He couldn't stop himself from flicking her a raised brow. She hadn't been taking charge and getting things done last night.
She sighed. “Okay, fine. Maybe I don't do so well on my own all the time.” Again, in that soft, confessional voice, she said, “I came looking for you last night. For help."
And his curse had kept him from comforting her. Frustration lashed along Paul's nerve endings. Kate, she who so rarely admitted weakness, had reached out to him and he'd been unable to hold her, to listen, to love.
"I saw you.” The words slipped out his mouth before he could stop them. “Last night.” If he couldn't help her then, at least he could tell her the truth now.
"You what?” The words were quivering, angry cat tails.
"On my porch.” He glanced over at her, apologies in his eyes. “You were crying."
Her outrage hit him like a slap. “Why didn't you come out? I rang the bell and rang the bell and you just ... watched me?"
"I'm sorry. You have no idea...” He reached for her hand. Kate pulled it away. “—how sorry I am. I swear. But I couldn't come out."
"Why not?"
Because I was trapped inside the body of a demon. The truth snagged like barbed wire in his throat.
Suddenly Kate gasped. The air between them iced over. “You're married."
Paul couldn't stop himself from laughing. “If only it were something so simple."
"Why then?” She spat out the words, but her eyes and her flush and her shaking hands spoke volumes about the depth of her betrayal. “Why?"
Paul gripped the wheel, staring at her. His mouth moved soundlessly. He pleaded with his eyes. He just wasn't ready to tell her. Not yet. He wasn't ready to risk everything yet.
A white flash pulled Paul's attention back to the road.
"Paul, look out!"
He saw fur, a tail, a collar. He pulled hard on the wheel. Brakes squealed. The car skidded to a stop, throwing them both against their safety belts.
The little white dog continued on, oblivious.
Paul deflated against the steering wheel. This is not going well. They sat, car skewed across the center line. Silence built like a static charge.
"Why didn't you come out, Paul?” Kate's voice was quiet, but stubborn. “I really needed you."
The words clawed into him. Miles ago, he'd been her hero. Now he'd let her down, and when he told her the whole story there'd be more disappointment to come. He wasn't ready for that truth. Not yet. Not so suddenly. Instead, he opted for a more tactical honesty.
"Kate.” He rested his cheek on the steering wheel as he looked over at her. “Have you ever been in love?"
Her mouth dropped open and her eyes flew wide. “I ... I ... I...” She crossed her arms on her chest and glowered at him. “What kind of question is that?"
"Have you?” he pressed.
"Have you?” she shot back.
Paul let his eyes linger on her, and nodded. “Once."
Kate's mouth snapped shut. A flush rose up her throat, and she subsided into the leather cup of her seat.
Paul put the car into gear and began rolling down the road, gathering speed. Soon he would run out of other, more pleasant truths to tell. He put his eyes on the center line, and took advantage of Kate's steaming silence.
He turned the gentlest of corners. A wooden sign with deeply etched words welcomed them to Mapleton.
"Look,” Paul said, “we're here.” It seemed too ironic that his final battle with the truth would happen in a little valley so quaint and perfect it looked like it was just waiting for someone to shake the snow globe and move it into Christmas.
Chapter Eight
Is he really in love with me? The thought made her feel like she'd hatched a swallow in her stomach. Now and again it would swoop, bump her heart, and send the most delicious sensation of shivers right through her.
She'd never been in love before, but she wasn't going to tell him that. He'd probably deduced it. Someone who doesn't know their own favorite flavor is someone who hasn't bothered to stop and fall in love.
Did she love Paul? She didn't know, couldn't know. She had no idea what it would feel like if she did.
He'd seen her at his house, heard her ring the bell, but couldn't come out. What did that mean, couldn't come out? Was he chained to the bed or something?
Paul took the car once around Mapleton's center: quaint storefronts and a cobblestone avenue ringing an island-like park. In the center of the park rose a massive maple tree, gone to flame with autumn's change. Paul parked and they sat in silence. Kate looked over at Paul, forced herself into brutal objectivity. Could those blue eyes be lying? Could all those expressive twitches and gestures and faces be nothing but a mask?
