Breath of Dawn, The (17 page)

After they had both said yes, Justine and Jean applauded. Then the mayor held out his hands and said in English, “You may kiss.”

They could skip that, but he turned, slid his fingers around her neck, and touched his lips to the corner of Quinn’s—Erin’s—mouth. She went very still, and when he drew back, tears once again washed her emotive eyes, the starbursts seeming to scintillate. He should have made it a real kiss.

They signed the certificate Morgan and Erin Spencer, officially entering her name change, and were presented the
Livret de Famille
, the family book that recorded the wedding and had pages for births and deaths and all of their future children. For some reason the little blue book that Justine called the Holy Grail of French life hit him harder than anything. He’d thought keeping it civil meant keeping it simple. Now it seemed it might be the first of how many misconceptions.

Parting from Jean and Justine at the town hall, he and Erin went to the US embassy. He told them she’d lost her passport and ID. He provided all of his information and the marriage certificate with
the Gaudets’ signatures. After reasonably satisfying the consular officer of her identity and citizenship, a passport was issued to Erin Spencer with a slightly shell-shocked photo of his new wife.

Stepping out of the embassy onto the busy Parisian sidewalk, he felt his chest expand. “Been to Paris before?”

She stared as though he’d asked if she’d been to the moon. “That’s all you have to say? After what I told you?”

“I’m processing that.” He held up a hand for a taxi. “In the meantime, we’ll start with the Eiffel Tower. It’s magical in the snow.”

She did not need magical. She had already experienced more than she could take. The planning he had put in before she’d even thought of saying yes, the arrangements made with Justine on the off chance she might agree, confounded her. Had he guessed, hoped, or just covered the possibility?

And then, when it all became real, she’d given him the chance to back out and he hadn’t flinched. He’d gone forward knowing not all the details but the seriousness of the step they took. He had made her problem his own. Her heart melted faster than the snow on the crowded Parisian streets.

Because no buildings in the historical district came close to it in size, the tower stood as in a postcard. But the closer they got, the less true that seemed. From beneath, the symmetries of structure dazzled as the massive yet transparent reality transfixed her. The intricate almost lacy structure encompassed them, more massive than she could have imagined yet exquisite in detail—a complicated balance of beauty and strength, like the man climbing beside her.

“It was built as a temporary structure,” he said, “and here it stands.” His words resonated with parallel meaning as she climbed the first three hundred stairs of the tower, trying to get her mind around the step they’d taken.

They paused on the lowest observation level to enjoy that view of the city, then climbed three hundred more stairs to a higher view of the same scene.

“It’s nearly as tall as the Chrysler Building,” Morgan told her. “Or more if you count the antenna.”

“Was it built as a lookout?”

“Gateway to the 1889 World’s Fair.”

And now it formed the gateway into her new life. It was like something out of a movie, her in a supporting role as the man beside her stole the show. Every expression, gesture, and comment stirred her.
Lord.
She knew it wasn’t real, but it might take an act of God to convince herself.

Morgan motioned her to the lift. They crowded in with other tourists for an acrophobic view at the highest level. They exited the lift and moved to the rail. He turned her to face him. “One thing you told me needs to change, and one thing is wrong.”

She swallowed the swelling lump.

“You’re not leaving, and I am involved.”

Snow swirled lazily, melting on her hat and gloves, making droplets in their hair and lashes. He crooked his finger under her chin, tipped her face up, and stared into her eyes. Drawing a ragged breath, she met his kiss and returned it, as his fingers slid into her hair. He murmured, “Erin,” in her ear. Quinn might have stepped back. But Erin had made the vows. They held and kissed each other as the snow fell silently around them.

He had told her paper only. But he shouldn’t have chosen Paris with someone so endearing after two years in purgatory. Stepping back, he said, “This city has that effect.”

She nodded.

“We’ll need to be careful.”

She nodded again.

Taking her hand, he led her to the line for the lift. After a new batch of tourists got out, they entered and went down. Back on the street, he said, “You’ll need some clothes.”

A shadow passed through her eyes—recalling her wrecked things, no doubt.

“It’s Paris. Even if your closet was full, you’d need clothes.”

Her brow puckered. “I don’t think that way.”

Good thing, since he’d never gotten the prenup. Bern was going to chew him up. Attorneys did that when clients made particu
larly stupid moves. Problem was, he didn’t feel all that stupid right now.

Watching Erin shop was like watching a puppy on its first excursion into the big outdoors. First affection and then attraction stirred when some of the things she tried revealed a figure the layers she typically donned did not. She refused to buy more than she could carry. But he arranged for the shops to send their purchases to the hotel.

As the snow turned to rain, they toured the Seine beneath a single umbrella he held over them with his left hand, his right arm around her back. For the moment, no one existed but he and this woman. While the Eiffel Tower had rendered her mute, the water and surrounding scene brought a thousand comments. He realized those were her two modes, reticent and loquacious, as the mood struck. A smile quivered at the corners of his mouth.

