“Dance with me,” Ransom says as a street performer’s saxophone weaves through the evening air with notes smooth as aged wine.
“Here? In front of everyone?”
His lips brush over mine. “Especially in front of everyone.”
He pulls me into his arms for an impromptu waltz right here on the cobblestones, and suddenly we’re starring in our own romantic movie while other tourists become our audience as we spin through melodies that seem written specifically for this moment—for us.
“This is insane.” I laugh, breathless from dancing and the sheer audacity of it all.
“The best things usually are,” he replies, dipping me dramatically as the tower sparkles overhead.
Dinner unfolds at a restaurant so exclusive I’m pretty sure reservations require genealogical proof of sophistication.
“How did you get us a table here?” I ask as we’re seated beside windows overlooking the sparkling Seine.
“I have my ways.” Ransom tips his head as he says it. “Former FBI connections come in handy for more than just catching criminals.”
We feast on steak au poivre—perfectly seared beef with a peppercorn crust that cracks under your fork, swimming in cognac cream sauce that I want to drink straight from the plate. The frites are crispy outside, fluffy inside, and disappear faster than Ransom can steal them. Then the chocolate soufflé arrives still puffing from the oven, and when we break it open, molten chocolate flows out like the most beautiful disaster ever.
“This is incredible,” I murmur around a bite of chocolatey goodness.
“You’re incredible.” Ransom doesn’t hesitate with his words, his eyes never leaving my face. “And I mean that.”
We order more dessert just because we can. Soufflé au Grand Marnier that rises like edible clouds, tarte tatin withcaramelized apples, and the crème brûlée arrives with that perfect sugar crust you get to crack like delicious glass, revealing vanilla custard so smooth it should be illegal.
“I can’t eat another bite,” I protest as profiteroles au chocolat arrive stacked like sweet architectural marvels.
“Me either, but that’s what we said three desserts ago,” Ransom points out, already signaling for more champagne.
The hotel room he procures overlooks all of Paris spread below us like a living jewelry box, the Eiffel Tower commanding center stage in our floor-to-ceiling windows.
“Ransom,” I gasp, taking in the suite that whispers luxury in silk curtains and marble bathrooms, “this must cost a fortune.”
“Some things are worth any price,” he says, pulling me into his arms as the City of Light glitters beyond our windows. “Like making sure my wife knows exactly how much I love her.”
He pulls out his phone and quickly types a message. “I should thank the man responsible for this.”
“Are you talking about Wes?” A little laugh escapes me. “What in the world are you saying?” I ask, peering over his shoulder.
Thanks for leaving us behind, Captain. Best mistake you ever made.
His phone buzzes almost immediately with Wes’s reply.
Some things are more important than departure schedules. You’re welcome. Try not to miss tomorrow’s pickup, too.
“Some people always have to have the last word.” Ransom chuckles, tossing his phone aside.
“It’s part of his charm,” I agree, though I’m already being distracted by the way the Parisian lights reflect in my husband’s eyes to think about anyone else.
What follows involves champagne that never stops flowing, rose petals that appear like magic, and hours of rediscovering exactly why we fell in love in the first place.
But even as we lose ourselves in each other’s arms with Paris sparkling beyond our windows, I can’t shake one haunting thought.While we’re creating memories that will last a lifetime, somewhere on the dark Atlantic, a killer continues to stalk the decks of theEmerald Queen, and our friends are sailing into Valentine’s Day completely unaware that death might be planning its own romantic finale.
CHAPTER 26
Suddenly Hitched—What a Trip!
Hello, Trixie!
