Chapter 1

"Sapristi! Tabarnac!" he spat as the hot coffee splashed over his front and hands, the mug that had contained it was sent tumbling to the floor along with the plate and croissant that was supposed to have been his breakfast. A couple of the patrons in the cafe looked up at his outburst but quickly returned to reading their papers leaving him to look at the woman who had blundered into him.

"Stupid French dolt," she spat, her American accent jarring to ears used to British enunciations and French. "Can't carry a muffin and coffee without fucking it up." She started flicking at the stain that was rapidly soaking into her cotton t-shirt, the result of the collision now reflected there.

"Madam," he said, adopting his cultured British speech, "I am neither French, nor a dolt, and if you had not been walking backwards, while yakking into your cell phone and instead actually looking where you were going, you would not be wearing my coffee, nor the raspberry preserves that I was going to put on my croissant. Besides, they do not serve muffins here." He was impressed that he had managed to keep a straight face and his temper as he said that. He watched her go through several emotions. There was rage, certainly, almost an entitlement he had grown used to witnessing among Americans abroad especially in France, then embarrassment. "Perhaps I can offer you a napkin?" he suggested, handing her the paper napkin, all that remained of his breakfast. "Or would you prefer to put that in a washing machine before the stain sets?"

That was enough to set her off again. "Listen you ... pig," she said, bitterly, "I was perfectly aware of where I was and what I was doing before you slammed into me and ruined my shirt. Do you have any idea how much this cost?" She was indignant, infuriated and if she admitted it to herself, embarrassed.

"I would say it cost 20 Euros at Benetton, but you can get them for as little as 5 Euros a pair at a little shop I know around the corner. And they come in a variety of colours too if you would prefer something other than white. Or you could go the other direction to my apartment where I have a washing machine and I won't even charge you a buck. That is, unless you have figured out where you are and think you have any chance of making your meeting on time, which, by the way you won't make because you are in the wrong part of the city."

"How do you know I am late?" she asked startled. "Are you following me?"

"Most of the cafe knows you are late, or at least those that speak English as that is what you were yelling about before you backed into me, just after you said 'how the hell should I know, all the signs are in French.' Which I hazard to point out is a common occurrence in a country that speaks French." He was smiling at her now, the absurdity of the situation almost too much to bear anymore. "So, since you will be late anyway, why not reschedule the meeting, get yourself cleaned up and then let me point you in the right direction?"

While she considered his offer, he took a moment to look at her. She was medium height and willowy, almost boyishly slim but with enough curves to highlight the fact she was a woman. The now coffee-stained white t-shirt was tucked into a pair of well fitting jeans and her feet were sporting a pair of those plastic abominations that he knew were all the rage in the States. He had several friends swear up and down that they were comfortable but besides being ugly to look at, he just could not imagine wearing that much plastic and not having his feet swimming in sweat. Of course, he was wearing a pair of custom leather boots, more appropriate for the middle ages so his opinion on footwear mattered little and he did not expect she would appreciate his comments on her shoes anymore than she seemed to appreciate him pointing out her tardiness. His own jeans had seen better days but they were comfortable and it was early enough in the day that comfort was more important than fashion, even in Paris. He had pulled on a black t-shirt which, while not his normal colour worked well with what was left of his summer tan and short blonde hair. Her hair was a mop of brown curls but what really got your attention, after you got over her sharp tongue, was her eyes. They were brown, but they seemed to be light when first seen and get deeper the more you looked at them, as if she was drawing you in to her with each glance. He was smitten; there was no question about it, even though she was wearing his breakfast which somehow only seemed to make her more attractive to him.

"How far away am I?" she asked, her voice shaking as if trying to find a way out of the inevitable.

They had stepped out of the doorway and were now standing next to an empty table, which he suggested they sit down at and flagged down a waiter to get them two coffees while he pulled out his little pocket map of the city.

"Hey, even I get turned around here," he said by way of explanation to her unasked question as he flipped through the pages. "OK, we are here in the Latin Quarter, just off Rue de Cluny," he said, drawing his fingers along the street on which they were eating. "If you go south a couple of more blocks, you will run into La Sorbonne. You," he flipped the pages to the index, "said you were trying to find Rue de Cerisoles ... which ... is on," he flipped to the index, found the map reference and page and showed her the location, in micro-scale, which was just south of the Arc de Triomphe off of the Champs Elysées. "You could be further away, but not much," he said with a bit of a grin. She was not amused, but sighed in defeat as the coffee arrived.