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Finally, the door squeaked open on its rusted hinge, and a teenage girl—maybe sixteen or seventeen—shuffled into view. She had heavy-looking braces strapped to both legs and leaned heavily on one crutch. Her dark hair brushed her chin, and her eyes were dark blue, but bright with curiosity.
“May I help you?”
“Hi, I’m Janey Martin,” I said. “I’m here to see Adrien Rousseau?”
The girl’s face broke open in an unguarded smile that made her seem even younger. “Ah yes, for the newspaper? My brother is in the backyard. He knows you are coming but said it would be a man. Are you a real journalist?”
I frowned at the question and the guileless smile on the girl’s face. “Yes. Or I will be once I have my degree. I’m studying at the Sorbonne.”
The girl’s smile brightened. “So is my Adrien.”
With effort, the girl stepped aside to let me in, and my senses were bombarded with the history of the building; as if I could smell its age in the plaster peeling in places from the wall, and in the dust that danced in a shaft of light from the front window. Like the exterior, the interior had the appearance of wealth in need of upkeep.
“I am Sophie Rousseau,” the girl said, closing the door behind us. “You are American, no? Your French is very good.”
“Thank you,” I said absently. I stared at the old-world charm of the Rousseau residence, with its oriental rugs, antique-looking lamps, and furniture that looked as if it belonged in a museum.
“A soccer player lives here?” I asked, incredulously.
Sophie’s eyes darted away. “Yes, of course,” she said, then brightened. “Adrien is a brilliant footballer, and an even better medical student.”
“The Sorbonne is far from here,” I said, watching Sophie struggle ahead of me, leading me through the foyer. “That’s a long commute.”
“It is for him to get to school,” Sophie said. “But we’re very close to where his team plays and practices.”
We came to a curved stairway where two young women were bounding down, talking and laughing. They stopped when they saw me, and exchanged amused glances, then hurried out, toward the front door.
“Friends of yours?” I asked Sophie.
“Oh yes, of course,” she said quickly, her voice high again. “Come. Adrien is through there.”
I followed Sophie through the first floor of her home to a small backyard patio with green grass beyond. It reminded me of my own flat, with its wrought iron furniture, though this space was much larger.
I heard someone gasp and realized with a jolt of embarrassment that it was me. Sitting on one of the chairs, wearing jeans and a tight-fitting polo shirt, and reading a book, was the devastatingly handsome man from La Cloche.
Sophie glanced up. “You know Adrien?”
Yes, he drew me on a napkin…
“No,” I said. “I thought I recognized…but no. We’ve never met.”
I tried to master my breathing, which had suddenly become short. Adrien was even more handsome in the bright summer sunshine. It caught the gold in the dark brown hair that brushed his shoulders. His scruff of beard highlighted the strong cut of his jaw and perfect cheekbones.
I realized I was standing there like a dope, mooning over those perfect cheekbones and the beautiful deep blue eyes of his that were riveted to his book. Before I knew it, my hands rose to my camera around my neck. I snapped my first photo of Adrien Rousseau, the star soccer player, at rest and reading a book.
Get a hold of yourself. Be professional.
I glanced at Sophie with her crutch and braces; she’d had to struggle through the house to let in a guest Adrien knew was coming. A cool detachment settled over me. I thrust my chin out as Sophie showed me to the small yard.
“Adrien, this is Janey Martin,” Sophie said. “From the newspaper.”
Adrien’s head came up and his eyes flared with recognition and surprise. For half a second, a soft smile graced his lips, but I was glaring coldly at him. His gaze cooled to match mine; his smile turned lazy.
“I was expecting someone else,” Adrien said, his eyes raking me up and down. “But this works too.”
His voice was velvet, with a hint of gravel. Deep. Sexy.
He’s still an ass.
