by Allison Parr
A woman with a press badge smiled winningly, a man with a camera beside her. “Pardon... Vous n’êtes pas lié à Tamara Bocharov, êtes-vous?”
I had forgotten how much the eyes were done up.
I had forgotten my mother had thrived in this city.
Because she had thrived here. And I should be proud of that. I smiled up at the woman. “C’est ma mere.”
“You’re an American.” The woman passed a surprised glance to her friend. “I forgot Tamara married an American.”
He smiled winningly at us. “How about a photo?”
He arranged us in a trio, and I watched with interest as Rachael and Briana angled themselves like this was second nature. The photographer snapped away, thanked us, then they were on their way.
I watched them go. “That was weird.”
Bri shook her head. “It wasn’t weird. She writes for a women’s magazine, and you’re a supermodel’s daughter. It’s weird that no one shares gossip with me.”
I liked them. I liked it even better when Mike came back, and the six of us sat in our own circle. I was super awkward at first, because each time my gaze caught on the elegant planes of Malcolm Lindsey’s face or the shocking beauty of Ryan Carter, I felt like I had, as Briana’d said, fallen down the rabbit hole. If Ireland was emerald as Oz, this was strange as Wonderland, but wherever I was, I didn’t want to leave.
We returned to the hotel after three in the morning. They’d turned the Eiffel Tower off, which I didn’t know was possible, but it was black metal as our taxi wound back through the streets. We slipped into our room and then he was tugging my dress up over my arms, and I was pulling his shirt out of his pants and pushing at the buttons with more enthusiasm then helpfulness. These nice shirts of his were the bane of my existence.
His mouth descended on mine, his eyes dark and wanting, and I shuddered against him, gasping into his mouth and allowing his kiss even deeper. “Did I tell you,” he asked, as I pushed the shirt down his arms and started to blaze kisses across his sternum, “how beautiful you are today?”
I laughed up at him as my hands traced the defined planes and ridges of his stomach. “Because of my eyes?”
His hands gripped my shoulders, his thumbs playing against the tops of my breasts. His hands slid to my bra and undid it, and then he pulled me up and flush against him. “Because you are beautiful.” I reacted with a small moan. “You are strong, and smart, and stunning. You are absolutely everything—” He broke off and kissed me, a burning, intoxicating kiss. Fire spread through every part of me, and then I was boneless, thoughtless, running my hands over every part of him I could touch.
“Oh, God, Natalie,” he groaned, and he ripped my hand away and his dress pants off, and backed me against the wall. I needed him now. I needed to love him the way we were supposed to. His hands cupped my bottom and lifted my hips as I wrapped my legs around him. I could feel him trembling, his entire body shaking with the same need I felt. I flattened my breasts against him and pressed my lips to his. I poured myself into the kiss, all the emotions I didn’t know how to say, all the desire and joy and beauty he made me feel, and he lost control. I let out a shout and we rocked together, losing ourselves in fire and heat and each other.
Chapter Twenty-Two
In the late morning, we met up with the other four at a chocolate room on rue Rivoli. The boys grumbled about fitting their long limbs and broad shoulders into the limited space, but I noticed they ate plenty of the food.
Afterward we strolled through the Tuileries, the royal gardens that had become a public park before the Louvre. They seemed to stretch on forever, filled with manicured bushes and graceful statues and low pools of glinting water. Rachael had extremely strong opinions about what to do in Paris, which mostly consisted of art and food, and the rest of us were content to drift after her as she argued with Ryan about directions.
So we followed her down through the glass pyramid and back up into the palace. Bright wooden floors matched up with marble walls and grand arches, while high above egg-and-dart crownings lined the glass skylights. Endless art and people filled it, so much it was hard to know where to begin. We went heavy on the Egyptian, Near Eastern and Classical work, and then did a hit-and-run tour of the rest.
A crowd milled in front of The Mona Lisa, which, as I’d been warned, was kind of small and dark, but it was worth it, especially for the two girls who took one glance and then buried their heads in their phones in order to make it their statuses.