"If you lied to me about not being married...” I'll break something of yours in exchange for my heart. “If you lie to me about anything..."
"No lies,” Paul said. “I promise."
"Why didn't you come out, last night?” Kate asked.
"Because I couldn't.” Paul pointed through the windshield. “Look, we're here."
Kate raised her eyebrows. “I'll walk all the way back to Bonaventure. Don't think I won't."
"I'll tell you everything you need to know, Kate. But, let me tell it my way.” He flicked her a shy glance. “Okay?"
Kate caught and held that glance, searching the dark shadows of his eyes. She saw fear—what could he be afraid of?—but no lies. She took a deep breath and decided to trust him. “No wife would ever have let you out of the house, looking like you did that first morning. You just don't look like the marrying kind."
Paul suddenly burst into laughter. “That would break my mother's heart to hear. I can imagine what she'd say: Mon Dieu! I tried so hard to make him acceptable to some woman somewhere!"
His laugh was infectious. Kate felt herself smiling. “Your mother is French?"
Paul's laugh stopped abruptly. He frowned, as if suddenly confronted with a puzzle. “My mother is dead. I haven't spoken about her in ... in a very, very long time."
In the silence that followed, Kate's stomach growled loudly.
Paul tilted an eyebrow at her. “Could you be hungry?"
No dinner last night, no breakfast yet this morning, she certainly could. Kate glanced around, saw a window full of pastries and a sign that said Baked Dreams. She pointed at the shop and then, with vaudevillian exaggeration, batted her eyelashes.
Paul's eyes narrowed. “Are you trying to bend me to your will, Kate Scott?"
A thrill ran through Kate. “Can I bend you to my will, Paul Tristel?"
He blinked, and all his teasing humor disappeared. “Tristel is the name I go by now. Dumond is the name I was born with.” He seemed to shake himself internally, then pointed to the pastry shop with a thin smile. “Come on."
Before she could formulate a question—the name you go by now?—Paul got out of the car. Not wanting to be left behind, she jumped out, too. Fascination and trepidation jangled dissonantly inside her. What sort of man changed his name? A retired spy? A criminal on the run? She joined him at the hood of the Mercedes, questions bubbling up on her lips.
He shook his head slightly. “Let's get some breakfast first, and then I'll tell you."
Kate felt her eyebrows climb. “Will you tell me everything, or just enough to make me wonder more?"
A strange smile quirked his mouth, but that was his only answer. He took her hand and led her inside the pastry shop. A delicious cloud rolled aside Kate's questions the moment the shop door opened. Cinnamon waltzed with sugar. Coffee jazzed the air. The little bell on the door jingled as Paul closed it behind her, his hand resting on the small of her back. The casual contact warmed her more than the promise of breakfast.
Paul bent to murmur in her ear. “Go and stake out that table,” he gestured with his chin, “there in the back, and I'll get breakfast. No soy lattes today."
"I like soy lattes!"
"You like vanilla ice cream, too,” he teased. “Trust m
e, Kate."
She sensed he wasn't just talking about his choice of breakfast beverage, so she didn't argue. Her obedience earned her a raised eyebrow, but she wanted to show him she was willing to trust him.
How bad could his secret really be?
She claimed the designated table, tucked in a nook far away from any other patrons. The chairs were upholstered, the table round and painted in soothing tones of gold and green. Kate sank into one of the chairs and watched Paul order at the counter.
An elderly woman appeared to help him. Immediately Paul charmed her with a grin. When he chose to smile like that, his eyes went from inscrutable dark pits to flashing blue stars, and the usual hint of sadness lifted as his face animated with wordless communication. The woman behind the counter pulled out a tray of cream-filled puffs, and Paul waggled his hand in a show of ambivalence. She pulled another tray. He approved with a blissful expression and a tapping of his fingers over his heart.
