Marie Donovan – Royally Seduced (страница 6)

“But not much else, eh?” His color seemed to be returning to normal. He spread his arms wide. “Ah, the perfect specimen of French manhood. I cannot even climb a hill without gasping like an old man with emphysema.”

“Have you been sick?”

Jack sighed. “Unfortunately, but I was hoping I was better.”

“Maybe you’re pushing it a bit to come to the hilliest point in Paris, don’t you think?”

He grimaced. “You are right. I should have known better.”

“What are you getting over, if you don’t mind my asking?” She hoped it was nothing awful like cancer or something serious like that.

The first glimmer of humor returned to his brown eyes. “Dysentery.”

“Dysentery?” she blurted. She found herself unconsciously stepping back from him, trying to remember if they had shared any food or drink. “How in the world do you get dysentery these days? I thought the tap water smelled a bit funny but I thought it was okay to drink.” Was that why everyone carried bottles of expensive spring water? Why didn’t Sarah mention this to her before she left? Don’t drink the water! Wasn’t that usually the last advice people shouted out the windows of their cars as they dropped you off at the airport for a journey to a foreign country?

“No, I did not get dysentery in France.” He rubbed his cheek as if his beard itched. “I caught it in Myanmar.”

“Myanmar? Why on earth would you go there?” She’d never heard anything good about that place nowadays, ever since they stopped calling it Burma. It was definitely not on her list of places to visit.

Jack set off at an easy walk and Lily followed him. “They had a typhoon and I was an aid worker—food, shelter, healthcare, all the fundamental necessities. I accidentally drank some untreated water and…” He held out his arms. “Voilà.”

“Wow, you went there on purpose?” She realized that sounded kind of rude. “I mean, that’s noble work.”

“Not so noble when you get as sick as the people you are trying to help. I wasted many resources, especially when they had to take me to the hospital in Thailand.”

“You must have been severely ill, then.”

“Eh, there were many who would have benefited from hospital care but I was the one who was transferred out.”

“Guilt.” She raised her index finger to make her point. “You have survivor’s guilt.”

“What?” He gave her a funny look.

“Sure. You’re thinking, ‘Why me? Why did I get better medical treatment than the others? Why did I live when others didn’t?’”

He glanced down and away from her. “You may be right.”

“And what are the answers to those questions?” Lily gave an imitation-French shrug. “No one knows. Come on, you’re French. Use a little bit of that national tendency toward fatalism. It was meant to happen that way.” She peered into his face and gasped in pretend shock. “Surely you’re not an optimist, are you?”

A small smile crept across his lips. “Well…”

“Uh-oh.” She wagged her finger. “Watch out—someone might mistake you for an American if you’re not careful. An optimistic Frenchman. Tsk, tsk, who would have thought?”

“A personal failing.” He grinned at her. “Please do not tell anyone. I would like to keep my French passport.”

“Don’t let it happen again. If French people were all cheerful and friendly, what would tourists complain about?”

“Parisians are Parisians.” He gave that uniquely French shrug that she had tried to copy and failed. “You will find if you go to different areas of the country, people are more friendly.”

“Like Provence?”

His face softened and he wore a faraway glance. “Exactly. The air is warm and light and the sky is pure blue. The hills are always green, and even the north wind, the mistral, brings clear, dry weather in its path.”

Lily was memorizing his description as best as she could, his words painting a vivid picture.

“Everything is more in Provence. The food is richer, the wine is crisper, the fish are bigger and the ducks are plumper. Have you ever had a day where everything comes together—the weather, the countryside and the food?”

Lily did. “Once, my mother and I packed a picnic and drove out to Washington Crossing Historic Park, where George Washington crossed the Delaware River to capture Trenton from the English. There is a huge wildflower preserve on the grounds, and Mom and I sat in the middle of the flowers, smelling the perfume, listening to the bees. The sky was bright blue with white puffy clouds and we ate chocolate éclairs and licked the melted smears off our fingers.” Funny how she hadn’t remembered that outing in so long. Despite her mother’s busy schedule, she carved out time to spend with Lily.

“Almost every day is like that in the Provençal countryside.” He sighed. “I have been away too long. But soon I will return.”

