The more panicked she got, the faster the gendarme talked. "What does she think we can do? We can't even get a clear description of the perpetrator. You know these Americans, now she'll be saying nothing's safe in France. I'll file a report, of course, but God-" he crossed himself"-couldn't get her a replacement passport this instant. Where was her common sense, to have all her money in one place? And a bag she was carrying on her besides?"

Kelly was on a completely different track. "I carried those letters on me all the time," she said mournfully. "They're all I ever had of my dad. I don't care about the rest…"

Will fished in his pocket for a tissue. Came through. But after she blew her nose, she looked at him expectantly.

As if there was some insane kind of magic between them, he found himself looking back. At those eyes. That mouth. That glow of hers.

He told himself firmly to look away.

He told himself that the gendarme would transport her to the embassy or consulate or wherever she needed to go, and the rest of her mess wasn't his problem. She'd be okay. That's what embassies and consulates and cops were for, taking care of people. It wasn't his problem. She couldn't possibly, remotely, be his problem.

He told himself that his sisters had irrevocably taught him to steer clear of damsels in distress. At the same time he was analyzing her looks again. Her hair was this glossy mass of loose dark waves, not a style exactly. It just looked all soft and silky. Naturally sexy.

"Monsieur?" The gendarme growled at him impatiently, as if he'd asked him a question a few moments ago and Will had failed to pay attention.

Which was possible.

Possibly she'd been talking, and he hadn't been listening to her, either.

And then he made his third mistake of the day-this one far worse than stopping to help, far worse than failing to pay attention.

"She can't very well just stand here in the street," he told the gendarme. "I'll take her."