For a second, she boggled.

“Come on, then,” he said, heading toward an empty table by the window.

This really, really wasn’t what she’d had planned for the day. But as he sat down, his face was cast in profile against the light streaming in from outside. If she hadn’t lost her bag, she’d have been tempted to take her sketchbook out right then and there, just to try to map the angles of his cheeks.

As she stood there staring, all her mother’s warnings came back to her in a rush. This guy was too smooth. Too practiced and too handsome, and the whole situation had Bad Idea written all over it. After the disaster that had been her last attempt at dating, she should know.

But the fact was, she really wanted that cup of coffee. And maybe the chance to make a few more mental studies of his jaw. It wouldn’t even be that hard. All she had to do was walk over there and sit down across from him. Except . . .

Except she didn’t do this sort of thing.

Which might be exactly why she should.

Fretting, she twisted her fingers in the fabric of her skirt. Then she took a single step forward. She was on vacation, dammit all, and this guy was offering. After everything, she deserved a minute to let go. To maybe actually enjoy herself for once.

Honestly. How much harm could a little conversation with a stranger really do?

Rylan Bellamy had a short, well-tested list of rules for picking up a tourist.

Number one, be trustworthy. Nonthreatening. Tourists were constantly expecting to be taken advantage of.

Number two, be clear about your intentions. No time to mess around when they could fuck off to another country at the drop of the hat.

Number three, make sure they always know they have a choice.

Lifting his cappuccino to his lips, he gazed out the window of the café. It hadn’t exactly been the plan to buy the girl in front of him in line a cup of coffee or to pick her up. It definitely hadn’t been the plan to get so engrossed in the business section of Le Monde that he’d managed to completely miss her getting pickpocketed right in front of him. But the whole thing had presented him with quite the set of opportunities.

Trustworthy? Stepping in when she looked about ready to lose it seemed like a good start there. Interceding on her behalf in both English and French were bonuses, too. Paying for her coffee had been a natural after that.

Clear about his intentions? He was still working on that, but he’d been tactile enough. Had gotten into her space and brushed his hands over her skin. Such soft skin, too. Pretty, delicate little hands, stained with ink on the tips.

Just like her pretty, pale face was stained with those big, dark eyes. Those rose-colored lips.

He shifted in his seat, resisting looking over at her for another minute. The third part about making sure this was all her choice was necessary but frustrating. If she didn’t come over here of her own free will, she’d never come to his apartment, either, or to his bed. He’d laid down his gauntlet. She could pick it up right now, or she could walk away.

Damn, he hoped she didn’t walk away. Giving himself to the count of thirty to keep on playing it cool, he set his cup back down on its saucer. Part of him worried she’d already made a break for it, but no. There was something about her gaze. Hot and penetrating, and he could feel it zoning in on him through the space.

He rather liked that, when he thought about it. Being looked at was nice. As was being appreciated. Sized up. It’d make it all the sweeter once she came to her decision, presuming she chose him.

Bingo.

Things were noisy in the café, but enough of his senses were trained on her that he could make out the sounds of her approach. He paused his counting at thirteen and glanced over at her.

If there’d been any doubts that she was a tourist, they cleared away as he took her in more thoroughly. She wore a pair of purple Converse that all but screamed American, and a dark skirt that went to her knees. A plain gray T-shirt and a little canvas jacket. No scarves or belts or any of the other hundred accessories that were so popular among the Parisian ladies this year. Her auburn hair was swept into a twist.

Pretty. American. Repressed. But very, very pretty.

“Your coffee’s getting cold,” he said as he pushed it across the table toward her and kicked her chair out.

A hundred retorts danced across her lips, but somehow her silence—and her wickedly crooked eyebrow, her considering gaze—said more. She sat down, legs crossed primly, her whole body perched at the very edge of her seat, like she was ready to fly at any moment.

He didn’t usually go in for skittish birds. They were too much work, considering how briefly they landed in his nest. He’d already started with this one, though, and there was something about her mouth he liked. Something about her whole aura of innocence and bravery. It was worth the price of a cup of coffee at the very least.

She curled a finger around the handle of her cup and tapped at it with her thumb. Wariness came off her in waves.

“I didn’t lace it with anything,” he assured her.

“I know. I’ve been watching you the whole time.”

He’d been entirely aware of that, thank you very much. He appreciated the honesty, regardless. “Then what’s your hesitation? It’s already bought and paid for. If you don’t drink it, it’s going to go to waste.”

She seemed to turn that over in her mind for a moment before reaching for the sugar and adding a more than healthy amount. She gave it a quick stir, then picked it up and took a sip.

“Good?” he asked. He couldn’t help the suggestive way his voice dipped. “Sweet enough?”

“Yes.” She set the cup down. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

She closed her mouth and gripped her mug tighter. Reminding himself to be patient, he sat back in his chair and rested his elbow on the arm. He looked her up and down.

Ugh. Forget patience. If he didn’t say something soon, they could be sitting here all day. Going with what he knew about her, he gestured in her general vicinity, trying to evoke her total lack of a wallet. “You could report the theft, you know.”

Shaking her head, she drummed her finger against the ceramic. “Not worth it. I wasn’t a complete idiot. Only had thirty or forty euros in there. And the police won’t do much about art supplies and books.”

“No, probably not.”

The art supplies part fit the profile. Matched the pigment on her hands and the intensity of her eyes.

He let a beat pass, but when she didn’t volunteer anything else, he shifted into a more probing stance. Clearly, he’d have to do the conversational heavy lifting here.

Not that he minded. He’d been cooling his heels here in Paris for a year, and he missed speaking English. His French was excellent, but there was something about the language you grew up with. The one you’d left behind. The way it curled around your tongue felt like home.

Home. A sick, bitter pang ran through him at the thought.

He cleared his throat and refocused on his smolder. Eyes on the prize. “So, you’re an artist, then?”

“I guess so.”

“You guess?”

“I just graduated, actually.”

“Congratulations.”

She made a little scoffing sound. “Now I just have to figure out what comes next.”

Ah. He knew that element of running off to Europe. Intimately. He knew how pointless it all was.

Still. He could spot a cliché when he saw one. “Here to find yourself, then?”

“Something like that.” A little bit of her reserve chipped away. She darted her gaze up to meet his, and there was something anxious there. Something waiting for approval. “Probably silly, huh?”

“It’s a romantic notion.” And he’d never been much of a romantic himself. “If it worked, everybody would just run off to Prague and avoid a lifetime of therapy, right? And where would all the headshrinkers be, then?”