Blame It on Paris Read Free Page B

face with cold water right then seemed a great idea, so she took off for the bathroom.
    Naturally, she nosed around. The toilet had an antique pull chain from the ceiling—interesting, once she was sure she could make it work. The white pedestal sink and tub were the old-fashioned kind with feet. He used a straight razor, she noted. Didn’t have much in the medicine cabinet but deodorant and first-aid stuff and one medicine. She thought it was for colds, nonprescription and more than two years old; he should have thrown it out. It was outdated.
    Her conscience chided her for being so shameful, but really, nosing around was better than musing that the tub was big enough for orgies. Not that she’d ever participated in an orgy. Or spent a lot of time thinking about them. Or planned to take up thinking about them.
    Impatiently she splashed her face with cool water, then grabbed a navy-blue towel to dry off. The towel was almost the size of a bedsheet. A thick blue rug covered most of the marble floor. No question that Will liked the color blue and his creature comforts.
    She opened the door, which gave her away with a telltale creak.
    Will immediately called out, “Across the hall and one door down. I’m in the kitchen.”
    So…it wasn’t her fault she got to see more of the apartment en route. To the left, an archway led to an alcove. Impossible to guess what the odd-sized space was for, but Will had squished in a small desk, lamp, chair, laptop, so it worked as a miniden. Still, it wasn’t ordinary. The walls had some kind of linen-like finish; the carved ceiling looked hand done. Everywhere, the creaky floors were covered with old Oriental rugs. Nothing seemed new. Everything about the architecture seemed older than a few centuries, practically older than America. Will’s love for blues and comfortable textures followed through everywhere. And he might not be into dusting, but he was basically a put-away tidy kind of guy.
    â€œWhat? Did you get lost?” He stepped out of the kitchen.
    â€œNo. I’m just dawdling around. No amount of guilt ever seems to stop me from being nosy. And I love your place—it’s really interesting.” Looking around had also given her a chance to catch her breath. Maybe she didn’t have a full-bore grip yet, but the adrenaline had finally quit pumping. “Will…thank you for helping me. Really, thank you.”
    â€œYeah, well, I stumbled around plenty when I first moved to Paris. Might have gotten into real trouble if a few people hadn’t offered a hand. Anyway…” He turned away, started pouring steaming water into pottery mugs. “Did he hurt you?”
    She blinked. His tone was so casual that she almost missed it, but then Will wasn’t an in-your-face kind of caretaker. Instead he was subtle, found a way to slip in a disturbing question and get it out of the way. Most strangers wouldn’t have cared, much less made the effort to steer into a potentially awkward problem.
    She thought that just maybe her attraction to him was more than ordinary old sex appeal. Damned if he wasn’t coming through like a seriously good guy.
    And then she tried to answer the question. “I’m bound to have a few bruises show up tomorrow, maybe even a nasty one on my neck. But I don’t need a doctor. Nothing serious.” Yet suddenly she needed to snug her arms tight under her chest. “I have to admit, though, that I keep feeling…weird. I was never mugged before, never had anyone touch me with the intent to hurt me. I can’t seem to shake it off. There’s just a high…ick…factor.”
    â€œSit. I was going to make coffee, then figured that was stupid. You need caffeine like a hole in the head. So it’s tea. French-style. With a bunch of sugar. Sugar for shock, right?”
    â€œActually, I never need an excuse to use sugar, but that’ll do.”
    The kitchen was mostly