After viewing the grand Notre Dame Cathedral, they shared a pita Grecque from the winding road of Greek food stands. The savory chicken sliced from a rotisserie of meat, stuffed into a large pita with lettuce and tomato and creamy cucumber and garlic yogurt sauce, then filled to the top with crispy French fries triggered his salivary glands like those of Pavlov’s dogs. In the Parisian manner, they forked the fries straight from the sandwich.

For dessert, pistachio macarons, the round almond-flavored cookie with two hard halves and a creamy middle, had Quinn declaring, “I don’t ever want to eat again. It’ll take this flavor away.”

He smiled. “You just wait.”

“You think I’m that easy?”

He looked her up and down. She socked him. Chuckling softly, he moved her on.

Still groaning with pleasure, she said, “How can you expect me to cook for you?”

“Honey.” He grinned. “I don’t expect Paris.”

The suite he’d booked in the Plaza Athénée had two bedrooms, a bath, and a tiny sitting area appointed in powder blue and white with ecru and ivory furniture. He tipped the bellhop, then checked his watch. With the eight-hour time difference, he could now call his brother and did.

Typical Rick, he opened with, “Have you lost your mind?”

“Not entirely.”

After moments of restoring his equilibrium and, no doubt, swallowing the many things he wanted to say, Rick asked, “What are you calling for?”

He told him about Quinn’s place and asked him to keep a careful watch on things. The wave of fear that washed over had less power than he’d have expected, probably because he still didn’t know the extent of it. Text threats and a hissy fit felt amateur. It seemed that someone intending murder wouldn’t be that careless unless he was stupid. But it didn’t hurt to take precautions.

“Someone’s harassing her. I don’t think it’ll spill over on you guys, but watch for anything unusual. And don’t let the kids out of sight, okay?” His stomach tightened, but no panic came. Amazing.

While he talked, Quinn went and stood at the window. After disconnecting the call, he joined her there.

She said, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right.”

“I shouldn’t have involved you.”

The rain had stopped. Now every surface glistened with lights. “You gave me an exit.”

Her brow furrowed. “Was Rick angry?”

“No.”

“If you hadn’t handled everything for RaeAnne so easily . . .”

He turned her. “We’re in this. We’ll deal with it.”

Her face flushed, though not, it seemed, with anger, fear, or shame.

She said, “I can’t believe we’re here, that we actually got married.”

“That’s open to interpretation, given the understanding going in.” The paint on the window sash behind her had fixed droplet marks like the impermanent ones on the panes.

“I know. But now I don’t know what to do, or . . . how to be.”

Although the shadows of her lashes hid the starbursts, he knew they were there. “My fault. I blurred the line.”

Her hand on his arm trembled. “It felt mutual.”

So mutual, he’d lost sight of the limits. He drew a careful breath. “There’s always room for renegotiation.”

“That’s not being careful.”

“No, it’s not.”

“More like reckless.”

He nodded. “And less easily annulled.”

A coil of hair fell across her shoulder. “Do we need it annulled?”

“You might.” His gaze slid to her mouth.

“If I don’t?”

Here it was, the point of no return. Accompanied by vows, there’d be no going back. “The question is how real we want to make this.”

Her throat worked. “Do you want it real?”

“You’re asking if I want you.”

She flushed. “I didn’t mean—”

“Of course I do. But I know it’s not that simple. It would be more than a merger.”

She raised her eyes, the starbursts in full view. “If I say yes?”

“I’ll believe you.”

Moments stretched. Paris breathed.

She rested a hand on his chest, but instead of stepping back as she had in their snow-play at the ranch, she moved in. “Yes.”

Emotion rushed in as he tipped her face up and kissed her mouth. As her arms came around his neck, he lifted her and carried her to their room.

She could not believe the care and tenderness Morgan showed when he realized this was new. He said, “Are you sure?”

And she told him yes, though it was hardly more than a breath. Suddenly the Song of Solomon meant so much more than ever before. Gently and passionately he knew her, and afterward they lay in silence wrapped in something so profound she couldn’t have found words anyway.

After a time, he rolled to his side, tangled his fingers in her hair, and said, “Erin Spencer.”

It caused nowhere near the pang it had before, but still it sounded strange. “I hope I remember to answer to it.”

“By the time we’re done here, you will.”

“But I liked—”

He touched her nose. “Quinn’s the name of a bluetick hound. Erin, the emerald pastures that call to every Irish heart.” He bent and kissed her.

“You’re only half Irish.”

“About five-eighths.” He kissed her throat and the hollow beneath her ear. “One-eighth Welsh and another English, and the final Norman fraction the reason we’re in France.” He stroked her cheek and breathed, “Mrs. Erin Spencer.”

It was a good thing supper was served in Paris so very, very late.