was afraid I’d kick it down.
I strode from the mansion, not knowing where I was or how I was going to get home. I didn’t care. I would rather swim in the Seine than have anything to do with Jean Claude Bisset ever again. As far as I was concerned, he was dead to me.
I was furious with him, with myself, with all the stupid Cinderella daydreams I’d had about the two of us. I felt like a complete and utter idiot. Tears welled up, but I refused to let them fall. It was a struggle, but I had a more pressing problem that tears wouldn’t solve. I had to get the hell out of here.
“Mademoiselle,” a man’s voice called, and I glanced up to see the driver who had brought me here, smoking a cigarette as he stood under a tree beside his parked car. “Ça va?”
How was I? Not good. Not by a long shot. But here was the light of escape, shining brightly before me.
“Indisposé,” I said. I heaved a sigh, touched my fingers to my forehead, and winced, not knowing how to say headache in French.
“Ah,” the man said. He ground his cigarette out beneath his heel and opened the back door for me. Gesturing for me to sit, he said in stilted English, “I take you back.”
I gave him the brightest smile I could manage. “Merci beaucoup.”
The return seemed much shorter than the drive to the party. I glanced at my phone and noted it was only a little past nine. The night was still young, but not for me. I was going to take a long shower and wash away the entire disgusting evening.
The driver opened the door for me right outside my apartment. I wasn’t sure what to pay him. When I fumbled with my purse, he said, “Non non.”
I glanced up, and the kindness in his face almost did me in. “Thank you.”
He looked at me closely, and I had the feeling he knew exactly how my evening had gone wrong. With a sympathetic sigh, he said, “Mieux vaut être seul que mal accompagné.”
While my French was not up to a concise translation, I got the gist, which was that it was better to be alone than in poor company. True that. I stood and watched as his taillights disappeared. What a night. I hated that it had ended this way.
On a whim, I walked down the street. I realized I was hungry and wanted to eat something positively French, like steak tartare, escargot, confit de canard, or coq au vin. I felt as if my trip to Paris had been contaminated and I needed to get the magic of my quest back since I couldn’t leave, not with the dinner with Severin happening tomorrow night. Too bad. I’d have given anything to be on the next plane headed to Italy and Marcellino.
He was the only one of the three whom I’d maintained contact with over the years. Before I left the States, I’d sent him a brief email telling him that I planned to be in Italy in the near future and would love to see him. To my delight and surprise, he’d written back with an open invitation to stay in one of the cottages on the vineyard grounds. I had happily accepted. Now it seemed as if fate had been pushing me to Italy all along. I didn’t know if Severin was still planning to go to Italy, but I would find out at dinner, and if he was, well, that was just more proof that maybe what I sought was in the last place I’d been before I’d been called home.
A brasserie was up ahead. I could smell beef, garlic, and rosemary in the air. It lured me in as if it had hooked right into my belly. There was outside seating under a string of light bulbs and several heaters. I saw a couple of open tables and hoped I wasn’t too late to score one for myself. Then I saw a man sitting alone reading a book. Jason.
I thought about turning around and running to my apartment to hide, but why? My night had been an epic catastrophe, but it wasn’t my fault. Honestly, I could use a friend right now. Since I didn’t have one in the city—or the country, for that matter—Knightley would have to do.
I entered the brasserie and found the hostess. I’d noted Jason’s wineglass was almost empty, so I arranged to