Read Online The Paris Key by Juliet Blackwell - Free Book Online

had never forgotten. The ability of the average Frenchman to make a woman, no matter her age or appearance, feel beautiful. Their ability to flatter seemed ingrained, as much a part of the culture as wine and cheese. Where the Parisian women were cool, elegant, and distant, the men were flirtatious, teasing, and attentive. And bold: Here was an old man, stooped and wrinkled, shorter than she, with bad teeth. And he was flirting with her.
    Even while she appreciated all this about Philippe, Genevieve felt bleary with sleep, and a headache was creeping up, the tension in her neck, the awareness of the back of her eyes, warning her of an incipient migraine. She needed coffee, and she needed it soon.
    Genevieve thought longingly of the huge bottle of Excedrin in her carry-on. A sheepish Jason had brought it home the night before she left, saying it was a going-away present.
“Meager, I know, but you don’t like gifts and I’m sure you’re already over your baggage weight limit and I . . . I just thought it might come in handy.”
The truth was, she had been touched. She wouldn’t have guessed he had ever noticed what medication she used.
    â€œMay I help you with something?” she asked Philippe, hoping to hurry him on his way.
    â€œYes. Yes, if you please. Your uncle, he was working on my family’s house. Now, he has all the information, all the original parts. Catharine tells me you come to Paris. You must finish this, I think.”
    â€œI’m not . . . I’m just visiting . . .”
    â€œDave has all the information. He has a
dossier
about my house, and the original . . .
Comment dit-on
?
Serrures?
”
    â€œLocks?”
    â€œOui, c’est ça.
Locks. He was cleaning them, fixing them.”
    â€œI really don’t—”
    â€œThis is my family home. This is what I must do before I go.”
    â€œYou’re going on vacation?”
    â€œNon!”
He lifted his eyes to the ceiling and laughed again. “Before I join my good friend Dave. Up there, I hope!”
    â€œI’m sorry,
monsieur
, but I just arrived and I’m really not set up to . . .”
    Genevieve trailed off, distracted, as she watched another man rush across the street, making a beeline toward the shop. He was much younger than Philippe—about Genevieve’s age—and was wearing a backpack, and a camera with a huge lens hung around his neck. Dark haired and well built. When he stood in the doorway, he loomed over the diminutive Philippe.
    â€œWe’re not open,” Genevieve said, trying to head him off.
“Nous ne sommes pas ouverts.”
    â€œWhat chance, a locksmith shop, right here!” he said with a lilt that Genevieve assumed was from one of the British Isles. “And you speak English, no less. Brilliant. Listen, I’m a git—I locked myself out of my apartment. I’m after a locksmith.”
    â€œShe say she is not working here,” said Philippe.
    â€œI’m not really . . .” By now the headache was growing stronger, swelling, filling the space in back of her eyes, areas of which she was normally blissfully unaware. Taut tendrils of pressure reached out to her left temple. “I only just arrived, and I’m not actually a locksmith—”
    â€œI really need this,” the man said. “I’m in a real jam.”
    â€œDave say you could open all the doors,” said Philippe. “He say you have the touch.”
    â€œYou see there? Dave says you can open all the doors, and I only need you to open just the one.”
    â€œTrue, I learned about locks from my uncle when I was a kid, but I’m actually a copy editor.”
    â€œA copy editor?”
    She nodded.
    â€œSo . . . you couldn’t help a fella out of a real jam? I’m close by.”
    Genevieve took a deep breath, blew it out slowly. “How close?”
    â€œRight