by Mia Caldwell
“You know what? I'll go check it out myself! I was quite interested in the exhibit anyway. Then we can just see how everything pans out!”
The look in Thomas' eyes made it clear Alexander had won; it was a look of pure annoyance. Thomas growled an order into his mic and then frowned when he heard an answer in his earpiece he didn’t like. Thomas turned to him. “Your highness, please, stay right here. I have someone coming to this location, but he's going to take a minute. Just… please. Stay... right here.”
Alexander feigned confusion. “Where in the world would I go, Thomas?”
Thomas scowled at him as he rushed from the room and down the hall to the Holy Art exhibit. Alexander figured he had about two minutes at most to make his escape before one of the other men in the security detail made it to his location. He'd noticed a stairwell about one-hundred feet away; all he had to do was make it there before he was seen.
It was a good thing he'd been training for this moment his whole life.
2
Paris snapped yet another quick picture of the gorgeous stained glass inside the Sainte Chappelle. She was absolutely mesmerized by all of the beautiful colors: pinks and blues and reds and purples, accented in shimmering gold. The group she was sight-seeing with had lost interest in the Gothic chapel a while ago and had moved back outside, but she just couldn't seem to pull herself away.
She felt so inspired inside the Chapel's historic walls; something about beauty like this always made her want to learn and grow more, even though she didn't have an artistic bone in her body. Paris honestly had no idea how long she'd been inside, but she felt intoxicated both by the color and by the history. She was just about to take another photo when she felt a soft tap on her shoulder.
An ancient security guard, at least three inches shorter than she was, was smiling up at her expectantly. She stared at him for a moment, and then smiled back. The guard looked around awkwardly for a moment, and then grinned even bigger, pointing toward the door. Now thoroughly confused, she just shook her head at the small man to indicate she had no idea what he wanted from her.
In broken English, the man said, “Jeune fille... We close now... You last in chapelle. Il faut partir. To go, you must.”
She looked around and realized the guard was right; there wasn't a single person left in the entire chapel. She had no idea how it had happened, but everyone had filtered out while she was busy trying to capture the stained glass in the dying sunlight. Her first instinct was to feel guilty for holding up the security guard, who looked as if he should have been off his feet about three hours ago.
Her second instinct was pure, unadulterated panic, as she realized that there was absolutely no chance the tour group was still waiting for her outside. If the ancient church was closing, that meant the group had already moved on to its next destination.
Paris looked back at the guard, who gave her another uncomfortable smile and an arthritic thumbs-up before he turned to start locking the doors for the night. Paris ran for the Chapel's exit, grateful that she had worn sensible flats, unlike some of the women in the group who had opted for wedges or ridiculous heels. She was hoping against hope that at least one person from the group might still be waiting for her outside.
Maybe one person considered that she'd lost track of the time, and that it would be polite to stay behind until she came out? Besides, it wasn’t that hard to notice she was gone, right? She was the only black girl in the tour group. She kinda stood out. But when Paris got outside, the only people milling around were other tourists she didn't recognize, a few police officers, and one lone street vendor who was packing up his wares.
Paris took a few deep breaths, trying to slow her pulse. She didn't speak anything more than a smattering of French phrases so she couldn't ask for directions, and if she tried to do it in English, she knew no one would help her. She’d already learned that Parisians hated when Americans addressed them in English.
Paris was only a few steps from the Seine River, so she could potentially follow that until she saw something she recognized, but the truth was sinking in even as she stood there. Whether or not she happened upon a location that looked familiar, there was zero chance she would ever find her way back to the crappy hotel where she was staying. It was too far out of town to walk.
And she stupidly hadn’t brought anything with the hotel name written on it.
And her stupid phone didn’t work in Europe.
The simple fact of the matter was...
She was screwed.
Paris was screwed, and she knew it. The classes she was taking as part of the study abroad trip were starting in two days, and she'd be able to hook up with the rest of the people in her group at that point. At least she knew where the conference was held—the Centre Pompidou, one of the biggest landmarks in the city.
But what the hell was she supposed to do until then?
3
Alexander hadn't been this content in months.
Peace and quiet.
He had turned his phone off as soon as he had gotten away from the Louvre; not on vibrate, not on silent... off. If Whitney was trying to drunkenly yell at him about matching fabric for their honeymoon clothes or, more likely considering his recent escape, Thomas was trying to scream at him for running off, he had no desire to know about any of it.
Right now, he just wanted to stroll along the banks of the Seine in total anonymity and peace, his sunglasses and cap on, grateful for the setting sun which obscured his face even more.
So far, not a single person had recognized him since he left the museum. He'd stopped for coffee and a pastry at a small shop not far from the Louvre. He'd stopped to buy his mother a pair of (faux) emerald earrings from a local artisan selling her wares along the river, happy that his mother could never find something similar in Dalvana.
He had even stopped to see a movie in an actual movie theater for the first time in five years. It was a horrible bloody action flick from some even more horrible talentless American actor, but Alexander had been thrilled to watch it. He hadn't bothered to look and see what the movie was about before he bought the ticket. Mostly, he'd just wanted to see how it felt to watch a movie in a room full of strangers, as opposed to a theater full of body guards, and to lose himself in the crowd.