JACK FELT SLIGHTLY better talking about Provence, but the rest of his morning had been a severe humiliation. He’d finally caught his breath descending from the beautiful Grecian folly, but not without several worried looks from the lovely Lily, who fussed over him as if he were an old man.

He was a man who could land a twin-engine plane on a grass airstrip and immediately trek several miles through harsh jungle terrain, but he couldn’t manage a set of stairs in the middle of Paris. Pathétique.

But look, there was someone in worse shape than him. He stopped next to a young mother trying to carry her baby down the last set of stairs in one arm and her bulky carriage hooked over her other elbow. “May I help?”

The woman nodded gratefully and handed over the carriage. He carried it down for her but realized he was breathing hard and sweating again. How embarrassing, especially when Lily noticed, as well.

“Careful, Jack, you’re still getting over that case of dysentery.”

Unfortunately, dysentery in English translated to dysenterie in French and the young mother gave him a look of horror, yanking her carriage away.

“No, no, madame. I am all better now,” he tried to soothe her in French. She still looked panicked. “Trust me, I am a physician myself.”

“Then you should know better, monsieur. You should not be going about Paris infecting innocent mothers and babies.” She glared at him and scurried away, baby still in one arm and pushing the carriage with a couple finger-tips—probably home to disinfect everything he touched.

He sighed. “Lily, you can’t go around telling people I have dysentery. It makes them nervous.” That was an understatement. Instead of Typhoid Mary, he was Dysentery Jack.

“You mean she understood me?” she asked eagerly.

“The word is almost the same in both languages.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“For that word, you have a perfect French accent.”

“Figures.” She laughed. “What are some other diseases I can learn in French and terrorize the local populace? How about dengue fever?”

He had to laugh in return. Oh, boy, did he know diseases. Most of them had been eradicated in developed countries, fortunately. “That would be la dengue.”

“Ho-hum. Typhoid?”

“Typhoïde.”

“Boring. Diphtheria?”

“Diphtérie.”

“Bubonic plague?”

Ah, he’d barely escaped an outbreak in Madagascar that had popped up just after his team had left a flood scene. Thanks to some heavy-duty antibiotics given in case, none of them had gotten sick. “That is la peste bubonique.”

“Really?” Her smooth forehead wrinkled. “You French must be pretty cool customers. Plague is a mere pest for you. And I know more French than I thought. Since you don’t want me telling people you’re getting over dysentery, if anyone asks me what’s bothering you, I can tell them you have la dengue, typhoïde, dipthérie or even la peste bubonique.”

He groaned, imagining the frantic calls to the Ministry of Health and the tabloid articles—The Count of Brissard, recently returned from a mysterious hospitalization in Thailand, is rumored to be carrying dengue fever, typhoid, diphtheria and bubonic plague. “Please do not. I have no desire to be thrown in quarantine for undetermined weeks. I spent enough time in the hospital already.”

“Okay, okay, I’m only kidding. You’re the only person I know in this whole country. I certainly don’t want you quarantined.”

“Good. Although I will have to keep on your good side, just in case.”

Lily laughed, the sound light and carefree. He hadn’t heard nearly enough laughter in how long? Months? There hadn’t been much to laugh about in typhoon country.

He wanted to hear more of Lily’s laughter. Before his rational, scientific mind could censor his previously undiscovered impulsive side, he blurted, “Come to Provence with me. You want to see the real France? I will show it to you.”

4

LILY SWIRLED HER pale golden chardonnay as she sat in a café across from the hostel. Its motion was almost hypnotic as it circled the glass. She was being more pensive than usual, but really, what was the point if you couldn’t visit Paris and wax philosophic over a glass of wine?

And she had plenty to think about. Coming to Paris alone had strained the boundaries of her capacity for adventure, but to set off for Provence with a near-stranger? Her warning bells were sending off a few clangs, and unfortunately, being the imaginative type, she could imagine the headlines: American Writer Disappears in Provence; in Unrelated news, the Grape Harvest Is Unusually Heavy in One Lonely Vineyard. Or, Notorious French Criminal Claims to be Aid Worker Recovering from Dysentery. Or would that be dysenterie?