colors with teachers’ names had been mounted alphabetically on the walls above each table: Ms. Ashton, Mr. LeCheminant, Mrs. Donetti, Mr. Hart, Mr. Grimshaw, Mr. Smith, Mr. Bowen and Mr. Sorenson.
The teachers hadn’t come in yet.
Whitney was probably the last student to arrive and took her place behind a couple of boys talking animatedly about how much spending money they were taking with them.
On their tags she saw that the one named Jeff from Ephriam High was her height, five feet nine. The other named Roger from Dixie High was maybe an inch taller with a more robust build. Both had dark brown hair and they were cute.
As soon as they saw her, they stopped talking and just stared.
“Hi, guys.”
“Hi!” they said in unison, their faces breaking into huge smiles. “Are you one of Mr. Smith’s students?”
“No. I had planned to go with Mr. Bowen’s group, but I signed up too late, so they put me with Mr. Smith.”
“The same thing happened to us.” They spoke in unison again and the three of them laughed congenially.
“Where’s Union High?”
“Up in Park Valley. Box Elder County.”
“How many years of French have you taken, Whitney?” Jeff asked.
“Two.” Junior high seemed an awfully long time ago. “How about you?”
“Six years for me.”
“Me, too,” Roger chimed in.
“Wow. You guys must be good.”
“Of course.” Jeff grinned.
Roger said, “My French teacher goes over to France every summer, but she doesn’t want to take kids around, so she called STI and they assigned me to Mr. Smith who teaches in St. George.”
“We thought we were the only ones going with him. Looks like we thought wrong.” They grinned as if they’d just won the lottery.
Had she ever been this young and immature?
“I was afraid there would only be girls on the tour,” Whitney murmured, deciding she’d better start doing her share of flirting. That’s what teenage girls did all the time. Shamekssly. “I’m glad I was wrong.”
“This is already turning out to be a great trip and we haven’t even left yet,” Roger enthused.
“Since the three of us will have rooms by each other and eat meals together, we can help you out with your French in case you have any problems.”
“Thanks, Jeff. I might have to take you up on that.” She smiled into his eyes.
“No problem.”
“Have you guys met Mr. Smith yet?”
“Yeah. He’s awesome.”
“I like him a lot better than my own teacher,” Roger stated.
“I’m glad you said that because my teacher in Park Valley was an old battle-ax.”
“Battle-ax?” Jeff laughed
Uh-oh. Whitney realized that wasn’t a word today’s teenager used. “That’s what my dad called her when he had her for French.”
Before her father had died of a stroke and her mother had married Christine’s father, Whitney adored listening to her dad’s amusing tales about his school days. She would always miss him.
“Your French teacher used to teach your dad?” Roger demanded incredulously.
That part was a lie, but Whitney nodded without any compunction. The guys thought it was hilarious and both of them laughed. While she waited for them to calm down, the teachers filed in the room toward the tables, carrying stacks of manila-colored packets.
There were eight adults, but Whitney saw only one person—a man with dark blond, fairly short-cropped hair and a bronzed complexion who had to be at least six feet three inches of hard muscle.
He was dressed in a silky-looking gray suit with a charcoal-colored shirt open at the neck, very sophisticated and cosmopolitan. Sporting an expensive-looking gold watch, he didn’t look like any teacher she’d ever had.
Strong and fit, he moved with unconscious male grace, like someone who was used to being in the out-of-doors rather than a schoolroom. Probably closer to forty than thirty, his bone structure was reminiscent of western European ancestry.
The square jaw with its hint of five o’clock shadow and his straight nose kept him from being handsome in the accepted sense, yet his features made him much more interesting. He exuded confidence and an unconscious masculine appeal that called to everything feminine in her.
Whitney couldn’t remember the last time a man had made this kind of an impact on her. No woman young or old could remain immune to such unquestioned masculinity.
If he affects you this way, can you imagine how devastating his sex appeal had been to Christine? A seventeen-going-on-eighteen-year-old girl alone in Europe on the verge of womanhood?
Whitney’s instincts had been right all along. Christine’s French teacher, Mr. Bowen, was the father of her baby! Greg’s fine baby hair was the same dark blond color.
The guys were talking again, but she couldn’t hear what they were saying because a comment her sister had made at lunch that day came back to haunt her.
He’s so good-looking, and we grew close on the trip. When he finally told me he loved me, I—I couldn’t help myself.
In an effort to get a grip on her emotions, Whitney leaned over and retied her shoelaces. She didn’t need to go on the tour for answers. The man she’d been damning to hell since learning that the liar had taken advantage of Christine, had already entered the room, looking larger than life.
“Hey, Whitney?” There was a tap on her shoulder.
“Yes, Jeff?” Expelling the breath she’d been holding, she slowly stood up and turned around to see what he wanted. Looking past the smooth faces of the two teens, she received her second shock of the evening.
A pair of light gray eyes dotted with translucent green flecks held her gaze, trapping her as surely as if she’d been physically caught in a vise of some kind.
Christine had spent three years in a French class looking into those eyes? No wonder she’d never stood a chance.
For a lightning moment the world spun out of control. Sometimes in her dreams Whitney felt herself falling. That was the sensation she was experiencing now.
“Bonsoir, Whitney. Je m’appelle Monsieur Smith C’est un grand plaisir.” His deep male voice spoke in flawless French. She felt its resonance to her bones.
CHAPTER TWO
MONSIEUR SMITH?
Whitney shook her head in confusion, feeling out of breath. “Wait a minute. You’re not Mr. Bowen?” Her voice had a definite squeaking quality to it.
The crinkles around his startlingly beautiful eyes deepened as he broke into an apologetic smile that made her insides melt. “Not the last time I looked. I’m sorry. Every student wants to be with him. I hope you won’t mind putting up with me.”
She blinked, trying to make sense out of everything. She’d been so positive he was Mr. Bowen!
With the greatest effort of will, she broke eye contact with him and shifted her gaze to another male teacher standing at the next table.
According to the pennant, he was Mr. Bowen. But how could he be?
The slender man with dark eyes and hard cheekbones, probably late forties, had a pale, tired-looking face and darkish hair receding at the forehead and temples. He stood a little