At some point he accepted being in just a wee heap of trouble. Denial wasn't doing any good. You couldn't pretend you weren't in a swamp if you were knee-deep in mud. He wasn't in mud. He was just suffering from a mighty, mighty pull toward her.

He'd get over it. he assured himself. He'd just met her. for Pete's sake. What was the harm in an evening together? So he liked looking at her. Liked the itchy charge of chemistry. Liked those liquid brown eyes of hers. So?

Once they were seated for dinner, she did all the tourist-sucker oohing and aahing for the Tour Eiffel, Jardin des Plantes, the Louvre, Saint-Germain-des-Prés.

Notre Dame was on Île de la Cité, though. And he knew she'd get into Notre Dame because of being a South Bender. But by the time they'd passed the real Dame, he'd ordered a second bottle of wine, a Puligny-Montrachet from 2002, and they were almost finished with the fabulous flammenkueche.

"What is this dish again?" she asked.

"Well…it's kind of a cross between a pancake and a pizza. It's got cream and herbs and ham and cheese. You like it?"

"You've watched me gobbling it down and you have to ask? It's to die for. Like nothing I've ever tasted before. But I think one taste of escargot is enough for me."

"Hey, you came all the way to France. You might as well try all the French things you can."

"True," she murmured.

Everyone on the cruise was more dressed up than them. They'd never had a chance to change. Hell, Will hadn't even come up with the impulsive idea to do the cruise until late in the day. But now, as they wandered back on deck-Kelly wanted a clearer view of the cathedral on shore, and God knew, they were both stuffed from dinner and needed a walk- she shivered in the sudden damp night breeze.

Her pants and thin V-necked sweater weren't warm enough. Her throat was bare, no jewelry at all, just her skin glowing in the moonlight and distant city lights.