Kate remembered how he appeared the day she'd first met him: the stiff peaks of uncombed hair, the gritty stubble on his cheek, definitely not married. He'd been more than just disheveled and unwashed. He'd seemed blurred behind a black cloud of grief and hopelessness. Whatever his secret, it wasn't pleasant to keep.
He turned to throw her a quick smile over his shoulder.
He seemed much happier here with her. And she was happier, too. Whatever his secret, she didn't much care. This man had rescued her heart, and she had rescued his. Was that love?
Laden with a tray of pastries and two steaming mugs, Paul approached the table.
Do I love him? The question made her go still inside. He was the crumb she'd kept herself alive on this past year, as she slogged through the motions of the life everyone else expected her to live. Did she love him, or was it just time for her to figure out if she really did like vanilla best?
Paul set the tray down on the table. “What are you thinking about so hard?” he asked, sliding into the seat beside her.
"I...” I was wondering if I love you. She looked into his friendly blue eyes. “I...” She shook her head. “I was wondering what is in that mug, if not a soy latte?"
His eyebrows rose, but he didn't call her on the little lie. Instead, he put one of the steaming mugs in front of her. “A compromise. American style, au lait."
Kate peered dubiously into the cup. “No chocolate?"
"Keep your chocolate where it belongs.” Paul dipped his finger into a tartlet with rich-looking filling, and held the finger to her lips.
Love or not, it was definitely the hots. Her eyes linked with his, Kate hooked the dot of custard with her tongue. When the creamy flavor melted in her mouth, that sensual pleasure overwhelmed her. The sexy tingle morphed into something that made her throat an erogenous zone. “Oh, wow. Is it legal to eat this for breakfast?"
Paul grinned and touched the tip of her nose with his finger. “Only when you run away for the day.” He put another pastry beside her coffee mug, a flaky horn filled with a lumpier mixture Kate hoped contained cream cheese. With lifted brows and wide eyes, he asked if she approved. She smiled to tell him that he had made a good choice, with the pastry and the coffee, and with the running away. Their gazes linked and melded. Everything else melted away, running like watercolors, until there was only Paul.
I wish he would kiss me.
He blinked and looked away. “My mother was born in Paris.” He said the words quickly, like pulling off a bandage. He flicked her a quick glance, and then looked down and spoke into his cup of coffee. “She was the youngest daughter of a tremendously successful merchant. Tea from China, silk from Tibet, coffee from Brazil, oak planks from America. My grandmother came from a titled family before the Revolution, so my mother had the best of both worlds: new money, old blood."
A titled family. It sounded so outlandish and old fashioned. “Are you a long lost duke or something?” she teased.
Paul did not smile. Into his coffee he said, “My mother was the youngest, the only daughter among seven sons. My grandfather doted on her, which was why I ended up here. In America."
He paused to gather his thoughts. It seemed so hard, almost painful, to tell her about who he was. “Listen, Paul, that's all ancient history. Why don't you tell me who you are now?"
A bitterly humorless smile thinned his mouth. “I would rather stick to the ancient history.” He put a spin on the words she didn't understand.
"I'm sorry. I'm listening."
That earned her another shy flick of a glance, before he went on. “My mother never behaved like a dutiful youngest daughter should. She went off to school and promptly fell in love with a man who was penniless, Irish, and Anglican. They were forbidden to marry. In defiance, my mother immediately became pregnant with me. Because she was my grandfather's favorite, she was allowed to secretly marry her Irishman, have me, and we were shipped off to America."
"You never knew your father?” She could guess, the way he called him her Irishman.
Paul shook his head. “He died on the sea voyage. I was only a year old when we left France."
Kate frowned, did some quick math in her head. All along, she had assumed Paul to be a little older than her. Certainly no older than forty. But forty years ago, the husbands of French aristocrats, even undesirable Irish husbands of exiled French aristocrats, did not die on boat trips across the Atlantic. That had gone out with Ellis Island.
"You aren't eating your breakfast."