But I liked the next chambers better, light and airy despite the burgundy walls. If I turned around I could see a straight shot back to the Winged Victory, framed through a series of arches. These rooms were all filled with paintings I’d studied in art history classes. There was The Coronation of Napoleon and another portrait of Josephine reclining on a moss covered rock, as she was likely wont to do. Now I studied a suspiciously white Dido of Carthage as she chatted with Aeneas, pre break-up and suicide.
To my surprise, Ryan Carter came up as I stared at the huge expanse of paint. “So, archaeology.”
“Um.” I glanced at him a little nervously. Ryan was the golden boy of the New York Leopards, a triple threat quarterback. I’d never spoken directly to him, and despite spending the past couple months in close confines with one of his teammates, the fame and celebrity still shell-shocked me. “Uh-huh.”
“That’s what I wanted to do as a kid. Egyptology. Bet you get that a lot.”
I peeked at him quickly, but he still looked dead ahead at the painting. He was right, of course; half the people I encountered told me they’d wanted to be an Egyptologist. It was the kind of thing I usually just grinned and bore, though sometimes I wanted to jump down their throats and explain there was a huge difference between thinking and starting to do something and actually, say, doing it.
Not that I would ever say anything like that to Ryan Carter. “It’s not uncommon.”
He let out a breath of laugher. “Nice way of putting it. You finding a lot over there? At Kilkarten?”
Oh, boy. He knew about Kilkarten. “Not yet. I mean, we’ve found the basic stuff you’ll find digging anywhere in Ireland, but no burials or building remains.”
He nodded at the painting. He kind of looked like one of the busts we had walked past earlier, an idealized youth from the Classical Era. “Rachael really likes you.”
What did I say to that? “Thanks?”
“Because you’re smart and focused and dedicated to your work. That’s what matters to Rachael.”
Uh-oh. That didn’t sound like it boded well. “And I’m guessing you’re telling me this because you value other things.”
A small smile slipped out. “I figure it makes sense to check up on anything not part of the pattern.” He paused. “And so I wanted to know if you’re dating Mike out of convenience.”
Because I wasn’t part of Mike’s pattern. I turned so I stared straight at Carter, and waited until he turned and faced me. He stared me down, blue eyes cool, and I could see why opposing teams faltered under his steadfast gaze. Instead, I locked my shoulders and lifted my chin. “It’s not out of convenience.”
His eyes didn’t even twitch as they studied me, just scanned back and forth, like he was trying to read every move I’d made in the past and everything I planned for the future. “Good.”
I let out a breath. “Okay. I’m just gonna, go...” I jerked my thumb over my shoulder.
“Cool.” He locked his hands behind his back and turned back to the painting.
Holy shit, I didn’t want to get on his bad side.
I walked over to Mike. I almost wanted to make a joke, like “Your quarterback just interrogated me about my intentions towards you.”
But instead, I slipped my hand into his, and tugged slightly until he looked my way with a questioning lift of his brows. I raised my mouth to his lips. “Hey. I like you. You know that, right?”
He kissed me.
* * *
All the walking
-and-stopping of the museum starved us, so we followed Rachael up to the Marais to get falafel. The Marais felt like Williamsburg, or maybe the West Village—trendy and hipstery and filled with boutiques. Rachael led us next by the Hôtel de Ville, the massive and stunning seat of Parisian government, then through winding streets toward the two tiny islands in the middle of the Seine. She got distracted by the Mémorial de la Shoah, turned bright red as she tried to dissuade the rest of us from feeling like we had to go in with her, and muttered to herself when Ryan grabbed her arm and towed her inside with the rest of us following. Then she squeezed Ryan’s hand hard enough that that I could see the white imprints from her fingers and nails.
We crossed a bridge onto a tiny, practically pedestrian island, where we stopped for ice-cream and to watch several street musicians. Then it was onward across another bridge to Notre Dame, which we came up at from behind, giving us the chance to admire the swooping flying buttresses and a small garden filled with roses.
