strap that’s looped around is yanked violently dragging me with it.
Gloved finger clutching it, I try to stop myself from being strangled. It’s then I see the man trying to steal it. Hood of his jacket up to conceal his head, the thief’s face is red with anger, hard staring eyes boring into mine. Everything happens so fast. Raising his hand to strike me, something that sounds ugly and obscene hisses from his lips in French. Rafe move so quickly he’s a dark blur. Stepping in front of me, he deflects the blow with his body.
One moment I’m struggling to breathe, the next I’m free and sucking in oxygen. Rubbing my sore neck, I clutch my camera and bag to my chest with my free trembling hand. Rafe’s tall imposing back is in front of me. His sketch pad is still wedged beneath his arm.
Adrenaline fuelled anger has me stepping around him ready to throw some barbed comments at my attacker. The man’s face is slack with fear, eyes bulging, breath coming out in harsh pants. Maybe he didn’t see my companion? Thought I was alone and easy pickings? I’m not sure, and part of me doesn’t care.
“You son of a bitch…” I grate only to trail off as the man turns on his heels and takes off in the opposite direction as if his life depends on it.
Brows drawing together, I watch him go. I’m going to have bruises; that’s for sure, from the throbbing ache around my throat. Grumbling under my breath, the sensation of something dripping from my nose throws me into confusion. Tugging off a glove, I press my fingers to the area only to find a bright splash of red on my fingers. A nosebleed?
Turning to talk to Rafe, I find myself alone. There’s no sign of my savior anywhere; as if somehow, he’s just vanished into thin air.
Chapter Two
Two days exploring Paris and my thoughts have constantly been spiraling back to the Pere Lachaise cemetery and Rafe. The man with the beautiful, unusual eyes. My rescuer. He’s been an elusive shadow in my dream filled night. A presence I haven’t been able to shake.
Inexplicably, I find myself cautiously drawn back to the cemetery even though I know it will be closed. Following the high brick wall, my steps slow as I approach the green elaborate closed doors. I’m wary of danger. A twinge of disappointment darts though me when I find no sign of the person I’m looking for.
“Good evening, Samantha.”
Startled by the familiar voice, I swivel to find its own. “Rafe.”
The fabric of the black loose shirt he wears looks like linen, his collar playing around his neck in the winter breeze. Worn black jeans encase his long, muscular legs and a pair of laced up boots on his feet. He has the look of an eccentric artist or writer. Untamed with his long wild hair and odd eyes that warm with pleasure at the sight of me.
“You came back.” The smile curving his lips is pure delight as he gallantly offers me his arm.
“I did. I wanted to thank you for saving me from that mugger.” It feels natural to let him tuck my arm through his as we begin to stroll sedately along the road. Like two old friends who haven’t see each other for ages. It’s as if something has clicked, and we’re both comfortable as if we’ve known each other our whole lives.
“It was nothing,” he assures me modestly.
“Aren’t you cold?” I ask, thankful for the protection of my thick clothing against the chill.
Rafe’s dark curls ripple as he shakes his head. “No, it doesn’t bother me. I’m used to it. Let me show you some of Paris. If you haven’t been, yet, you should visit the Pantheon Crypt. They have some notable people buried there.”
I note again the signet ring on his finger. A skull has been carved into the precious metal, and from the looks of the piece of jewelry, it looks old.
We walk and talk. His long legs matching my pace as we meander. Light chit chat about the sights of the city I’ve seen and yet to see. Rafe is a wealth of knowledge. Passionate about the history of the place and telling me of hidden off the path gems I shouldn’t miss. I let him do all the talking, a bubble of shy stealing my normal confidence. At the same time, it’s nice to have someone to talk with. Someone who’s not a stranger