Kate pulled herself out of her jumbled thoughts to see Paul pointing at her pastries. He stopped his story to take a bite from his, as if to encourage her. To please him, she lifted the little tartlet to her mouth. The chocolate flavor hummed like a violin across her tongue.
Her appreciation must have shown on her face, because Paul smiled—his first genuine smile since he'd started his story. “Exceptional pastries here.” He indicated the elderly woman behind the counter. “She learned from her grandmother. Exceeds her grandmother's talents, in my opinion. Try the other one."
At his urging, Kate took an experimental bite of the pastry horn. The filling was cream cheese, as she'd hoped, flavored delicately with honey and warm spices, cupped inside buttery flakes as light as silk flags on the wind.
All talking stopped, so that they could focus on the delicacies. Kate even liked the coffee, rich and sharp, without the cloying sugary mocha. She was draining the last few drops, even the crumbs of her pastries consumed, when his last comment struck her squarely between the eyes.
Exceeds her grandmother's talents, in my opinion.
Kate looked over to the counter, where the elderly proprietress was counting out change. She wasn't a day under eighty. Kate returned her attention to Paul, studying his face carefully while he was preoccupied with chocolate filling. There were no tell-tale age lines around his eyes or jaw. His hair color seemed natural.
But it couldn't be.
If he had sampled that woman's grandmother's baking, he had to be older than forty. If his father had died on an immigration boat from Paris, he had to be much older than forty.
Paul caught her looking. His mouth full of pastry, he formed the question with lifted brows and upturned palms.
Kate asked him outright: “How old are you?"
His eyes narrowed in a strange combination of relief and bitterness. He swallowed his bite of pastry, washed it down with coffee, before answering. “I am much older than I look.” He did not meet her eyes. “Are you through? This is a nice town for walking. Would you walk with me?"
Mystified, Kate just nodded. I am much older than I look. Was he some European movie star, surgically preserved, hiding out in their little town, chased from the spotlight by some scandal? She thought of his car. Was he some rich eccentric paying for an illegal life-extending course of treatment?
They stood up and Paul left a surprising large bill as a tip. Rich eccentric might be it. She laughed to herself. How envious Vanessa would be. Paul offered her his arm and tilted his head in invitation. She
tucked her arm through his, and linked, they walked out onto the street.
The sun was halfway up the sky. A thin layer of high clouds diffused its light. Not the sharp, bright day of yesterday. Everything seemed covered in golden muslin, and the air lay heavy with the promise of rain.
"Come on.” Paul turned and started following the sidewalk that led around the circle of shop fronts. For a while they walked in silence. Kate forced herself to relax and respect the pace he'd set for his revelations. It was his secret to share, she reminded herself, his story to tell.
Besides, being with him under a gauzy sky, walking on his arm, she felt hidden and safe from her own problems, her own failures. She had not taken a day off in a year. On Paul's arm, walking past a tobacconist shop's masculine perfume, she could acknowledge that Vanessa and Gwen were right. It was time for a change. Today, this moment, walking in companionable silence on the arm of a man she might already love, a man she wanted to try to love, was her first step toward that change.
"I was not always this shining paragon of manhood you know now,” Paul said suddenly, his voice mocking.
Kate tried to find a nice, encouraging way to tell him she didn't care. “Who you were doesn't much matter, does it?"
"It helps to understand what I am,” he said in a curiously flat voice, as if they were discussing a science experiment instead of a person.
"What I am?” she echoed, and immediately wished she hadn't. His expression grew stony, his lips press together into a frowning slash.
Kate let the topic go along with the leaves swirling on the sudden kick of wind. She squeezed his arm and said, “Let's walk."
She saw his shoulders relax, and he flicked a shy smile in her direction.
They made a half turn around the town's center, pausing to look in windows and making small talk.
At an antique shop, Kate examined what she thought looked like a simple kitchen ladder back. “Wow. That's pretty steep for a chair, don't you think?"
"It's from the nineteenth century."
"Oh.” Kate looked up at him. “You know a lot about historical stuff?"
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