While we waited in line in the grand plaza before the cathedral, the boys started wrestling. It began when Ryan started ribbing Mike about Notre Dame, Mike’s alma matter, and Mike had come back with some equally snarky remark about Ryan’s and now all three of them were jumping and turning, displaying a strength and flexibility that appeared almost unreal. People stopped to watch—not people who knew they were celebrities, just casual tourists struck by the beauty of their bodies, by the amazing abilities of the human form.
I watched them laughing. Watched Mike, the brightness in his eyes, the joy on his face. And my heart flipped. Just flipped over and said, yes, that’s right. That’s him.
Somewhere along the line I had fallen in love with Michael O’Connor.
I turned away, my heart beating wildly. What was I supposed to do now? What did you do when you ended up over your head?
I tried to focus on the church, on the saints and the gargoyles. Instead, I caught a glimpse of Rach and Bri, who had also paused to watch the boys, small smiles on their faces. Smiles I doubted they knew were there.
They had figured it out. Most people figured it out. Emotions were part of human life.
But I dealt with people and places long gone, not modern love. Not things that could affect me. And I stood by what I’d said; I agreed that the emotion of love was real. I was chock full of dopamine and norepinephrine and serotonin. But that didn’t make it lasting.
What did I do now? Let it run its course, enjoy it while it lasted, love Mike with all my heart—well, with all my complimentary brain-produced chemicals? That was surely the healthy thing to do, the way most people functioned.
But if you knew pain was coming—how did it make sense to put yourself straight in the path of all that agony and depression? Wasn’t it stupid to stand on train tracks, even if you couldn’t hear the train?
I lifted my gaze above the Cathedral’s three arched portals to the gallery of kings, all carved drapes and endless crowns. But there were no answers in the stone.
I was beginning to think that was always the case.
* * *
We returned to Ireland, and rain.
The O’Connor women picked us up at the airport. They’d cancelled their northern trip due to the endless downpour, and spent the weekend in Dublin, where they could stay dry in museums.
They were not thrilled to hear about France’s lack of rain.
I found all the water soothing. The way it streaked across the windows, the way the ocean pounded against the land and sent up angry white sprays. The world was bleached of every color but green and gray, turned into some strange altered landscape where everything blurred together.
Back at the inn, we settled before the fire, talking about our trips and drinking hot tea and devouring the pastries we’d brought back. I studied Mike’s face, the curl of his lips, the crinkle of his eyes. The dimple when he laughed out loud.
Maybe I could just tell him and follow up by saying I didn’t expect anything. That I just wanted to share. That I was trying to be emotionally open, but I didn’t want to tie him down or anything.
A knock sounded. Jeremy leaned on the doorframe. Scruff roughening his jaw, and two lines folded the skin between his brows. “Natalie. You’re back. Can I talk to you for a minute?”
“Of course.” I uncurled and stood. I could feel Mike’s eyes as I followed Jeremy, who led me up to his room. “How was your weekend? Is everything okay?”
He shook his head and dropped into his desk chair. I hovered nervously. “Did something happen while I was gone?”
He kept his eyes steady on mine. “An article was published about you this morning.”
I actually placed my hand on my chest, I was so surprised. “Me? What did it say?”
His head wavered back and forth. “About Tamara Bocharov’s daughter, actually.”
My throat dried up. “I don’t understand.” Why would anyone write an article about me as my mother’s daughter? And if they did, why would Jeremy care?
Unless it was really an article about Kilkarten. My arms wrapped around my waist. “What did it say?”
He let out a deep sigh. “The original article was gossip. Nothing really.”
“Because it is nothing. How did anyone even find out?”
His gaze went over me. “Because of him.”
I whipped my head around to find Mike crossing from the top of the stairs to Jeremy’s door. He stopped close enough that I could feel his warmth, and stared right back at Jeremy. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Natalie’s always been able to fly under the radar before. No one cared who her mother was. But apparently when a famous running back’s dating a supermodel’s daughter, it gets some attention. Especially when she’s searching for a lost city.”
