The afternoon unfolds like a romantic montage as we walk hand-in-hand along the Seine, the river reflecting afternoonsunlight like liquid stars while street musicians provide a rhythm to our impromptu dance lessons on ancient cobblestones.
The Louvre visit captivates me more than I expected—I find myself pulling Ransom from painting to painting, explaining brushwork techniques and composition while he watches me with more interest than he’s showing theMona Lisa. We lose ourselves in the art for hours, though I suspect he’s mostly just enjoying my enthusiasm.
Lunch at a sidewalk bistro means sharing French onion soup that’s basically cheese held together by good intentions, and conversation that reminds me why I married this man in the first place.
And then there’s the shopping. I buy myself perfume from a tiny boutique, macarons that won’t survive the afternoon, a scarf that makes me feel impossibly French, and some lacy underthings from a shop that would make Elodie stand up and applaud.
As the sun begins to set, we return to the Eiffel Tower like moths drawn to iron flames, taking the elevator to the top for what Ransom promises will be the romantic climax of our Parisian adventure.
“This,” he says as we reach the observation deck with Paris spreading below us in a glittering display of lights and history, “is why they call it the City of Light.”
He pulls me into his arms like he’s been planning this all day, and when his lips meet mine, the entire city disappears. The kiss starts gentle and quickly escalates into something that would make the French approve of our commitment to romance, passion, and public displays of affection that definitely earn us some appreciative whistles.
When we finally come up for air, both breathless and slightly dizzy from altitude and attraction, I realize something that makes my blood turn to ice water.
“Oh my goodness,” I gasp, fumbling for my phone with hands that suddenly won’t cooperate. “What time is it?”
The screen shows 4:47 P.M., and our ship was scheduled to sail at 6:00.
“We have minutes to spare.” Ransom winces before glaring at the horizon.
“Can we make it?”
“Not unless we can teleport,” he replies, already calculating thedistance between the Eiffel Tower and Le Havre’s port—approximately two hours by human transportation methods.
We race down the elevator like our lives depend on it, which they might, considering we’re about to be stranded in France while a murderer roams free on our floating home.
The taxi ride becomes an exercise in international diplomacy as we attempt to explain our emergency to a French driver who speaks approximately three words of English, none of which are helpful in maritime crisis situations.
By the time we reach Le Havre’s port, sprinting through streets with shopping bags and the desperation of people who’ve just realized they’ve made a catastrophic miscalculation, it’s 6:15 P.M.
TheEmerald Queen of the Seassits majestically in the harbor, her lights twinkling like a floating city of romance and potential homicide. But she’s moving away from the dock with the inevitable grace of departure schedules that wait for no one, not even passengers who’ve been solving murders and conducting supernatural investigations in foreign countries.
We stand on the dock like romantic refugees, watching our home disappear into the distance while carrying our friends, our belongings, and most importantly, a killer who’s now beyond our reach.
“Tinsley knows exactly who’s missing from the passenger manifest,” Ransom says with a resigned sigh. He understands cruise ship protocols all too well. “She had to clear our absence with Wes.”
The implications hit me like French pastry to the face—Wes sailed without us deliberately, leaving us stranded in Le Havre while a killer continues to roam free among our friends and fellow passengers.
CHAPTER 25
“Well,” I announce as we stand on the Le Havre dock watching our floating home disappear into the distance like a romantic tragedy with excellent scenery. “This is what happens when you prioritize French kissing over French departure schedules.”
“I’ll get us back to the ship,” Ransom declares, having navigated more challenging waters than missing cruise connections, “but first—a night in Paris.”
“A night in Paris?” I stare at him like he’s just suggested we take up professional juggling. “Ransom, there’s a killer loose on that ship. Our friends are sailing toward Valentine’s Day with a murderer who’s probably planning their grand finale.”
“And we’ll catch up with them tomorrow,” he says, pulling out his phone with ease. He’s made impossible arrangements before. “I’ve got contacts who can get us a helicopter to the ship’s next position. But tonight?” He gestures in the direction of the glittering city we just left. “Tonight, we’re headed back to the most romantic city in the world.”
“You’re serious.”
“Dead serious. When’s the next time we’ll have Paris to ourselves?”
Two hours later, we’re standing beneath the Eiffel Tower once again as it erupts into a million dazzling lights, the entire structuresparkling as if someone’s wrapped the monument in liquid diamonds and set it ablaze with romance.
And I’ve got to say, I’d miss a thousand cruise ships to witness this moment.
“Good grief,” I breathe. “It’s like someone turned the volume up on beauty itself.”