The sun had almost set, so the people who had been milling around the streets of the city had finally begun to move to the cafes and the bars. The brisk breeze coming off the Seine had driven almost everyone away from the river, which was just how Alexander liked it. He'd been able to mingle with people most of the day, and now he was ready to experience the pure joy of being totally alone. The only noise he heard was the gentle flow of the river, the occasional call of a night bird...
…and screaming.
Wait… screaming?
That couldn’t be right.
But a woman's panicked scream in the distance wasn’t something he could ignore.
4
Paris felt as if she'd already been wandering the streets of Paris for an entire miserable day, even though it was probably more like two hours. Her feet were killing her, and she'd spent what little money she'd brought from the hotel on a map that she didn't understand. However, in that very short amount of time, she'd already managed to get completely turned around again and wind up in a smelly alley next to a trashy bar in the middle of nowhere.
This was not how she had expected her dream vacation to turn out. She was both angry at herself and angry at the student tour group for her situation.
Yes, she was a loner—when someone moved as much as she had as a kid that was to be expected. Paris had learned a long time ago that making friends was pointless. Just as soon as she got to know someone, she’d be off to a new town.
Atlanta, her sister, had had the opposite reaction to their childhood though. Rather than retreating into herself, she had become outgoing—the life of the party. Everyone was drawn to Atlanta, and Paris could only watch in admiration.
Leaving 3 �
�best friends” in one year had been enough for her. Paris had retreated into herself and consoled herself with the idea that she actually preferred being alone. It gave her more time to think and to study.
And anyway, in med school, who had time to make friends? There were the people in her first-year study group that she got together with once a week… but they didn’t really count. There were the three other black people in her cohort that she would give ‘the nod’ to when they passed each other on campus, but she didn’t really know them.
And so, while she was mad at the tour group—how could they have forgotten her!?—on some level, she knew she had no one to blame but herself. If she was more of a ‘people’ person, maybe this wouldn’t have happened to her.
Suddenly, for one of the few times in her life, Paris felt utterly, completely, desolately, lonely. A wave of self-pity washed over her, but she pushed back the tears that threatened to come and tried to focus on the problem at hand.
Think, Paris. Think.
She was a smart girl, she was used to making her own way in the world and having to find her way out of sticky situations. How many times had she been responsible for her brother and sister as a kid? How many times had she had to figure out how to take a bus to the grocery store, carefully count out the change she had found in the couch cushions for the clerk, and read the cooking instructions on the back of the box of mac and cheese?
She was used to a challenge. She could handle this. Paris straightened her shoulders and tried to ignore the early evening chill in the air.
The problem was… she was used to handling things in English. She didn't recognize anything, couldn’t read anything, and the urge to break down in tears was becoming pretty overwhelming. Paris had already tried three hotels, but all of them said—in what little French she understood—that they were full.
She wasn’t sure if her credit card would have had enough to cover a night in this swanky part of town anyway, but she sure as hell wasn’t going to spend the night sleeping in the street.
Paris was just about to turn around and try to retrace her steps back to the chapel to see if the guard might still be there—he had seemed friendly enough—when two huge men stepped out of the shadows sneering at her.
“You zeem to be lost, mademoiselle.” One of the men gave her a not-so-reassuring grin.
“We can, per-haps, ’elp you…”
Her stomach dropped straight down to her feet. Danger was danger in any language.
The croque-monsieur she’d had for lunch hadn’t been sitting well with her, and now there was a decent chance she was going to be sick all over herself.
This was how she was going to die, she was sure of it.
She did a quick mental assessment of her options.
Fight? Two against one wasn’t good odds—and who knew what type of weapons they had.
Flight? The large frame of both men seemed to take up the whole alleyway. There wasn’t much of a chance she could squeeze past them, even if she was inclined to try.
Freeze? That’s probably what they would expect…
The men ambled toward her, with dangerous confidence, leering at her and saying things in French that she didn't understand. She didn’t have to understand a word though to understand their intent, and Paris knew it wasn’t going to be a pretty outcome for her—that much she understood.
She backed up as far as she could into the alley until she hit the grimy wall behind her, hoping she might be able to use it as leverage if the men came too close to her. One of the men had his hand in his pocket, and her mind started spinning over every scenario, every possibility for what he could be about to pull out.
She only had one option left.
Paris had no idea where the courage came from, but she knew she was rapidly running out of other options.
She opened her mouth and started screaming.
And she just couldn't stop.
The taller of the two men covered his ears, and started yelling at her in French and running toward her. But her survival instinct was manifesting in hysterical screaming flailing, and while, logically, she knew this might not do her any good in the long run, she also knew it might be her only shot.
Her mama’s voice rang in her memory. Sometimes you have to just out-crazy the crazy, honey.
Paris made grunting noises and jumped up and down, flinging her limbs from side to side. Her voice wouldn't quiet down.
