Page 34 of Meet Me in Paris

Claude looked at me in disbelief.

I looked at him in horror.

We stood there, staring at one another for a long moment. The musicians behind us stopped their music and froze. I could only imagine their bewilderment at this American who’d gotten a little drunk and burped like a cowboy. I wouldn’t be surprised if they threw me overboard, dress and all.

Claude’s mouth spread into a smile, and helaughed.

I looked at the musicians in confusion, but they followed his lead and laughed as well. At me, the silly American.

My face flamed.

“I apologize,” I said again. I could barely stand, the boat danced about so much. Yet the city outside didn’t seem to move at all. The moment was long gone, and I doubted it would be returning anytime soon. The burps, however, would. “I wonder if you could take me home, Claude.”

“Are you ill? We may be able to find a pharmacy open this late.”

How could I explain I’d forgotten about my, um, tiny little issue with champagne? “No, I’m fine. I just need to go home.”

“Are you certain? Your trip is so short, and we don’t have much time together.”

I’d just belched like the world was ending, yet he kept making comments about spending more time with me? Either he was deeply and truly in love, which I doubted after having a total of three conversations with him, or . . .

Oh.

I examined the guy, his resistance finally raising suspicion in my overtired and slightly buzzed mind. “Why were you at the Eiffel Tower that day?”

There was a slight pause. “I was there to meet someone.”

I barely knew the guy, yet I could spot the lie immediately. “That’s how you get clients. You hover around tourist hotspots.”

He blinked. “I can sense this offends you, but it is completely normal when you work with international clients.”

“And international girlfriends?” I asked, putting a hand on my hip the way Mom always did. “Do you meet them there too? Or are they one and the same?”

He gave a big, overdone shrug. His voice held a healthy dose of defensiveness. “Sometimes yes, sometimes no.”

At once, I put it all together. His hints about not wanting the night to end and going somewhere to be alone. I wasn’t the type to “see how far this could go” on the first date, but it seemed he was.

I wasn’t even surprised. This entire operation felt too practiced, too contrived to be spontaneous. Too fake to be real. Just like the man himself.

“Claude,” I said firmly. “I want you to take me home right now.”

He hesitated, then said, “Of course.”

“Thank you.”

His smile still held amusement as he guided me to the exit, but I detected a hint of irritation in his eyes.

Yep. I’d nailed him exactly.

As we descended the gangplank, I saw his car waiting at the curb. The ground felt comforting and stable as I made my way toward it. But as Claude opened the door, I reconsidered. “Actually, my hotel is pretty far out of your way, so I’ll just find a taxi. Text me tomorrow?” I walked past the car and started striding down the sidewalk.

“There are no taxis this late!” Claude protested, but I kept walking. I didn’t want to sit next to the guy, much less trust him to take me home. For all the practice he had, he wasn’t even a good kisser.

Just then, a car sped toward us and slammed to a stop at the curb next to me.

A hundred possibilities flashed through my mind, none of them good in a dark city this time of night. I took a few steps back even as Claude hurried after me, still sputtering about the lateness of the hour.

Great. Had Claude hired a backup car? Would I need to fight my way free of this guy?

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