had to stop for breath and giggles when a little old lady bopped him with her fresh baguette as he swerved closely around her. But this time he managed to nab the list and he turned to face Mia, expression triumphant, fist raised to the sky.
From her place ten paces away, she brought her palms together in exuberant applause. And like that handsome young Frenchman in the Blackthorne offices, he sketched a bow. The insouciant Parisians did nothing but turn up their noses, which sent Mia into another round of laughter. She jogged up to him, aware of the huge grin on her face, as he wrenched at his tie with his free hand, slipped it from under his collar, then went after his shirt’s top buttons.
He looked hot. Both ways.
“Quite the performance,” she said. “I’m so impressed.” More so with that glimpse of strong neck and throat exposed by the opening of pale cotton fabric. Swallowing hard, she forced her gaze away and held out her hand.
He ignored her silent demand for the list, a new light in his eyes. “Watch how spontaneous I can be.” Closing his eyes, his forefinger stabbed the paper. “We’re going to…”
“Sacré-Cœur,” Mia said, popping on tiptoe to read the scrawled line item. “How appropriate. We’ll be starting at the top of the city.”
The unexpected chase seemed to change their collective mood. An air of friendly companionship between them, she directed him to the nearest Métro station which took them close to their apartment building so he could change into jeans and a flat-knit, vee-necked sweater. Then they made their way back underground and after two line changes got off at the Abbesses stop. As they came out into open air again, she looked up and noted the beautiful glass-covered “dragonfly” entrance. Tears stung her eyes as she thought of how Nic would have loved the very…Frenchness of the design. “I miss you, best friend,” she soundlessly whispered.
“Hey,” Trey asked, touching her arm. “Where’s that beautiful smile of yours?”
She looked up, her vision filled with his handsome face, her head echoing with that familiar voice that kept Nic so close in her thoughts. Don’t blow this, Mia. Smile at the man.
So she did, by recalling the baguette-wielder. “I thought I was going to have to save you back there from that little old lady with the loaf of bread.”
He grinned. “Me, too. For the first time I’m glad I don’t understand French because I think she might have condemned my soul to hell.”
“Then you better enjoy the time you have here on earth,” she said. “A glass of wine with lunch?”
They found a café among the many on the narrow, hilly streets of Montmartre, deciding to eat before taking the final climb to the basilica. As she’d come to learn about Paris restaurants, the waiter didn’t hurry them along to turn over the table to other guests once they’d eaten, and so they sat in the buttery fall afternoon sunlight, with a second glass of wine in front of each of them.
They talked idly of the surrounding sights, the people passing, and the deliciousness of their simple meal—hearty soup and crusty bread. But now they lapsed into a surprisingly comfortable silence and she studied him as he stared off into the distance, his gaze reflective. The handsome lines of his face were relaxed and without looking her way she saw his mouth curve in a half smile. “You were the one who ordered dessert to share,” he said. “If I have some of that tart on my face, you’ve only yourself to blame.”
She wanted to tell him she liked sitting in the warm afternoon with him. That she liked his sprawl in the chair and that she suspected he never allowed himself moments like this. Or his life didn’t allow him such moments. But he’d think she was crazy, with her suppositions about who he was and how he lived, she with her box of ashes and with her best friend talking in her head.
“I was thinking of Nicolette,” she said, half telling the truth.
He shifted to look at her. “Tell me more about her.”
“She was a voice actor. She did commercials, audio books, even video games.”
His eyebrows rose. “Really?”
“When she told stories or even spoke of her daydreams, they seemed so real, as if you were right there and everything she imagined was coming true.”
He kept his gaze on her face. “I wish I had met her.”
“Yes.” Then movement behind him caught her attention. “Oh, look!”
A bride and groom were walking up the opposite sidewalk, the young man dapper in a tuxedo, she in enough tulle to wrap the base of the Eiffel Tower. A photographer and assistant accompanied them, laden with bags and cameras.
“Photos at the Sacré-Cœur,” their waiter, expression unmoved, said in accented English as he passed by with a tray of empty glasses. “Every day, all day. Very popular.”
There was a mais pourquoi?—but why?—infusing his bored tone.
Disregarding that, Mia jumped to her feet. “Let’s follow them,” she said, feeling as if Nic was at her back, her hands propelling her in the wake of the wedding couple.
Without waiting to see if her companion came along, she strode off, scooting around slower pedestrians and stepping into the cobblestone street to avoid shoppers gathered in front of the souvenir shops with their racks of French flags, ubiquitous berets, and plastic replicas of the nearby basilica. Then came a wide walkway with a stone balustrade which finally led to steps. At the top of them sat the imposing, white-domed edifice.
The bride and groom paused at the bottom of the wide stairs and Mia took a seat a few yards away as the photographer and assistant set up the equipment. Trey joined her, stretching out his long legs while she watched the wind catch the young woman’s veil and send it swirling into the air.
