draw a sword or dagger in a flash to defend their honour, or the honour of one of the beautiful women. As I read I was conscious of people passing, drifting into the edge of my vision, momentarily blocking my view of the restaurant, then slipping out of sight. It happened dozens of times. Then someone stopped. I paid no attention. Until I heard a voice I recognized.
“Well, well. A literary loiterer.”
She stood there blocking my sightline to the restaurant, hands on her hips, the sun behind her. She had rolled up her camo jacket and tied it around her waist. The military pants and boots were the same—and so was the blue beret, worn at a rakish angle. But it wasn’t her clothing that made everything around her seem to disappear.
At the Van Gogh exhibit I had glimpsed her eyes only briefly, and in dim lighting. Now she stood—in my way—drenched in early afternoon sunlight that set her thick auburn hair blazing, highlighting her amazing green eyes. She was about shoulder-height on me, slender, with a faint spray of freckles under her eyes and a mischievous look on her face.
I closed my book self-consciously and jammed it into my pocket.
“Remember me?” she smirked.
“Sort of.”
Which was an understatement. I had thought more than once about her, the mysterious thief with the French accent who had sneaked into the gallery and stolen at least one wallet from unwitting women before she disappeared.She had been the brightest part of a day that was—to say the least—eventful.
I took a step sideways to keep the restaurant door in sight.
“A month ago, wasn’t it?” she asked.
“More like two. It snowed.”
“Not in the gallery.”
I forced a laugh at the lame joke. How could I get her to stay? I rummaged around in my brain for conversational ploys.
“I was on a field trip,” I explained. “Art. Well, obviously.” I felt the blush rising into my face.
Her look was full of challenge. Come on, it seemed to say, impress me. Give me a reason not to move on. Or was I misjudging her? After all, it was she who had stopped to talk. She could have breezed right on by and, intent on my book and my stakeout, I wouldn’t have noticed. I made myself try again.
“Anyway,” I began.
“I owe you one,” she interrupted.
“Er—”
“For warning me. At the gallery. About the guard watching me.”
“Oh, yeah. Right.”
“So how about I buy you a coffee or something?”
“Sure. Yeah, good,” I stumbled. “I’d like that. You can tell me more about the sky in Provence.”
She smiled again. The girl who had asked a few minutes ago if I remembered her. How could I forget?
“Well, let’s go. I know a place near here.”
Just then the subject came through the door of therestaurant. With a man, who held his hand in the small of her back, as if guiding her to the street. They turned south, walking side by side.
Dammit. Now what to do? Break off the trail and go with the girl? I could tell Curtis the subject hadn’t shown at one o’clock, that I’d hung around for a half-hour, as he instructed me. But he’d demand to know why I hadn’t called him. Or I could say I had lost her—and he’d never hire an incompetent like me again. While I wavered, the man and woman continued along, moving farther and farther away. In a few minutes I really would lose them.
“You coming?” the girl asked.
“Er, I just need to make a quick call first.”
I took out the cell, pretended to key in a number. “It’s me,” I said to the silent phone. “Now? Can’t it wait? Alright, yeah.”
I shoved the phone back into my pocket.
“Sorry, I gotta go. Maybe—”
Her face clouded. Her eyes hardened. “I get it. Some other time.”
“I mean it,” I blurted. “I want to.”
But she had already begun to walk away.
“Where can I find you?” I called out.
“The park behind the art gallery,” she replied over her shoulder. “Sometimes.” And she turned up a side street and was gone.
Cursing my
“Well, well. A literary loiterer.”
She stood there blocking my sightline to the restaurant, hands on her hips, the sun behind her. She had rolled up her camo jacket and tied it around her waist. The military pants and boots were the same—and so was the blue beret, worn at a rakish angle. But it wasn’t her clothing that made everything around her seem to disappear.
At the Van Gogh exhibit I had glimpsed her eyes only briefly, and in dim lighting. Now she stood—in my way—drenched in early afternoon sunlight that set her thick auburn hair blazing, highlighting her amazing green eyes. She was about shoulder-height on me, slender, with a faint spray of freckles under her eyes and a mischievous look on her face.
I closed my book self-consciously and jammed it into my pocket.
“Remember me?” she smirked.
“Sort of.”
Which was an understatement. I had thought more than once about her, the mysterious thief with the French accent who had sneaked into the gallery and stolen at least one wallet from unwitting women before she disappeared.She had been the brightest part of a day that was—to say the least—eventful.
I took a step sideways to keep the restaurant door in sight.
“A month ago, wasn’t it?” she asked.
“More like two. It snowed.”
“Not in the gallery.”
I forced a laugh at the lame joke. How could I get her to stay? I rummaged around in my brain for conversational ploys.
“I was on a field trip,” I explained. “Art. Well, obviously.” I felt the blush rising into my face.
Her look was full of challenge. Come on, it seemed to say, impress me. Give me a reason not to move on. Or was I misjudging her? After all, it was she who had stopped to talk. She could have breezed right on by and, intent on my book and my stakeout, I wouldn’t have noticed. I made myself try again.
“Anyway,” I began.
“I owe you one,” she interrupted.
“Er—”
“For warning me. At the gallery. About the guard watching me.”
“Oh, yeah. Right.”
“So how about I buy you a coffee or something?”
“Sure. Yeah, good,” I stumbled. “I’d like that. You can tell me more about the sky in Provence.”
She smiled again. The girl who had asked a few minutes ago if I remembered her. How could I forget?
“Well, let’s go. I know a place near here.”
Just then the subject came through the door of therestaurant. With a man, who held his hand in the small of her back, as if guiding her to the street. They turned south, walking side by side.
Dammit. Now what to do? Break off the trail and go with the girl? I could tell Curtis the subject hadn’t shown at one o’clock, that I’d hung around for a half-hour, as he instructed me. But he’d demand to know why I hadn’t called him. Or I could say I had lost her—and he’d never hire an incompetent like me again. While I wavered, the man and woman continued along, moving farther and farther away. In a few minutes I really would lose them.
“You coming?” the girl asked.
“Er, I just need to make a quick call first.”
I took out the cell, pretended to key in a number. “It’s me,” I said to the silent phone. “Now? Can’t it wait? Alright, yeah.”
I shoved the phone back into my pocket.
“Sorry, I gotta go. Maybe—”
Her face clouded. Her eyes hardened. “I get it. Some other time.”
“I mean it,” I blurted. “I want to.”
But she had already begun to walk away.
“Where can I find you?” I called out.
“The park behind the art gallery,” she replied over her shoulder. “Sometimes.” And she turned up a side street and was gone.
Cursing my
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