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“Then you must learn how to enjoy yourself again.”
Her lips trembled, and a look of pain haunted her eyes. He saw it, as she had meant for him to. “Forgive my clumsiness,” he murmured, dipping his head so his mouth was close to her temple. “I never intended to distress you.”
She firmed her lips and lifted her chin. “The orchestra is very good, isn’t it? I love this piece.”
He allowed her to steer the conversation into mundane waters, but she felt his unswerving gaze on her face the entire time. Louis Ronsard was definitely a man on the hunt. So far, she thought, she had done a credible job of appearing reluctant without insulting him.
The dance ended, she thanked him for it, and turned to leave. He fell into step beside her. “Have you been to Paris before?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Ah. I had hoped to show you the city.”
“Monsieur . . .” She hesitated, as if groping for words. “Forgive me if I sound presumptuous, but I’m not interested in any sort of romance. Even if your occupation wasn’t a barrier I wouldn’t—”
“Forgive me,” he interrupted, “if I’ve made you in any way uncomfortable. I would like to spend time with you, yes. I would like to make you smile again, as you did out on the patio. A lovely lady should not have such sad eyes. And even if you say that, no, I may not kiss you, or delight myself in other ways, I would still like to take you out to dinner.”
For a moment Niema was so diverted and charmed by the phrase “delight myself” that she couldn’t stop herself from smiling.
“Aha! I have achieved one goal already.” He touched one finger to the corner of her smiling lips. “Your smile is as lovely as I remembered. Please say yes to dinner. My reputation is greatly exaggerated, I promise.”
She searched his face, as if looking for the truth. Finally she said, a bit hesitantly, “I haven’t dated since my husband—” She broke off and looked away.
“I understand you’re a widow,” he said. “Yes, I asked about you. I’m sorry for your loss. It has been . . . how long?”
Five. The word echoed in her brain, and this time the sadness that flashed across her face wasn’t an act. Five long years. “Two years,” she managed to say, her voice constricted. “Most people think that’s long enough to grieve, but . . . it isn’t.”
His expression was somber. “I think the heart has its own calendar. You mustn’t let anyone rush you, including me. I give you my word I would attach no expectations to a dinner together. It would just be a meal in pleasant company, no more. Or perhaps you would prefer lunch?”
She let herself waver, then said softly, “Yes, lunch sounds . . .”
“Safer?” he suggested.
“More casual. Less like a date.”
He chuckled. “I see. Then, Madame Jamieson, will you not go out to dinner with me? Let’s just have lunch instead.”
She smiled up at him. “That sounds very nice.”
As soon as he was back in his town house, Ronsard placed a secure call to the villa. Cara answered immediately, though it was late, after one A.M.
“Consult that computer of yours,” he said. “I want to know whatever you can find out about Niema Jamieson, from New Hampshire. She’s a widow, a friend of the American ambassador, and she’s visiting them now.”
“How do you spell her name?”
Ronsard hesitated, then remembered what she had said about her mother modeling the name on ‘Naomi.’ “N-i-e-m-a,” he said. “Late twenties, early thirties. Dark hair and eyes.”
“Got it. When do you want this?”
“In the morning.”
“I’ll get right on it.”
Ronsard hung up and paced slowly around his luxurious bedroom. It had been a long time since he had been so intrigued by a woman, but that didn’t mean he was careless. If Niema Jamieson wasn’t what she seemed, he’d know it soon enough. And if she was, then he looked forward to a pleasant chase and seduction. Most women could be had, eventually, and he doubted she would be any different.
He had forgotten how pleasurable it was to be the pursuer, to feel that triumphant thrill when she agreed to meet him for lunch. He laughed at himself; such a small victory, but he felt like a conqueror. He would put a satisfied smile on the widow’s face yet.
She had been faithful to her husband’s memory for two years. Such steadfastness was rare in his world. He found he respected her for that and envied her the love she must have known. Such a love had eluded him; he loved Mariette, of course, and Laure was his heart, but a sweeping, romantic love . . . no, he hadn’t known one. Passion, yes. Lust. Possession. But not love. He suspected he never would love anyone in such a manner, that he wasn’t capable of that depth of emotion. Or perhaps he was simply too wary, too guarded, with too much at stake to let himself become vulnerable.
