"Please sit."

I did. He left, taking the bowl with my belongings with him. For thirty minutes I sat there alone-cooling my heels, as they say. I didn't like this.

Two men stepped into the room. The first was younger, late twenties maybe, good-looking with sandy hair and that three-day growth pretty boys use to look more rugged. He wore jeans and boots and a button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the start of the elbow. He leaned his back against a wall, folded his arms across his chest, and chewed a toothpick.

The second man was midfifties with oversize wire-rimmed glasses and tired gray hair that was dangerously close to a comb-over. He was drying his hands on a paper towel as he entered. His windbreaker looked like something Members Only sold in 1986.

So much for Frenchmen and their haute couture.

The older man did the talking. "What is the purpose of your visit to France?"

I looked at him, then at the toothpick chewer, then back to him. "And you are?"

"I'm Captain Berleand. This is Officer Lefebvre."

I nodded at Lefebvre. He chewed the toothpick some more.

"Purpose of your visit?" Berleand asked again. "Business or pleasure?"

"Pleasure."

"Where will you be staying?"

"In Paris."

"Where in Paris?"

"At the Hotel d'Aubusson."

He didn't write it down. Neither of them had pen or paper.

"Will you be by yourself?" Berleand asked.

"No."

Berleand was still wiping his hands on the paper towel. He stopped, used one finger to push his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. When I still hadn't said anything else, he shrugged a "Well?" at me.

"I'm meeting a friend."

"The friend's name?"

"Is that necessary?" I asked.

"No, Mr. Bolitar, I'm nosy and am asking for no apparent reason."

The French are into sarcasm.

"The name?"

"Terese Collins," I said.

"What is your occupation?"

"I'm an agent."

Berleand looked confused. Lefebvre, it seemed, didn't speak English.

"I represent actors, athletes, writers, entertainers," I explained.

Berleand nodded, satisfied. The door opened. The first officer handed Berleand the bowl with my belongings. He put it on the table next to my bag. Then he started wiping his hands again.

"You and Ms. Collins didn't travel together, did you?"

"No, she is already in Paris."

"I see. How long do you plan on staying in France?"

"I'm not sure. Two, three nights."

Berleand looked at Lefebvre. Lefebvre nodded, peeled himself off the wall, headed for the door. Berleand followed.

"Sorry for any inconvenience," Berleand said. "I hope you have a pleasant stay."

TERESE Collins was waiting for me in the lobby.

She hugged me but not too hard. Her body leaned against mine for support, but again not that much, not a total collapse or anything. We were both reserved in our first greeting in eight years. Still, as we held each other, I closed my eyes and thought I could smell the cocoa butter.

My mind flashed to the Caribbean island, but mostly it flashed-let's be honest here-to the thing that truly defined us: the soul-piercing sex. That desperate clawing and shredding that makes you understand, in a totally non-sadomasochistic way, how pain-emotional pain-and pleasure not only intermingle but amplify each other. Neither of us had an interest in words or feelings or false comforts or hand-holding or even, well, reserved hugs-as if all that stuff were too tender, as if a gentle caress might pop this fragile bubble that temporarily protected us both.

Terese pulled back. She was still knee-knockingly beautiful. There had been aging, but on some women-maybe most women in this era of too much facial tucking-a little aging works.

"So what's wrong?" I asked.

"That's your opening line after all these years?"

I shrugged.

"I opened with 'Come to Paris,' " Terese said.

"I'm working on dialing back the charm," I said, "at least until I know what's wrong."

"You must be exhausted."

"I'm fine."

"I got a room for us. A duplex. Separate sleeping areas so we can have that option."

I said nothing.

"Man." Terese managed a smile. "It's so good to see you."

I felt the same. Maybe it had never been love, but it was there, strong and true and special. Ali said we weren't forever. With Terese, well, maybe we weren't everyday, but it was something, something hard to define, something you could put on a nearby shelf for years and forget about and take for granted and maybe that was how it should be.

"You knew I'd come," I said.

"Yes. And you know the same is true if you'd been the one to call."

I did. "You look great," I said.

"Come on. Let's get something to eat."

The doorman took my suitcase and sneaked an admiring glance at Terese before giving me the universal man-to-man smirk that said, Lucky bastard.

The Rue Dauphine is a narrow road. A white van had double-parked next to a taxi, taking up nearly the entire street. The driver of the taxi was screaming what I could only assume were French obscenities but it might have just been a particularly aggressive way of asking for directions.

We turned right. It was nine in the morning. New York City might be in full swing by that hour, but strolling Parisians were still rousing themselves from their beds. We reached the Seine River at the Pont Neuf. In the distance on our right, I could see the towers of Notre Dame Cathedral. Terese started down the river walk in that direction, past the green boxes that were famous for selling antique books but seemed more intent on pushing chintzy souvenirs. Across the river, a giant fortress with a gorgeous mansard roof rose, to quote Springsteen, bold and stark.

As we got closer to Notre Dame, I said, "Would you be embarrassed if I rounded my shoulders, dragged my left leg, and shouted, 'Sanctuary!'"

"Some might mistake you for a tourist," Terese said.

"Good point. Maybe I should buy a beret with my name stenciled on the front."

"Yeah, then you'd blend right in."

Terese still had that incredible walk, head held high, shoulders back, perfect posture. One more thing I just realized about all the women in my life: They all have great walks. I find confident walks sexy, the near prowl-like way certain women enter a room as if they already own it. You can tell a lot by the way a woman walks.

We stopped at an outdoor bistro on Saint Michel. The sky was still gray but you could see the sun fighting to take control. Terese sat and studied my face for a very long time.

"Uh, do I have something stuck in my teeth?" I asked.

Terese managed a smile. "God, I've missed you."

Her words hung in the air. I didn't know if she was doing the talking now or this city. Paris was like that. Much has been written about its beauty and splendors, and sure, that was true. Every building was a mini architectural wonder, a feast for the eyes. Paris was like the beautiful woman who knew she was beautiful, liked the fact that she was beautiful and, ergo, didn't have to try so hard. She was fabulous and you both knew it.

But more than that, Paris makes you feel-for lack of a better term-alive. Check that. Paris makes you want to feel alive. You want to do and be and savor when you are here. You want to feel, simply feel, and it doesn't matter what. All sensation is heightened. Paris makes you want to cry and laugh and fall in love and write a poem and make love and compose a symphony.

Terese reached her hand across the table and took mine.

"You could have called," I said. "You could have let me know you were okay."

"I know."

"I haven't moved," I said. "My office is still on Park Avenue. I still share Win's apartment at the Dakota."