by Iris Morland
“She’s going to block your number,” I said for what felt like the thousandth time.
Olivier growled, glaring at his phone. Then he saw my phone in my hand and said, “We’ll call from yours.”
“Yes, I’m sure she’ll be more inclined to answer from a Washington State number.” But I handed over my phone regardless. I just hoped it didn’t cost me a million dollars in roaming fees.
Olivier tried on my phone twice before calling it a night. As we lay in our respective beds that night, he said, “If we can’t find this woman, I don’t know where else to go.”
I’d thought the same thing. Turning over, I said, “We’ll call her from the hotel phone. Then a pay phone. And if all else fails, we’ll go back to the store where you got the number to make sure it’s right.”
He sighed. “Then what? If that doesn’t work?”
“Now you’re just being a Debbie Downer. We’ll figure something out.”
“I don’t know what a Debbie Downer is.”
“It’s an expression. It’s somebody who’s always seeing the glass as half empty.”
His expression was wry. “Sometimes the glass is just that: half empty.”
I put in my headphones. “Good night, Prince Olivier. Tomorrow is another day.”
I didn’t hear what he said in reply.
Chapter Ten
“He says it’s the right phone number,” said Olivier in exasperation. He returned to speaking French with the shopkeeper, a middle-aged man with his hair parted right down the middle and smoothed down with an excessive amount of hair gel.
We’d returned to the bookshop where Olivier had gotten the phone number yesterday. Apparently, the shop owner was insisting that the number was correct. I could see Olivier getting frustrated, mostly that the man didn’t seem inclined to double-check.
I began to wander through the aisles of books. Most of them were in French, obviously, but I found the small section of English books. Most of the selection consisted of French authors translated into English, along with various classics. At the bottom of the shelf, though, were a handful of romance novels—in English, no less.
I pulled out a historical romance by a favorite author of mine. I hadn’t read this one, and I’d already finished the one romance I’d brought with me. I was a total bore and preferred to read printed books still. Probably because they smelled nice. If e-readers could let out a puff of new-book scent, though, I’d buy one in a heartbeat.
“The Seduction of Miss Emily Morris,” Olivier read over my shoulder. “That rather gives the plot away, no?”
I laughed. “Romance novels aren’t known for being subtle.”
He plucked the book from my fingers before I could react. He held it over my head as he flipped through it. “Where are the love scenes? Ah, found one.” He raised one golden eyebrow as he began to read aloud: “‘A fire lit in her belly. Damian’s hands were magic. Everywhere he touched, it was like fire across her skin.’”
“Oh my God, stop—”
He just held the book up higher. Tall people were the worst.
“‘My nipples beaded and my core moistened,’” he continued. He wrinkled his nose. “Core? Why does this sound like she’s describing the earth’s core? Is this poor woman full of lava?”
“It’s a metaphor.” I finally was able to snatch the book from his sneaky, princely fingers. “And yes, it’s ridiculously flowery. That’s why I like it.”
“I’m surprised.”
“That I read?”
“No. That you read books like these.”
At that, my hackles rose. I had a bit of a love-hate relationship with romance novels. Sometimes they could be so amazing that my mind was blown. But when they were bad, well, they were bad. Since I’d been reading them for many years now, I felt like I could criticize them fairly. But when someone—especially a man—talked derisively about romance novels, I always got defensive.
I could call them trash, but nobody else could.
“Do you want me to hit you upside the head again?” I held up the book. “Because I will if you keep going with that subject.”
Olivier jumped back. “Christ, woman. I simply meant that I’m surprised someone as bloodthirsty as you would read romance.”
I deflated. “Oh.”
“Yes. ‘Oh.’” He gestured at me. “Let’s go.”
To my surprise, Olivier paid for my book, despite my protestations. Maybe he was just trying to ensure that I didn’t smack him with it. Well, I wouldn’t promise anything.
We began to walk west toward the 7th District where the antiques shop was located. Considering that the Eiffel Tower and other famous landmarks of the city were located in this district, we were quickly walking amongst both Parisians and tons of tourists.
More than once I was asked by an American to help them take a photo. I had no idea how Americans always managed to find each other for photos in foreign countries, but we did.
“So did you have any luck with that phone number?” I said to Olivier.
Olivier sighed. “He insisted it was correct.” He pulled the piece of paper from his pocket. “All we can do is keep calling.”
I was about to once again ask, Then what? But Olivier’s expression looked so defeated that I bit my tongue.
It wasn’t that I wasn’t frustrated at our getting stalled. I wanted to find my da as much as Olivier wanted to find this clock. We both had stakes in this game. The fact that we seemed incapable of finding the one person who’d seemed like a sure thing was beyond annoying.
We walked past the boarded-up antiques shop. Olivier stopped in front of it, frowning.
“What?” I had no idea what was inside that handsome brain of his.
“Do we know who owns this building?”
“Um, no. How would we find that out?”
Olivier stepped back and gazed upward. The building was three stories, and above the abandoned store was a row of windows that looked like offices. Above that, I could see a cat in a window, so most likely they were apartments.
