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?
But Provence…ooh la la. Summer in the South of France. Perfume, lavender, roses. She was really starting to love France and had even bought some new clothes to better fit in. Tonight she was wearing a floaty peach-colored silk top and a khaki miniskirt—even a pair of the gladiator sandals that she’d seen everywhere.
“Is this seat taken?” a familiar male voice asked.
Lily looked up from her wine. Was that…no, it couldn’t be, but it was. “Jack, what did you do with your hair?” she blurted.
“It’s in the wastebasket of a barber who wore almost the same look of horror when he first saw me.”
No, not horror. Shock and amazement that he would cover up such a nice face with a mop of hair. He was way past good-looking and into the handsome realm. She’d thought he was nice-looking in a kind of shaggy, granola-crunchy way before, but minus the surplus hair? He was downright sexy.
Of course he was a bit pale where his beard had covered, and still a bit too thin, but that actually made him look like he should be modeling fashionable skinny jeans and snug dress shirts with an expression of ineffable ennui.
“What is that?” She stared at his chin. “Do you have a dimple in your chin?”
He sat down across from her. “Hush. Men don’t have dimpled chins, they have cleft chins.” The waiter appeared and Jack ordered a chardonnay as well. “Would you like another? My treat.”
“If you’re sure you have money after your haircut.” Everything in Paris was hideously overpriced, even barbers and basic chardonnay.
He smiled and her jaw dropped. She pointed a finger at him. “You have dimples in your cheeks, too—and don’t tell me they’re clefts. I majored in English and there’s no such thing as a cleft cheek.” He broke into laughter and her heart was pounding.
Oh, boy. His warm, golden-brown eyes lit up and his white, even teeth gleamed in the fading light.
“Ah, Lily, Lily.” He used the French pronunciation of her name—Lee-lee. “I have laughed more with you today than I have in the past month.”
“Laughter is the best medicine. Chardonnay is the second-best,” she quipped as the waiter set down two more glasses.
He raised his glass in a toast. “À votre santé. To your health.”
She touched her rim to his and drank. He did the same, stared at the wine and wagged his hand back and forth. “Eh, pretty good. You like white better than red?”
“Depends on what the meal is.”
“But of course.” He started to fiddle with his hair and dropped his hand sheepishly when it wasn’t there. “Anyway, I realized that I probably startled you earlier when I invited you to Provence.”
“A bit,” Lily allowed, strangely disappointed that he might be rescinding his offer—an offer she wasn’t seriously considering. Was she?
“Me, I am normally not so impulsive, but I thought if you wanted to see Provence, and I am going there, well, we could travel together. As friends, of course,” he hastily added.
“Ah.” She’d been attracted to his smart personality despite his shaggy looks—not her usual type at all. But clean-shaven and fashionably trimmed, he was a dangerous combo. “Look.” She spread her hands. “You seem like a nice guy, but I didn’t just fall off the turnip truck.”
He leaned forward. “That is a fascinating American colloquialism. I’ve never heard that before. It means that you are not naive, no?”
“No. I mean, yes, I am not naive.” His French-like use of double negatives was confusing her. “So why would I think it is a good idea to travel alone several hundred miles into remote countryside with a man I met this morning?”
“Of course!” He grinned. “You want my references. This is a very French custom.”
“Always glad to be culturally accurate,” she said dryly. “But really, you’re going to call your friends François or Gérard so they can tell me what a good guy you are? Men will say anything to help other men.”
“Pah.” He made a disparaging gesture with his free hand. “Men