Paul heaved a sigh. “Monsieur Meow told me to ask you out to dinner. I told him it was far too early, but he won’t listen to reason. You know what cats are like.”
“May I talk to him?” She held out her hand.
Paul passed her the puppet. The cat had better not rat on him.
Miss Girard wiggled her hand into the puppet. “Monsieur Meow, that isn’t like you, meddling in other people’s business. What got into you?” She put the puppet to her ear. “Oh, Mr.Aubreygot into you.”
Paul had to smile. Guilty as charged.
“It’s out of the question,” she said. “I know nothing about him. Oh ... yes, that’s true. I could get to know him over dinner.”
“You could.” Paul stood up a bit straighter.
“Yes, I’m tired of rutabaga soup.” Miss Girard lifted those pretty eyes to Paul. “Does the restaurant serve rutabaga soup?”
“Never.” He ran through restaurants in the neighborhood that he remembered.
“That’s a good idea, Monsieur Meow.” She nodded to her friend, who was rapidly becoming Paul’s friend. “He says I could meet you at the restaurant.”
“Wise cat. Are you free tonight?”
“Yes. The store closes at eighteen hours.”
He needed to give her time to close up shop and change clothes. “Would you like to meet me at Lapérouse on quai des Grand Augustins at seven o’clock? Or nineteen hours, if you’re in the Army, the Navy, or France.”
She studied him again as if gauging his character. “I’d like that.”
“Daddy!” Josie ran over with a pile of books. “Can I? Can I?”
Ordinarily he’d have her choose one, but not today. He took the books and turned to Miss Girard. “What do you have for me?”
She gave him a playful look as if she knew she could coax him into buying half the store. She set one book on the stack. “Let’s start with this.”
A woman who didn’t take advantage of a man’s weakness. He approved.
After he paid for the books, plus a year’s subscription to the store’s lending library, he led Josie outside.
“I like that lady.” Josie waved her arms as Miss Girard had done. “She has legsandwings.”
Paul chuckled. She did indeed.
5
Lucie stepped over the elegant threshold of Lapérouse. What had Monsieur Meow gotten her into?
She usually dated rumple-haired painters or writers in ill-fitting suits or musicians in wild-colored neckties, meeting at cafés and parks.
Not this. Not one of Paris’s finest restaurants in her best shoes and hat and her dress of rose gold silk. It was all so conventional.
She fought back a frown as she checked in her coat. The maître d’hôtel led her upstairs into a small room ornate with gilt mirrors and wood paneling and antique paintings.
Paul Aubrey stood to greet her, so conventional with his groomed brown hair and tailored black suit.
But then he smiled, and her breath caught. He appealed to her for a reason she couldn’t name, which was why she’d come. To name it.
“Good evening, Miss Girard. You look lovely.”
“Thank you, Mr. Aubrey.” She settled onto the red brocade divan at the corner table.