“They missed a beautiful shot,” she murmured, as the groom tried to rein in the swathe of fabric. The wedding couple were laughing as the tulle continued to elude their control.
“Did Nic daydream about her future wedding?” Trey asked, then hesitated. “I hope that’s not hurtful.”
She shook her head. “It’s all right. And no, I don’t recall her telling stories about her future wedding day. But she was a bridesmaid a bunch of times. We used to trot out the most hideous of the dresses and wear them while drinking cocktails and alternating between watching episodes of Sex and the City and Game of Thrones.”
His eyebrows shot high. “Really?”
“Good times.” She opened her backpack and drew out the handmade box, setting it carefully on the step beside her. “We’re here,” she whispered.
“What about you?” Trey asked next. “Dreams of white dresses and weddings?”
She made a face. “My parents had a terrible marriage and an even uglier divorce. I think it would take a powerful wizard and a magic spell to make me interested in I do-ing. You?”
“I can honestly say I’ve never seen myself in a fluffy dress and long veil.”
“Hah.” She elbowed him. “You’ve never been married?”
“Nope. Though I wouldn’t have said I have anything particularly against it. My parents have been together for thirty-seven years, and happily, I thought. But now…”
“But now you see things diffe
rently.”
“My father put work first and I’ve always been exactly like him.” He frowned. “At least he took the time to fall in love, though. I know he loves my mother, despite the way he’s messed it up.”
“But you haven’t taken that time to find someone special.”
“Obviously not,” he said. “I’ve been much too busy proving I can bear the weight of all the Blackthorne expectations.”
“Wow,” she said. “One free afternoon and you’re deep into self-psychoanalysis.” Though she’d meant it to come out light, almost teasing, the words themselves sounded serious.
He smiled at her. “Actually, it’s nothing three brothers and three cousins and numerous friends and disappointed women haven’t pointed out over the years. It seems I’m quite predictable.”
“Well, that sounds all kinds of wrong,” Mia said. “Especially today when we’re approaching life with a sense of fun and spontaneity.”
“Fun and spontaneity,” he repeated.
“Yes. So think of something wild, something totally out-of-character, and we’ll do it.”
“Yeah?” He cocked a brow.
She nodded, emphatic. “Abso—” But he kissed the rest of the word right off her lips.
Heat flashed through her body and her mind spun. His lips were hard and demanding and she opened her mouth to accept the sure thrust of his tongue. She might have moaned. She definitely moaned when he cupped her face with both his hands and angled her head to make a deeper impression on her.
As if she would, could ever forget being kissed in Paris on the steps to the Sacré-Cœur. But it was his touch that got to her as well, the sureness of the way he held her just so. Just for him. She lost all sense of time and place and everything went…Trey.
Manly Trey. Confident Trey. Kissable, seductive, irresistible Trey.
Teasing Trey, who slowed the kiss by degrees and then lifted his head so she could take breaths that she would have happily foregone for more kissing.
She thought maybe she could exist on his kisses and felt as if she floated on the balmy air.
They stared at each other in that enchanted, autumn light that seemed to sparkle with dancing, gold motes. Her heart pounded and she saw the sheen of moisture on his lips and the flush across his cheekbones. His eyes seemed almost black, impenetrable, except she knew that humor lurked there, as well as all that shiver-inducing self-assuredness.
Not to mention poodle-vaulting.
Hauling in a breath, she felt herself spinning down from the heights, spinning back to her seat on the cement steps. Reality.
She cleared her throat, wondering how to ease the sexual tension pulsing between them. “That wasn’t completely unpredictable, you know,” she said, trying to sound nonplused instead of soul-shaken. “You’ve kissed me before.”
His smile grew slowly and his gaze never left hers. “And I probably will again.”
Without looking away from him, Mia groped for the box of ashes by her side, gripping it for reassurance. Uh-oh. I might be in trouble here.
Girlfriend! that Nic-like voice exclaimed, once again filled with glee. Out of the frozen pond and into the fire. Go you!
Chapter Five
Trey could have put a fine point on it and reminded Mia that she’d been the initiator of their first kiss. But he decided to let that detail go—something extremely out-of-character. So was kicking back at a favorite tourist location that was the highest point of the City of Light.
Paris.
Fulfilling a promise of fun and spontaneity.
On a shake of his head, he reached into his pocket for his phone. He should check emails. Better, get back to his mother’s apartment, where he’d have more convenient access to files and reports on his laptop. Do some work.
Be himself.
But his hand found the horn box he always carried instead, so he drew it out, aware of Mia’s curious gaze. “What’s that?” she asked.
He ran his thumb over the top. “It’s a container for playing cards and belonged to my grandfather, the first Graham Wallace Blackthorne.”
“And you’re the third. Trey.”
“Right.” Their gazes met, held, and then she jumped to her feet, clearly restless. Or nervous.
“Shall we walk again?” she asked. “Get closer to the basilica?”
