Excerpt From Under the Paris Moon

 

PROLOGUE

 

 

“Excusez-moi c'est mon taxi,” the woman says, as I move toward the taxi pulling up at the curb. Though her French is quite good, she has enough of an American accent for me to realize she is not French. 

“I beg your pardon.” I step aside. Who am I to stand between a beautiful woman and her taxi? And this woman is beautiful. Striking really. Tall and regal with hair the color of polished silver, shot through with pewter and charcoal. Broad sunglasses obscure her eyes, but her wide mouth and full lips beg to be kissed. She carries herself and the small pink bag from one of the local vintage shops like she means business. What’s her story? 

Then a thought occurs to me. I flash my most charming smile, the one that used to make women around the world swoon, then wait for recognition to dawn on her gorgeous face. Nothing. Huh. 

Maybe my sunglasses and baseball cap are a better disguise than I realized. Or maybe her sunglasses hide her reaction. Okay, then. “Where are you going? Perhaps we could share the taxi.” I flash another trademark thousand-watt grin. 

“You’re American, then?” she asks in surprise. 

It is easier to just agree, than to explain. “Oui,” I say with a wink. 

She frowns and shakes her head. “I’m not sharing a taxi with a complete stranger.”

So she really doesn’t know who I am. Suppressing the gut punch to my ego that follows, I try again, pouring on the charm that won over even the most recalcitrant co-star. “We could introduce ourselves, and then we wouldn’t be strangers.”

She scoffs. “No, thank you,” and tries to move around me to open the door.

I reach for the door handle at the same time, brushing my hand across hers, and the zing at the contact shoots down to the soles of my feet. She must have felt it too, because she jerks her hand away as if she’s just touched a hot iron. 

“Please, allow me.” Those lush lips thin in annoyance as I reach for the door again, and she gives me a suspicious look, as if I might climb into the cab behind her. Or jump in before her. 

I can’t resist, “It’s April in Paris!” I sing the line from the classic song and lift my free hand to encompass the City of Lights dressed in her best spring fashions. “What more do you need?”

Nothing. Wow. Tough crowd. Resigned, I open the door to the driver berating us in French about whether we are getting in or not. 
“Oui, juste moi,” she said, emphasizing there is no ‘we’. 

She slides onto the seat, and I catch a flash of smooth thigh when a breeze lifts the hem of her fuchsia sundress. Before I close the door, I prod once more. “When was the last time you smiled?”

She reaches for the door handle and says with a straight face, “June 5, 1989,” then she slams the door shut.

I bark out a laugh and shake my head. Damn, she is intriguing. But I have no time to pursue this woman. I have to get back to my hotel for a social media campaign my agent and I predict will resuscitate my dying career.