But hell. He had noticed the commotion from all the way down the block, and when he heard the sudden, sharp, panicked yell-obviously a woman's voice-he instinctively hustled toward the sound. The instinct wasn't heroic. It was lunatic.

He'd lived in Paris long enough to know getting involved in a tourist brouhaha was complete lunacy. Yet still he came closer.

It took only seconds for him to interpret the scene. She'd been ripped off. Moments before, a gendarme had shown up, and typical of Paris, so had every busybody bystander. Most of them figured an American tourist, being an American tourist, had done something stupid. A few wanted to whine about the danger of Paris streets these days. The gendarme was trying to question her about exactly what happened.

In those same few seconds, he snared a quick look at her.

Very quick.

But that was all it took for him to feel a potent kick in the gut.

He didn't get it. A pale purple sweater cupped her small boobs. Dark pants fit snug enough to clarify that she had skinny legs and no ass. Since he'd always tended to like more breasts and less bone, there was nothing below her neck that should have rattled his hormones. Yet his pulse was kabooming like a freight train.

Heightwise, she came up to his chin. And that was where she stopped being ordinary. The eyes were mesmerizing, almond shaped, tea-brown, looking right at him. The details included a small, thin nose; pink mouth; and a sweep of almost-shoulder-length brown hair. Only brown wasn't an accurate description of the color. The sixty-five-degree morning was drenched in sunshine, and that's how her hair looked-lustrous, full of light, shiny in the sun.

Okay, so she was adorable. But that alone didn't explain the kaboom thing. There were fabulous-looking women all over Paris.

There was something else about her, something he couldn't define. A zest. A glow. A female thing. Will didn't need to identify it to know it was a serious problem.