A Paris Melody

Two For The Road

"Look, I don't know where my uncle is. But maybe I can help you." Jill glanced at Marc's chiseled profile, clearly outlined by the morning light. The French cop was taking her to his family chateau deep in the country. His dark features were stern, but Jill noticed the casually confident way his big strong hands gripped the wheel. Marc handled the jet-black Peugeot 907 with practiced ease, making the powerful sports car purr with pleasure. Jill rather fancied the engine was like a woman, coming alive to his touch. They'd already zoomed past the palace of Fontainebleau, and were heading south at a dizzying speed. With Marc at the wheel, the miles simply flew by.

And every mile took her further away from Paris.

"Why didn't you let me stay in town?" Jill asked, impatient with herself for enjoying Marc's fancy sports car – and his sexy presence. "I recognized the star symbol. I recognized the guy in the picture. Maybe I can help find him!"

"You're helping right now," Marc told her. "You gave us the stolen diamonds. Pretty soon the Russian jewel smugglers will figure out your uncle left them with you. They'll look for you, but they won't find you. Then they'll start looking for Simon."

"But my uncle hasn't been in Paris for weeks!" Jill's hand flew to her throat. She'd always reckoned the flashy necklace was a fake, just a harmless gift from Uncle Simon. Now the diamonds were safe, under lock and key in Paris. Jill felt that she was under lock and key as well. But what about her crooked and clever and far too charming uncle?

"Simon has vanished," the French cop was saying. "Just like you. When the Russians can't find him, they'll turn on each other. They'll get careless. Then we've got them!"

"But what if you're wrong? What if they do find him?" Jill thought about the ghastly crime scene photographs she'd flipped through at police headquarters in Paris. The color fled from her cheeks.

"They won't." Marc's electric blue eyes searched her pale face. "Don't try to slip away and warn him, Jill. If you do, there's a good chance you'll lead the Russians right to him. It's better for everyone if you drop out of sight for a while. No one will look for you deep in the country, not while you're a guest at my grandmother's old chateau. Trust me."

"Trust me. That's a good one, Marc. C'est une blague!" Jill ended the conversation abruptly, turning away from Marc to gaze out at the endless lavender fields and picturesque vineyards. It was quite enchanting. But to Jill the lush scenery south of Paris was just a blur. The talk about trust brought back too many memories.

Trust me. Jill heard her own voice, bright and cheerful, asking a casual favor from a friend. Back when she was a promising piano student at the Sorbonne, not a burned-out jazz chanteuse. Back when Jill McDonald had been both a promising piano student and a daydreaming fool, an impressionable young girl who imagined that Marc Moreau was both a tender lover and a true friend.

How could she have trusted him? Why was she such a fool? As the miles flew by and her head grew heavy, Jill closed her eyes and sank deeper into the decadent leather upholstery. Her tired mind played back all the jumbled events that led to her disgrace.

Life at the Sorbonne was crazy busy. Crowded practice rooms, eager students struggling to keep up with the frantic pace of graded recitals at the most prestigious music school in Paris.

She remembered a slim, dark-eyed boy from a poor family, walking by her side, begging for just an extra hour of practice. The building security code hastily scribbled on a piece of paper. An empty display case, a missing violin, questions and angry tears. Marc Moreau interviewing students and instructors, making swift judgments. Judging the school, the lax security system, and the way the school officials had initially failed to inform the police.

Judging her.

"Mm." Jill moaned, as if in protest. She wanted to tell Marc something terribly important. But sleep stifled her like a blanket, and she soon slipped away into soft, welcoming oblivion.

Marc glanced at the girl beside him, moaning softly in her sleep. Jill's long legs and ripe curves were as captivating as ever. But something had changed since they last met. She'd lost weight. As the miles flew by and morning turned to afternoon, Marc also noticed her pale skin and the dark blue shadows under her eyes. Late hours and missed meals. The life of a Left Bank jazz singer.

Guilt gnawed at Marc. But he'd done nothing wrong! The tall, sexy piano player with the knockout figure and golden-brown hair had dumped him, but so what? He was a cop. He did what was right. Always. Jill could play his grandmother's piano and enjoy long walks in the gardens that surrounded the chateau. He still wanted her. But he wanted her healthy and safe. And he wouldn't let her make a fool of him.

Not this time!