“We need to get inside somehow.” He stroked his chin and began to wander to the back side of the building. But the only door that led inside was locked. Olivier tried pounding on it, but no one answered. Since no one currently occupied the first floor, it made sense.
We returned to the front of the building once again. Pedestrians flowed past us. A few were annoyed that we were standing in the middle of the sidewalk like two gawking tourists. Except we were gawking at an abandoned store.
I looked up and down the street for some kind of clue. “Wait!” I grabbed Olivier’s hand and took him back to the alley behind the building. He grumbled at me until I pointed and said, “Look!”
“It’s a window. Unless you want us to break in—”
“No, look. It’s open.”
Olivier peered more closely. The window itself was small, the glass foggy with age. “Only a crack.”
“If we can find something to wedge it open—” I looked around, finding what looked like a piece of pipe that’d fallen out of the nearby trash bins. I began to press the pipe into the crack and slowly make a see-saw motion to get the window to go up.
At first, nothing happened. I kept going, hoping against hope that I wasn’t making myself look like an idiot with no results. A moment later, though, Olivier took over and added his strength to wedging the window open. Finally, we heard a creak and the window moved upward.
“Yes!” I pushed it open as far as it would go. Unfortunately, it was just big enough to let one small person through. Meaning, there was no way Olivier was going to get his princely ass through it.
“Hoist me up?” I said.
“And then what? You go upstairs and ask someone to give you a phone number?”
I wrinkled my nose. “No, dingus. I open the door to stairwell so you can do it. Duh.”
“I don’t think ‘dingus’ is a real word.”
“It totally is. Now, hoist me up already.”
> Olivier sighed but finally kneeled at my feet, which was just about the greatest image ever. A prince, kneeling at my feet? Come on.
“If this were any other day, I’d totally swoon at having a prince on one knee in front of me,” I said, a hand over my heart.
He rolled his eyes. “Stop wasting time already. My trousers are getting dirty.”
I laughed at him, but then I was standing on his knee as he boosted me through the window that was about six feet off of the ground. I wiggled through, fearing for a second that my butt was too big to get through. When my hips got stuck, I made a rather absurd squealing noise.
“Are you stuck?” said Olivier. He sounded like he was laughing, the bastard.
I kicked my legs. “Yes! Help me!”
“You’re very demanding.” Then I felt hands on my thighs, way too close to my butt cheeks, and I couldn’t help but clench up. It was almost erotic…until Olivier pushed me through the window and I nearly broke my face as I fell.
Thankfully, I fell on a bunch of old blankets. “Probably shouldn’t have gone in headfirst,” I muttered to myself. I sneezed, dust motes flowing around me.
“Are you all right?” Olivier called.
“Yeah.” I sneezed again. “It’s really dusty in here.” Which was a sign that this guy who Olivier had sold the clock to had vacated this place a while ago.
The shop—what was left of it—was covered in fabric on the little bit of furniture left over. With little light coming in through the windows, it took me a second to get to the door that opened to the stairwell. It was a different one from the one that led outside. The stairs themselves were clearly very old, and I had to admit, I much preferred Olivier going up them than me doing it.
I opened the door to outside to find Olivier waiting for me. He took in my appearance and said, “You look terrible.”
“Wow, thanks.”
“No, I mean—” He brushed his thumb across my cheek, making me freeze in shock. “You’re covered in dirt.”
“That’s what happens when you land face-first into a bunch of dusty blankets.”
I did my best to clean up my appearance, but apparently, I looked so ridiculous that Olivier thought I’d attract too much attention upstairs.
“We don’t want people to think we’ve broken in. You look just like someone who’s snuck inside,” he said.
I didn’t have a mirror, but based on the amount of dirt and dust on my clothes, I had to reluctantly agree. “Go, go,” I said, shooing him. “Before we get caught and get thrown in the Bastille.”
Olivier headed upstairs, and I watched his nice ass flex until he turned a corner on the rickety staircase. I hoped he could charm whoever worked up there into giving him the information we needed. If he failed, we were back to square one.
Taking out my phone and turning on the flashlight, I returned to the abandoned store. There were handwritten signs in French scattered about the floor with prices on them. There were a handful of chipped bowls on one table that had seen better days. When I heard something scurry across the floor, I froze in my tracks, half-expecting a giant rat to lunge at my face.
But no rat materialized. Sighing, I kept exploring, drawing my finger through the thick dust, wondering how long it had been since someone had been inside here.
As I wandered, I found a tiny hallway near the west side of the store. A door was ajar, and inside I found what looked like an office. Except there was nothing but a rickety chair and a keyboard that was probably older than I was. On the opposite wall stood a metal file cabinet.
I started opening the cabinet drawers, but there was nothing but empty file folders in the top one. The second: the same. But when I reached the third one, I found a stray envelope that had gotten wedged between the folders and the drawer itself.
I felt a little guilty opening the envelope, but what choice did we have? Besides, I had to do whatever I could to find my da. When I unfolded the three documents, I scanned it, my heart beginning to pound.
It was an insurance document. And on the last piece of paper was an address with the name of the dead man we were searching for: Charles Durand, owner of Antiquités Durand.
An address. We had an address. I nearly tripped over my own feet as I burst from the office, heading for the stairway door.
