Her lips pressed together repressively. ‘Good day, m’sieu. Thank you for what you did just now.’ She started to move off.
Markos watched her go. She got about twenty metres before a lanky Scandinavian stopped her, guidebook in hand, asking her the way, then pointing invitingly towards the cathedral entrance. The girl shook her head, and the sunlight dazzled in her glorious hair. She moved sideways around the Scandinavian and straight into the path of a North African, who fell into step beside her, oblivious of her attempts to repulse him.
With no change in his leisurely gait, Markos strolled towards her. The creeping edge of ennui started to dissolve.
Fury fizzed through Vanessa again. This was just unbearable! Her very first day in Paris and she was being pestered to death. Whether she stood still or kept walking, they just kept coming. And all she wanted was to be left in peace to do what had been a dream for years and years—see the glories of the most beautiful city in Europe.
‘Va’t’en!’ she snapped at the one trying to talk to her now. ‘Get lost. Leave me alone!’
‘Eenglish?’ said the man, and grinned. ‘I show you good time.’
Then, from just behind her, a new voice spoke. It wasn’t a language she knew, but she recognised the voice. Her head whipped round.
It was that man again. The man who’d got rid of those two Frenchmen. Who’d said that this was Paris and what else should she expect but to be pestered. Words to that effect. Who’d told her she needed a bodyguard.
Who was the most devastating male she’d ever seen.
Her eyes swept over him again. Dear God, but he really was jaw-dropping. Not French, she thought. He was powerfully built, tall, but with a kind of casual continental elegance to him that was almost sensual in its effect. Yet he’d spoken English without an accent, despite his dark hair, his Mediterranean skin tone. She couldn’t tell what nationality he was. He’d spoken English to her, French to those pests and something else—Arabic?—to this one.
Whatever nationality he was, he made the breath stop in her lungs.
But she mustn’t let him. Mustn’t do anything as stupid as respond to his incredible looks in any way! The last thing she needed was to give any male—even this one!—the slightest sign of encouragement.
Even though he had come to her rescue twice in a row.
The North African had vanished as if he’d never been. She took a short breath.
‘Thank you,’ she said to her rescuer, as stiffly as she could.
He seemed undeterred by her coolness. ‘You know, you really do need a bodyguard,’ he observed. ‘These foreign johnnies are the very devil.’
His accent had changed suddenly, with his second sentence, from normal English to the old-fashioned speech of a pre-war film.
Vanessa glanced up at him—he really was very tall, and she was no muppet herself heightwise. Humour was sparking in his eyes.
They’re grey. I thought they were black, but they’re not. They’re a very dark grey…
The irrelevant observation distracted her a moment. Then the expression in his eyes got her. For a second it hung in the balance.
Then she fell.
She felt her lips quirk. ‘Are you trying to tell me you’re not a “foreign Johnny”?’
‘I’m probably more English than you are,’ he replied urbanely.
‘What?’ Her face furrowed.
The dark grey eyes flickered over her. ‘Only Celts have red hair,’ he murmured.
‘Scottish grandmother,’ Vanessa acknowledged.
There was something wrong with her speaking voice. It was sounding breathy, and more high-pitched than usual. She swallowed. She mustn’t stand here talking to a complete stranger, even if he had rescued her twice from unwanted admirers—
It was as if he was reading her mind.
‘You know,’ he went on, and his voice had that smooth note in it again, that did strange things to her insides, ‘there is no need at all to be suspicious. I really am very respectable. And, if you would allow me—’the note in his voice changed slightly ‘—I would be more than happy to walk with you around the cathedral—if that is what you were intending—and ensure you are not pestered.’
He smiled down at her, and Vanessa found herself searching his face. There was nothing in it except a bland politeness. For a moment she felt—quite ludicrously, given the situation—disappointment.