Oh, God, it sounded like a made for TV movie. It could only get worse if there were aliens. “You said the original article. There were more? There were pictures from Paris, weren’t there? And someone followed up. And...Ceile? He hasn’t said anything, though, has he?”
Jeremy looked away.
My stomach dropped. “Already?”
His jaw tightened. “It’s not pretty.”
Mike tried to get an explanation once more. “So some articles were written. Who cares?”
Jeremy sent him a hard, sharp, glare. “Natalie is a professional. She’s smart and dedicated, and you made her look ridiculous.”
“What are you talking about?”
“It’s the absurdity of it all,” I said miserably. “It’s hard enough to get people to take us seriously. No one will fund Jeremy to look for Ivernis anymore, since there’s been too much failure in the past. And Ceile’s done too good a job at making us look like we’re ridiculous questers. And now if I come across as some ditzy blonde who’s just—who’s just playing around in her boyfriend’s backyard with money a wonderful establishment gave me—it’ll look like a joke. No one will fund us, and we’ll never find Ivernis.” I looked up at Jeremy. “What are we going to do?”
Jeremy’s gaze softened slightly when he looked at me. “We keep digging.”
“I am so sorry. I’ll fix it. I promise.”
He closed his eyes. “The only way to fix it is to prove Ceile wrong.”
I was still nodding when he shut the door.
I sagged. Mike caught me, and for a minute I rested against him and wished I didn’t ever have to leave his arms. And then I straightened and walked into our room.
He closed the door and sat down across from me. “If anyone thinks less of you because of your mother, and because you’re dating me, they’re the idiots.”
I pulled my laptop closer. “And it would be fine if it was just about me and you. Then it would be funny. Silly, sweet.” The first article that popped up was exactly that, a saccharine account of our romance, accompanied by a picture of us in our formal wear. “Or at least just celebrity gossip of no interest to the real world.”
He lounged in his seat. “I forgot I didn’t live in
the real world.”
I clicked back. The first article had been dumb and flirty and flattering, if you were a football player or a model and wanted to be flattered.
I didn’t want to click the second link. Instead, I looked at Mike. “But it’s ammunition for Dr. Ceile.”
I opened the page.
Mike sat down behind me, reading off the screen. “‘Delusion Diggers.’ Catchy.”
I rubbed my hands over my nose and mouth, unable to look away.
Mike leaned closer. “‘Professor Anderson persists in his ridiculous quest for the lost city of Ivernis, accompanied by the daughter of ’80s supermodel Tamara Bocharov, playing Willie Scott to his Dr. Jones.’” He let out a snort. “The nightclub singer? Played by Spielberg’s wife?”
“We have a limited number of pop culture references.”
“‘Sullivan may be easy on the eyes, but she spends more time frequenting Parisian galas with her American footballer boyfriend than working in the field.’” He leaned back and grinned at me. “I don’t know, isn’t this a case of being so ridiculous it’s funny?”
I was pretty grossed out that Ceile called me easy on the eyes. “I get what you mean, but it plays into the feud between Jeremy and Ceile. And Ceile’s winning. People want to believe that Jeremy’s crazy.”
He studied me for a long moment, and drew the computer toward him. He spun it back my way after a minute. “You’re not the only one damned by public opinion.”
Top Ten Football Scandals of the 21st Century
Leopards Linebacker Arrested for Drug Use
Bisons’ Wide Receiver is Suspected of Battery
I sat there for a while. He had a point. Still... “It’s different when these are actually true.”
“You think every scandal you ever read about is true?”
I was silent.
“You can’t let it get to you. So people think you’re crazy. So what?”
I shook my head. “We can’t dig without grant money.”
He cocked his head. “But they’ll give you money if you find something. Just not if there’s nothing there, and you want to start looking for Ivernis all over again somewhere else.”