But then I heard loud voices outside, and straining to hear, I could make out what sounded like Olivier yelling.
I ran outside, wishing I looked less dirty and rumpled, making certain to stuff the envelope into my back pocket.
A dark-haired man was standing with his arms crossed as Olivier spoke. The man just shook his head and replied with what sounded like a negative.
When I came through the alley, the man gave me one look and scowled. He turned back to Olivier, his voice rising. I was pretty sure I heard a word that sounded like “police.” Great. That was the last thing we needed.
“Who is this man, honey?” I laced my arm with Olivier’s, clinging to him like a vine. “Why is he yelling at you?”
“He’s accusing me of breaking and entering,” said Olivier with a sniff. “I assured him he was mistaken.”
The man’s accent was thick as he said to me, “You are very dirty. What were you doing?”
I sniffled, my chin even quivering. “I fell. Look at my hands.” I showed him my skinned palms. “My husband would never do something like you’re accusing him of. An employee allowed him inside to speak to someone upstairs.”
The man’s gaze went from me to Olivier and back again. He looked skeptical now.
When I managed to eke out a tear, the man took a step back. “Apologies, madam. I was wrong.” He shot Olivier a dark look, but then he scurried back to wherever he came from.
Olivier let out a long sigh. “That was smart thinking,” he said, sounding genuinely surprised.
“I have my moments.” I wanted to show him the envelope, but not right this second. “Let’s go before that guy really does call the cops on us.”
We managed to find a bench to sit on in the Champ de Mars, the famous park you could view from the top of the Eiffel Tower. The sun was warm enough that I fanned myself with a pamphlet a vendor had given me. Groups of people sat on the perfectly manicured lawns, some picnicking, others simply catching up on their tans.
Olivier looked grim. “I didn’t have an opportunity to speak to anyone. That man you saw me with was instantly suspicious and almost threw me out of the building.”
I was giddy with excitement. Pulling the envelope from my pocket, I handed it to Olivier. “Look what I found, though.”
Olivier took out the papers, scanning the text. His eyebrows shot to his hairline. “Clever girl,” he muttered. He added something in French that I chose to take as a compliment.
“We have no way to know if his widow still lives there,” I said, “but at least it’s a place to start.”
The address itself was still within Paris, although about ten miles from where we were sitting. As Olivier and I looked at the building’s facade on Google Maps, I nearly squealed, I was so pleased.
Eventually, Olivier said, “Am I playing your husband now?”
At the reminder, I wrinkled my nose. “It was spur of the moment.”
“We’re fortunate that man didn’t look at your bare finger.”
Good point. I should’ve gone with boyfriend. Why had I chosen husband? I was all of twenty-two. I wasn’t exactly ready for marriage, nor was I so thirsty for this golden prince sitting next to me that I wanted to marry him right this second.
Except, as Olivier gazed down at me, his gray eyes inscrutable, I had a feeling I was lying to myself, at least in part. No, I didn’t want to marry the guy. But I already knew I wanted to be more than his reluctant ally in this ridiculous quest we were on.
Then he reached out and brushed his thumb against my cheek. His thumb continued its path until it brushed against my lower lip. I began to tremble.
He leaned forward, and I waited for the kiss that never came.
“You still have dirt on your face,” he said gruffly, pulling away.
I couldn’t breathe. Then a hot blush crept up my face, and I felt very, very stupid for thinking he’d actually wanted to kiss me, right here in the middle of a park.
At that moment, a handful of young women made their way over to Olivier, stars in their eyes. Great. Groupies.
They squealed something in French, and before I knew it, Olivier was standing to meet them, a smile plastered on his face. He spoke to them with enthusiasm, and I swore they all sighed collectively as a single entity.
Feeling petty, I sidled up to him and, like I had earlier in the day, weaved my arm through his. “Baby, who are these women?” I said in a voice that got more strident with every syllable. “You told me you wouldn’t cheat on me again!”
The girls looked nonplussed. “Who is this?” one said.
Olivier tried to dislodge my hand, but I just gripped him tighter. “You can’t leave me!” I gripped his shirt with my free hand. “I’m pregnant with your baby!”
The girls gaped at Olivier. Olivier, for his part, pushed me rather hard behind him, saying in English, “She’s insane. Don’t listen to her.”
“That’s not what you said last night!” I yelled into his back.
It took five more seconds for the girls to turn tail and run. One looked over shoulder and shook her head at us.
Olivier glowered down at me. “Are you happy?” he growled.
“With my baby daddy cheating on me? I’m devastated.”
“You’re insane. And now those girls are going to post all about this on social media—”
“I’m sure there have been worse rumors about you floating around on the Internet.” I patted his arm. “At least I didn’t accuse you of murdering puppies.”
Chapter Eleven
My brother Liam glared at me through my phone screen. “Why do you keep ignoring my calls?” he demanded.
Okay, I had been ignoring his calls. I’d also yet to inform Liam about the whole thing with Olivier, the clock, and our da. Liam knew I’d gone to Ireland to deal with our grandda’s estate, but I hadn’t told him I’d wanted to look for our da. He’d blow a gasket.