“Oh, he did?” Vincent muttered, his expression assuming the hardened look it’d had the first time I met him. He thrust his hands back into his pockets and continued walking. We were getting closer to the Métro stop. I slowed my pace to buy a little more time.

“So what are you guys, undercover cops?” I didn’t believe it for a second, but tried to sound sincere. His sudden change in mood had intrigued me.

“Something like that.”

“What, kind of like a SWAT team?”

He didn’t respond.

“That was really brave, by the way,” I insisted. “Your diving into the river. What did the girl have to do with the gang fighting under the bridge, anyhow?” I asked, digging further.

“Um, I’m not supposed to talk about it,” Vincent said, studying the concrete a few inches in front of his feet.

“Oh yeah. Of course,” I said lightly. “You just look really young to be a cop.” I couldn’t stop a facetious smile from spreading across my lips.

“I told you . . . I’m a student,” he said, giving me an uncertain grin. He could tell I didn’t buy it.

“Yeah. Okay. I didn’t see anything. I didn’t hear anything,” I said dramatically.

Vincent laughed, his good mood returning. “So . . . Kate, what are you doing this weekend?”

“Um . . . no plans,” I said, silently cursing my reddening cheeks.

“Do you want to do something?” he asked, with a smile so charming that my heart forgot to beat.

I nodded, since I couldn’t speak.

Taking my silence as hesitation, he added quickly, “Not like a formal date or anything. Just hanging out. We can . . . take a walk. Wander around the Marais.”

I nodded again, and then managed to get out, “That would be great.”

“Okay, how about Saturday afternoon? Daylight. In public. A perfectly safe thing to do with a guy you barely know.” He held up his hands as if showing he wasn’t hiding anything.

I laughed. “Don’t worry. Even if you are on a SWAT team, I’m not afraid of you.” As soon as it was out of my mouth I realized that I was afraid. Just a little bit. I wondered once more if that was his pull on me. Maybe my parents’ deaths had left me with a lack of self-preservation and it was the hint of danger that I was going for. Or maybe I was attracted to the vague aura of untouchable aloofness that he exuded. Maybe all he was to me was a challenge. Whatever the reason, it was effective. I really liked this guy. And I wanted to see him again. Night, day, I didn’t care. I’d be there.

He lifted an eyebrow and chuckled. “Not afraid of me. How . . . amusing.” I couldn’t help myself from laughing along.

Nodding the other direction down the boulevard, he said, “Jules is probably waiting for me. See you Saturday. Meet you outside the rue du Bac Métro station at three?”

“Saturday, three o’clock,” I confirmed as he turned and walked away. I don’t think it would be exaggerating much to say that my feet didn’t touch the ground the whole way home.

Chapter Six

VINCENT WAS WAITING FOR ME BY THE MÉTRO entrance. My heart caught in my throat as I wondered (not for the first time) why this too-gorgeous-to-be-true guy had any interest whatsoever in plain old . . . okay, maybe slightly pretty, but by no means beautiful on his level . . . me. My insecurity crumbled when I saw his face light up as I approached.

“You came,” he said as he leaned in to give me the bises, those double-cheeked air-kisses that Europeans are famous for. Though I shivered when his skin touched mine, my cheeks were warm for a good five minutes afterward.

“Of course,” I said, drawing on every drop of my “cool and confident” reserve, since, to tell the truth, I was feeling a bit nervous. “So, where are we off to?”

We began walking down the steps to the subway tracks. “Have you been to the Village Saint-Paul?” he asked.

I shook my head. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”

“Perfect,” he said, seeming pleased with himself but giving no further explanation.

We barely talked on the train, but it wasn’t for lack of conversation. I don’t know if it is just a cultural thing, or because the trains themselves are so quiet, but as soon as people step into the car from the platform they shut up.

Vincent and I stood facing each other, holding on to the central steel pole for balance, and checked out the other passengers, who were busy checking us out. Have I mentioned that checking people out is the French national pastime?

As we turned a corner and the train jerked to one side, he put an arm around my shoulders to steady me.

“We haven’t even gotten there and you’re already making a move?” I laughed.

“Of course not. I’m a gentleman through and through,” he responded in a quiet voice. “I would throw my coat over a puddle for you any day.”

“I’m no damsel in distress,” I retorted as the train pulled to a stop.

“Whew—well, that’s a good thing,” he said, breathing a fake sigh of relief. “How about opening the door for me, then?”

I grinned as I flipped up the metal door-release lever and stepped onto the platform.

We emerged from the Saint-Paul stop directly in front of the massive classical church called the Église Saint-Paul. “I used to come here when I was a kid,” I said to Vincent as I peered up at the decorative facade.

“Really?”

“Yeah. When I came to visit my grandparents during the summer, there was a girl I used to play with who lived just there.” I pointed to a building a few doors away. “Her dad told us that this street was used for jousts in the Middle Ages. Sandrine and I used to sit on the church steps and pretend we were in the middle of a medieval tournament.” I closed my eyes and I was back, ten years ago, reliving the sounds and colors of our imaginary tourney. “You know, I always thought that if the centuries and centuries of Paris’s ghosts could materialize all at once, you would find yourself surrounded by the most fascinating people.” I stopped, suddenly embarrassed that I was spouting off to this guy I barely knew with details about one of my several dreamworlds.

Vincent smiled. “If I were riding to the challenge, would you give me your favor to display on my arm, fair lady?”

I pretended to dig through my bag. “I can’t seem to find my lace kerchief. How about a Kleenex?”

Laughing, Vincent threw an arm around my shoulders and squeezed me tightly. “You’re amazing,” he said.

“That’s a definite step up from ‘amusing,’” I reminded him, unable to prevent my cheeks from reddening with pleasure.

We headed to a side road leading down toward the river. Halfway there, Vincent stepped through the large wooden doorway of a four-story building, pulling me behind him.

Like many Parisian apartment blocks, this one had been constructed around an internal courtyard sheltered from the street. The most modest courtyards are barely as big as a king-size bed, with only enough space to hold the building’s trash bins. Others are large, some even having trees and benches, forming a quiet haven for residents away from the busy street.

This courtyard was massive and had little shops, and even an outdoor café, scattered among the ground-floor apartments, something I had never seen before. “What is this place?” I asked.

Vincent smiled and touched my arm, pointing to another open doorway on the far side of the courtyard. “This is just the beginning,” he said. “There are about five of these courtyards all linked together off the street, so you can wander for as long as you want without seeing or hearing the outside world. It’s all art galleries and antique shops. I thought you’d like it.”

“Like it? I love it! This is incredible!” I said. “I can’t believe I haven’t been here before.”