If she was going to go down, she was going to go down screaming. And screaming. Until even her ears started to ring with the sound of her own voice.
When Paris saw the man reach back into his pocket and pull out a switchblade, she wasn’t sure if she should stop her screaming and flailing, or redouble her efforts. She wasn’t going to go down without a fight, that much was certain.
Suddenly, a large shadow loomed over the men and seemed to fill the alleyway. The shorter man with the switchblade suddenly flew forward to the ground, landing on the pavement with a violent thud, his face hitting the stones with a sickening crack.
The taller man spun around, screaming in French as the man on the ground groaned and gurgled in pain. Paris was far enough in the alley that she couldn't quite make out what was going on, but all at once the taller man was on the ground too, a splatter of blood following him through the air. Time passed in slow motion as both of the men scrambled to their feet, their hands raking against the cobblestones, and ran from the alley as fast as their feet would carry them.
Paris watched them disappear in stunned silence, and then bent over as her breath heaved and she retched several times. She sank slowly to her knees, her hands on the hard, uneven ground beneath her, grateful that she was unharmed.
It was only when she was certain they were gone that the reality of the situation fully washed over her, and she began crying hysterically. There was no holding back now—her body shook uncontrollably. She wouldn’t have been able to stop even if she had wanted to.
And then, there were arms around her.
Strong arms.
Long, muscular arms, pulling Paris tight to a hard, wide chest clad in a leather jacket and an obscenely soft shirt. He—whoever he was—smelled like heaven in the stench of the alley, his cologne subtle, but enveloping, like nothing she had ever smelled in her life.
As she sobbed into the stranger's chest, she took in deep lungfuls of him, her hands grasping his shirt, her fingers curling around the soft fabric, finding strange comfort in the anonymous man's gentleness. He ran his fingers up and down her back and whispered gently to her in an accent she couldn't place.
“Shhh... shhh... you're safe now. You're safe. Just breathe. Breathe. No one will hurt you now.”
Paris tried to breathe deep as he said, but it only came out as choked sobs. She felt his shirt soaking underneath her, and guilt over the fact that she was ruining his clothing was enough to make her pull away. She wiped away her tears, and a small amount of makeup, with her balled up fists as she locked eyes with the man who had just saved her life. And suddenly, she had trouble breathing for an entirely different reason. He was the most gorgeous person she had ever seen in person, or possibly, anywhere at all.
His chestnut brown hair was thick and wavy, with just the perfect amount of muss. His eyes were wide and curious, sparkling crystal blue with freckles of green scattered throughout. He looked as though he was cut from pure marble, chiseled cheekbones and a granite jaw made kind by a defined arch in his lip and a slight dimple in his chin. Paris had never believed in fairy tales, but if she had, this was exactly what she'd always imagined the hero of one would look like. He looked like a page torn out of a child’s picture book, and she could barely breathe just looking at him. His smile was honest and it changed the entire structure of his face; it practically lit up.
“Are you okay? Did they hurt you? Do we need to take you to a hospital? Ah, merde… Do you speak French? Avez-vous besoin d'aller à un hôpital, mademoiselle?”
Hearing French pour out of those beaut
iful lips made Paris’ knees weak. She almost wanted to pretend she did speak French, just so he'd keep using the language. But she knew she'd look pretty ridiculous just nodding at him with a goofy grin on her face. So she was forced to mumble in her very unromantic English tongue, “Uh, no. No, I'm okay. They didn't hurt me. They just scared me. Thank you... Thank you for saving me.”
He reached up and gently ran his fingers over her jaw, as if he were checking to make sure she was being truthful. Just the touch of his hand sent shivers through her entire body.
“Are you sure you're not hurt? I'd be happy to accompany you to a doctor... Miss?”
Paris realized that she'd forgotten her own name. This man, his eyes, the way he was looking at her... She'd totally forgotten her own name, and anything else about herself.
“Me? Oh... I'm... Martell. Wait, no. Sorry. I'm Paris. Paris Martell. Gah. Sorry, I think I'm still shaken up. And your name?”
His eyebrows furrowed as if she'd just made a really off-color joke, and he was waiting for a punchline. But slowly, his eyes softened again, his cheeks turning a lovely shade of rose.
“Alex. Call me Alex.”
* * *
Alexander couldn't believe he'd just pummeled two men in a scummy alley in France like a proper brute; he'd gotten into a fight like young men his age were supposed to do. Getting into rows and scrapes was what one was supposed to do in his youth, wasn’t it?
Granted, he had been able to win the fight thanks to a decade's worth of martial arts training with a master and almost twice as long at fencing, but it still was a rush to be able to do something “regular” guys did.
Once the bastards he'd beaten up were gone, and all of his senses had settled down, he became aware of the small woman cowering in the shadows. Alexander was aware he still had some blood on his fists, so he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a handkerchief to wipe it away before he approached her. He didn't want her to believe he was as brutish as the men who had tried to attack her, so he cleaned himself up and tossed the dirty kerchief into a nearby trashcan.
