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Of course it wasn’t Lucien. Maybe it was just someone who looked a little bit like him, and her guilty imagination had sketched in the rest.
She turned her eyes back to the window as the train slid smoothly out of the station. It was the country she had come to see, and she intended to sit back and enjoy every single moment of her ride to Avignon!
CHAPTER TWO
HERsexy, dark-haired Frenchman was there again.
Veronica knelt on the window-seat and peeped down at the bar across the street, keeping back at the edge of the curtains so that if he glanced up he wouldn’t see her face at the open window.
Not that it was likely. He was sitting at his usual table against the wall, just inside the bank of glass doors that had been folded back to open up the quirky little bar to the street, his back to the strip of pavement shaded by the green canvas canopy, his neat pony-tail a glossy black comma on the white collar of his shirt. A half-full glass of beer sat by his hand, and he was dividing his attention between his newspaper and the attractive brunette polishing glasses behind the bar, who was having a lazy disagreement with the Patron re-stocking the bottles.
Business was slow, with only one other customer further inside. The bar didn’t really hot up until after dark, then it would be jammed with people and throbbing with Latin American music until exactly midnight, when the shutters went up and the patrons were shooed away in a chorus of happy farewells—much to Veronica’s relief, for in the narrow rue de Birague the trapped sound was funnelled upwards on the hot air, and she had found that without the windows open the second floor apartment was unbearably hot, especially for someone suffering a 101-degree temperature.
Her first two days in Paris had been an exercise in frustration. Confined to her apartment except for brief, wobbly forays to la pharmacie around the corner and the tiny convenience store a few doors up from the bar, Veronica had had little to do but swallow pills, sleep, drink gallons of water, watch the wonderful world of cable television and gaze out her window at her truncated view of Paris.
Her wistful eye had first spied the sexy, dark stranger after she had returned from a cautious, exploratory expedition to test her recovery. He had been sitting at the same table he was at now, lounging sideways in his seat, sipping a bowl of coffee, idly turning the pages of a French newspaper, a pair of wraparound sunglasses dangling from the chest pocket of his polo shirt.
He looked to be somewhere in his late twenties, suntanned, fit and
healthy, and she had envied him as she had leaned against the side of the window, gulping down the fruity yoghurt that had been all her stomach could handle for the past few days. As she had brooded on his slashing profile she had also felt a purely feminine tug of attraction, a sexy little tingle that had followed her down for her nap.
She had quickly realised the futility of trying to compress a week’s worth of sightseeing into her remaining few days, and had pared down her meticulously planned schedule to simply hit the highlights on her wish-list, but as her appetite and energy had returned in full measure she had ramped up her expectations and thrown herself wholeheartedly into the pursuit of Paris, hungering for more even as she gorged herself on the sights and sensations.
And every time she had passed the bar in rue de Birague, or looked out the apartment window, she couldn’t help glancing at a certain table with a little flutter of anticipation.
She hadn’t really expected to see him again, but he had been there several times now, usually in the morning, with a coffee, and at various times of the afternoon or early evening with a beer, or glass of wine and a newspaper. She didn’t think he was a tourist, she never saw him with a camera, or water-bottle or pocket guidebook—those ubiquitous supplies that every visitor to Paris had grafted to their person—and he seemed to prefer facing away from the street, uninterested in the passing parade. Yet, given the different times of the day she had seen him there, he didn’t seem to work, either…at least, not regular hours, anyway. And he was always alone.
Like Veronica…
Her palms dampened as she contemplated what she was about to do.
Bastille Day was her swan-song in Paris and she wanted to see it out in style. Last night she had danced with the thousands at the official party in the Place de la Bastille. This morning she had joined the crowds watching the traditional military parade along the Champs Elysées, and paid her respects at the Tomb of the Unknown Warrior under the Arc de Triomphe. She had lunched in the Latin Quarter and strolled home across the Île de la Cité.
But she had done it all alone, while at every turn she had been confronted by couples of one kind or another…lovers oblivious to those around them, husbands and wives bickering in the blazing heat or strolling hand in hand, parents running after their children, mutual companions sharing a good time…
And now, with late afternoon drifting into evening, she was feeling defiant.
She picked up her bag and checked herself in the mirror one more time, spinning to watch the multi-panelled silk and gauze-chiffon skirt swirl and cling around her long thighs, and adjusting the strap on the filmy black camisole top that daringly showed off the exquisite, embroidered, French lace, strapless bra she wore beneath—all bought in an expensive fit of madness the previous day.
Then, at the last minute, just as she was going out the door, she snatched up a lightweight wrap to throw across her bare shoulders, a security blanket in case her courage failed her.
She walked across the street and straight into the interior of the narrow, rectangular bar, exchanging a casual ‘bonjour’ with the pair behind the high, polished counter. The object of her obsession had skewed his seat against the dark-panelled wall and now sat facing out into the room, one elbow on the table, jeaned legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle, so Veronica confidently chose the small table for two diagonally across from him, turning the chair sideways to sit down with her back against the opposing wall.
He took a swallow of his beer, frowning down at his newspaper, seemingly ignoring her when everyone else had turned to watch her settle at her table, but she had seen—and felt—the lightning-swift appraisal he had accorded her when she had crossed the periphery of his field of vision. A woman as tall as she was always attracted at least one look.
His eyes were dark. She added that to the list of things she knew about him, her gaze going quickly to his right hand to also tick off the fact that he wore no wedding ring. A little of the nervous tension holding her spine rigid relaxed, and she crossed her legs, slanting them aside in what Karen had informed her during their short time in London together was the most slimming of poses.
When the waitress sauntered over Veronica was ready with her order. She would have actually liked a thirst-quenching beer, but didn’t think that that would project the image she was looking to create—although: ‘I’m having what he’s having,’ might have been an ice-breaker. However, at the moment he appeared to be more granite than ice. Whatever he was reading in the paper was putting a scowl on his face. It wasn’t L’Equipe, which she had seen him reading before, but the French equivalent of scandal-mongering weekly tabloid, so it probably wasn’t simply a matter of his favourite tennis player being knocked out of a tournament.
‘Un Kir, s’il vous plaît,’ she murmured to the waitress.
The chilled glass was placed before her a few minutes later accompanied by a friendly burst of rapid French. Veronica spread her hands, palm up, with a rueful smile.
‘Excusez-moi, mais je ne comprends pas,’ she said carefully, in her phrase-book French.
‘Ah! Anglaise,’ the girl instantly pounced on her accent.
Veronica shook her head, setting fiery sparks dancing in the graduated layers of red-brown hair falling thickly down to her shoulders on either side of her central parting.
