And he seemed so great back on the train! Really! He said I was fairly brave! He totally restored my faith in men! Why does he have to turn out to be a murdering psycho? WHY?
“Really,” I say. This is all Shari’s fault, of course. If she would just answer her freaking cell phone once in a while, none of this would be happening. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, I’m actually your host. Jean-Luc de Villiers? Your friend Shari’s staying at my father’s place, Mirac.”
I stop backing up. I stop staring at the garment bag. I stop thinking about my imminent death.
Mirac. He said Mirac.
“I never told you the place I was going was called Mirac,” I say. Because, while it’s true I’d babbled almost nonstop to him, I don’t remember ever saying the word Mirac. Which I’d actually forgotten until that very moment.
“No, you didn’t,” Jean-Luc says. “But that’s where your friend Shari is staying, isn’t it? With her boyfriend, Charles Pendergast?”
Charles Pendergast? He knows Chaz’s real name! I know I never told him that. No one ever uses Chaz’s real name, because he tells hardly anyone what it is.
Who would know Chaz’s real name? Only someone who knew him. Well.
“Wait,” I say, my mind lurching for some-any-reasonable explanation for what’s happening. “You’re…Luke? Chaz’s friend Luke? But…you said your name was Jean-Luc.”
“Well,” Luke-or Luc-or Jean-Luc-or whatever his name is-says, still looking sheepish, “that’s my full name. Jean-Luc de Villiers. But Chaz has always just called me Luke.”
“But…but aren’t you supposed to be at Mirac with Chaz and Shari?”
He swings the garment bag off his shoulder. “I had to go into Paris for the day to pick up my cousin’s wedding gown. She didn’t trust the shop’s courier to get it here in one piece. See?”
He unzips the bag a little and a froth of white lace-unmistakably bridal-spills out. He tucks it back in and rezips.
“I never thought in a million years, when you sat down next to me, that you were the Lizzie I’ve heard so much about from Shari and Chaz. But then when you said Shari’s name, I knew it. But by that time you’d already mentioned…you know.” Now he looks more embarrassed than sheepish. “And I knew you’d only done that because you thought you were never going to see me again…”
“Oh,” I say, feeling suddenly sick to my stomach. Since that’s exactly what I HAD thought to myself. “My. God.”
“Yeah,” Luke says with a very French shrug. For an American. Which makes sense. Since he’s half French. “Sorry about that. Although you have to admit…it’s kind of funny.”
“No,” I say, “it’s really not.”
“Yeah.” He sighs, not smiling anymore. “I sort of guessed you’d see it that way. That’s why I didn’t tell you.”
“So you knew,” I say, feeling my cheeks heating up. “You knew all along we’d be seeing each other again. A lot. And you didn’t try to stop me. You just let me go on and on like that. Like a moron.”
“No, not like a moron,” he says, really not smiling anymore. In fact, he looks a little worried. “Nothing like that. I thought you were really charming. And funny. That’s why I didn’t try to stop you. I mean, in the first place, I didn’t know, until you were almost through with your-um, venting-who you were. I just knew you needed to vent, and so I let you, because I actually enjoyed it. I thought you were sweet.”
“Oh God!” I want to throw his garment bag over my head and hide in it. “Sweet? Talking about how I gave my boyfriend a blow job?”
“You talked about it in a very sweet manner,” Luke assures me.
“I’m going to kill myself,” I say from between my fingers, since I’ve buried my burning face in my hands.
“Hey.”
I hear footsteps, then feel hands go around my wrists. I look up, startled, and find that Luke has laid the garment bag across my suitcase and is standing very, very close to me, looking down into my face while gently pulling my hands from my eyes.
“Hey,” he says again, his voice as gentle as his touch. “Seriously. I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. I didn’t…I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to tell you, but then I thought…well, I thought it would be a funny joke. But. Like I said. Jokes aren’t really my thing.”
I am intensely aware of how dark his eyes are-as dark as the tree branches behind the train station, silhouetted against the navy-blue sky-and how kissable his lips look. Especially since they’re only just a few inches away from mine.
“If you tell anyone,” I hear myself say in a voice that has gone strangely throaty, “about what I told you on the train-especially Chaz-I will kill you. About my not finishing my thesis yet AND the other thing. The you-know-what. You can’t tell anyone. Do you understand? I will kill you if you do.”
“I totally understand,” Luke says, his grip on my wrists even firmer now that I’ve dropped my hands from my face. He’s essentially holding them in his big warm hands. And it feels nice. Really nice. “You have my complete and total word. I won’t say a thing. Your blow job is totally safe with me.”
“Ack!” I cry. “I mean it! Don’t mention those words again!”
“What words?” he asks. Now his dark eyes are as lit up as the smattering of stars I see winking down at us, like sequins on a blue cashmere sweater set. “Blow job?”
“Stop it,” I say, and let myself sway toward him.
Just in case, you know, he wants to kiss me.
Because I’m starting to realize that the fact that Luke is Jean-Luc is hardly what anyone can call bad news. Considering that now I don’t have to worry about getting hold of Shari. And about where I’m going to stay tonight.
Not to mention the fact that he’s the nicest, hottest guy I’ve met in a really long time. Who doesn’t have an addiction to Texas Hold’em…that I know of, anyway.
And that he seems to like me.
And that I’m going to be spending the rest of the summer with him.
And that he’s holding my hands.
Suddenly things are looking up. Way up.
“So,” Luke says, “am I forgiven?”
“You’re forgiven,” I say. I can’t help smiling up at him like the moron he claims I’m not. He’s just so…cute.
And not just cute, either. He’s nice, too. I mean, he bought me dinner.
And he was totally sympathetic when I was crying like a maniac.
Plus he’s an investment banker. He’s working hard to…protect rich people’s money. Or something.
And he made me laugh instead of cry after I got off the phone with Andy.
And I’m going to be with him. All summer. All-
“Good,” Luke says. “Because I’d hate for you to think you were wrong. You know, about my character assessment. The one you made based on my clothes.”
“I don’t think,” I say, lowering my gaze to the opening of his shirt, where I see a few promising-looking chest hairs poking out, “that I’m wrong.”
“Good,” he says again. “I think you’re really going to like Mirac.”
I know I’m going to like it, I think-but for once restrain myself from saying out loud-if you’re there, Luke.
“Thanks,” I say. And wonder if he’s going to kiss me now.
And then we both hear a car coming and Luke says, “Oh, great. Here’s our ride.” And abruptly drops my wrists.
And an ancient butter-yellow convertible Mercedes pulls into the parking lot, driven by a honey-colored blonde who calls out in a French accent, “Sorry I’m late, cheri!”
And I know, even before he hurries down to kiss her, who she is.
His girlfriend.
It so figures.
Women were not the only ones who were interested in showing off their figures in the early 1800s. This period saw the introduction of the “dandy,” followers of the fashion icon George “Beau” Brummell, a gentleman who insisted his trousers fit tightly as a second skin and could not abide a wrinkle in his waistcoat. A dandy’s neckwear consisted of a collar so high he could not turn his head from side to side.