Standing, he slipped the box away and watched her carefully return the ashes to her backpack. Then she began to climb the stairs, and he followed.
Followed all the way past the milling crowds and the line of visitors waiting to get inside the place of worship to a spot where they had an unobstructed view of the city. It spread before them, buildings crowded together like the decorative pattern of a wide skirt, drawing the eye to the Eiffel Tower rising in the distance.
“It was supposed to be temporary, the Tower,” Mia said, her gaze on the landmark. “Many Parisians considered it an eyesore at the time.”
“First impressions change.”
“Mm.” She glanced at him, then gestured to a nearby bench. “Would you mind if I take a few minutes to sketch?”
“Not at all.” He could take that same time to look over whatever had come in from Blackthorne HQ. Computing the time change, he realized it was business hours in Boston, meaning his inbox would be stacked.
On the bench, she drew out her sketchbook and pencils and he followed suit with his phone. But he didn’t get to work, instead watching from the corner of his eye as her hand began moving over the page.
“Trey?” she asked without looking up. “Now I can feel your eyes on me.”
“Sorry.” He wasn’t, because how could he apologize for being fascinated by her? “I remember you said your drawing was private.”
“Personal,” she corrected. “But you’re no longer a complete stranger. And this view, it’s for all to enjoy. I’m only attempting to capture a sense of it on paper.”
“You draw buildings or, I guess, landscapes then?”
“People too,” she said, then flipped a page and shot him a considering look. “Would you like me to draw you?”
“No,” he said, automatically drawing back.
She smiled. “I’ll leave your clothes on.”
He shook his head.
“Your father then,” she offered.
Trey frowned. “You’ve never met him.”
“It’s a game we used to play in college. You describe his personality and I draw what I think he looks like.”
Intrigued by the idea, Trey couldn’t help wondering what she’d come up with. “He’s very much like me,” he said. “Focused on work, always thinking of the Blackthorne business.”
She made a few light gestures with her pencil. “Hobbies?”
“Uh…he used to race forty-foot sailboats with his brother and did it again this summer with my own brother Devlin, but usually he…”
“Focuses on work and is always thinking of the Blackthorne businesses.”
“Right.”
“He’s in his sixties, I suppose.” Her hand moved swifter now, but she had her shoulder turned which concealed her progress. “And vacations? Does he have a favorite one? Did he enjoy Hawaii like you?”
Trey thought back to the islands and then the other places they’d gone as a family. His father would invariably show up late and leave early, kind to his boys and their mother while he was present, but usually only paying half-attention to them, engaged in the papers spread before him or with a phone to his ear.
Trey thought of his inbox again and his own phone grew heavier in his pocket. Reaching for it, his gaze caught on Mia’s backpack and his mind went to those ashes inside, those ashes of her friend Nic, gone so soon.
You and your father never take the time to savor your coffee, let alone anything else.
“Are you ready to see what I’ve done?”
“Sure.” Shaking himself, he gave Mia his attention.
She kept the sketchbook hidden another moment. “Now keep your expectations low. This is more al
ong the lines of an illustration or caricature, you understand, not a portrait.”
“I don’t presume a masterpiece,” he assured her.
“All right.” Shifting on the bench, she presented her drawing.
Startled, Trey stared. The figure portrayed wore a suit and tie and even the simple lines conveyed a sense of tension and movement, as if the man was too busy to stand still. His head was bent over a phone, but the facial features were recognizable…as Trey’s own.
She’d drawn an older version of himself. How he’d look at sixty-five, with an overstuffed briefcase at his feet, papers overflowing.
“Well?” Mia prompted. “Did I get it right or wrong?”
“Right…and wrong,” he said slowly. “That’s Dad to the bone…the way he stands as if ready to stride away to an important meeting in the very next moment. His focus on the phone, that’s him too.”
“But?”
Trey glanced up. “You’ve made him resemble me, when the truth is, we don’t look alike at all.”
“Really?”
“Really.” Now he did thumb on his cell and navigated to an old text string from Logan, who’d passed him a couple of photos taken the previous Christmas. Graham and Claire with the seven of the next generation grouped closely around them. “See?”
She took the device and narrowed her eyes at the screen, using two fingers to enlarge the image as she studied the faces. “I do.”
He pointed out his brothers and cousins, identifying them one by one. “Devlin, my oldest younger brother who builds boats. This is Philip, the oldest of the cousins who came to live with us when their parents died—he raises money for kids who’ve suffered the same loss. There’s Jason, my cousin who always claims he got lost in the middle but is doing damn fine now as a Hollywood hotshot. Ross, another brother, is into the race cars and whisky side of the business, Brock works at Blackthorne HQ with me in Boston—he’s my youngest cousin and a strict keeper of the brand. And finally my little brother Logan, who just moved to Seattle to explore opening some whisky pubs on the West Coast.”
She glanced up. “They resemble each other and your father, too, even the cousins.”
Trey Page 6
