The Prince She Never Forgot. Scarlet Wilson
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a good idea. There was no way she was going to be able to find her friends in this crowd.
But she wasn’t too worried. The mood of the crowd was jubilant. People were drinking wine and singing. The atmosphere and heavy police presence made her feel safe—even if she was alone.
Around her she heard dozens of different accents: snatches of English, Italian and Japanese all mixed in with French. The streets were lit with multi-coloured lights and a variety of decorations and garlands left over from Christmas. She unfastened the buttons on her red wool coat. She’d expected Paris to be cold in December, but the heat from the people around her meant the temperature was rising.
She clutched tightly onto the bag strung diagonally in front of her, keeping her hand clasped over the zipper. Pickpockets were rife in Paris at New Year’s. They’d all been warned to keep a close hold of their belongings.
Her phone beeped just as she was in sight of the Eiffel Tower and she struggled to move out of the thronging crowd. It had practically ground to a halt, with people from behind still pressing ahead. The streets were packed. There was no way forward.
She moved sideways, unzipping her bag and pulling out her phone.
Where are you?
It was from Polly. Her friends were obviously waiting at their designated meeting point.
She typed quickly. Not sure if I can get to you, but I’ll try. She pressed Send just as someone bumped her from behind and the phone skittered from her hand.
‘Oh, no!’
It was kicked one way, then another, quickly going out of sight. She tried to push her way through the crowd sideways, but that proved impossible. It was a sea of people. And she was heading in the wrong direction.
‘Hey, watch out. Ouch!’
Her feet were trampled, her ribs elbowed and the wind knocked from her. It was impossible. She looked up for a few seconds, to try and make her way through the crowd, then looked down again amongst the stampeding feet, trying to track down her phone.
A thud to her shoulder sent her flying into a group of rowdy Germans.
‘Sorry...sorry.’
They were laughing and joking and smelling of beer. She tried to find her way through but it was virtually impossible. There seemed to be nowhere to go.
Her chest started to tighten. They weren’t doing or saying anything untoward, but the sheer amount of people meant they’d started to crowd around her, closing in. She tried to take a deep breath and lifted her elbows up, edging her way to the side. But the only place she seemed to be moving was closer and closer.
There was a waft of beer-soaked breath on her cheek. Too close. Too invasive. A hand at her back, someone pressing against her hip.
‘Let me out. Let me through. Move, please!’
A hand reached down between her shoulders, grabbing her coat and pulling her upwards. The air left her lungs momentarily and her feet were still stuck amongst the crowd. A strong arm wound around her waist and pulled her clear. Her feet stopped unsteadily on a wall at shoulder height to the throng.
‘Are you okay?’
She was teetering on the wall. The hand and arm that had steadied her had pulled away the instant she was free. She reached and grabbed hold of the dark sleeve in front of her, trying to regain her balance.
The voice sounded again. ‘Are you okay? Are you drunk?’ There was a slight edge of disappointment to the voice.
She steadied herself on the wall, taking a deep breath of relief before turning around to speak to her rescuer. How dared he accuse her of being drunk?
But the words died in her throat. Bright blue eyes and a broad chest obstructed her view.
Even on a dark Paris night those blue eyes would have attracted her attention. He was tall, dark-haired, with a broad chest, wearing a simple white T-shirt and jeans with a dark wool coat on top. Trust her to find the best-looking guy in Paris and have no reliable witnesses. No one would believe her.
She automatically lifted her hands. ‘No. No, I’m not drunk. I just got stuck in a crowd going in the opposite direction from me.’
His demeanour changed. The skin around his eyes creased as he smiled. ‘What? You’re going home already? You don’t want to see the fireworks?’
His accent sent tingles across her skin. He sounded French, with a little something else.
He was teasing her, and now she could actually breathe she could take a little teasing.
She sighed. ‘No. I’m not going home. Not tonight anyway. Of course I want to see the fireworks.’ She held out her hands to the bodies pressed below. ‘Just not like this.’ The crowd had ground to a halt. She stared across at the sea of people. ‘I was supposed to be meeting my friends.’
‘You are lost?’ He sounded concerned.
‘Not exactly.’ She turned back to face him, getting a whiff of woody aftershave. ‘We were meeting at a sign near the Eiffel Tower.’ She shook her head. ‘I have absolutely no chance of getting there now.’
She had no intention of leaving the safety of this wall any time soon. She only hoped his friends weren’t all about to join them and there’d be no room for her to stay here.
He smiled as he looked down at all the people below. ‘You could be right. I’m sorry if I startled you but you looked frightened. I thought you were beginning to panic in the crowd.’
Her heart had stopped fluttering in her chest and her breathing was settling down. It had been an odd feeling, and so not like her. Ruby Wetherspoon didn’t tend to panic.
‘I was. Thank you. I’ve never really been in a crowd like that before.
It had definitely been a bit claustrophobic.’ She shook her coat free, letting some air circulate around her, and pulled her red hat from her hair.
‘There—that’s much better.’
‘It certainly is.’
He was smiling appreciatively at her and for a second she was unnerved. But, no. There was nothing predatory about her rescuer. He had kind eyes, even if the man exuded sex appeal from twenty paces. If her up-close-and-personal alarm was going off it wasn’t because she was scared—it was because it had been jolted back into life. About time too.
He nodded slowly. ‘Crowds can be...difficult.’
It was an odd choice of words, but then again her hesitant French would sound much poorer than his English.
‘And you’d know?’ She was curious.
His face crinkled. It seemed her half-inquisitive, half-sarcastic question was lost on him.
She held out her hand towards him. ‘Ruby. Ruby Wetherspoon from England.’
His warm hand closed around hers. ‘Alex,’ he said simply.
Her eyes glanced up and down his body. White T-shirt, blue jeans and black boots. But the dark wool coat seemed a little strange for a young guy—a little formal.
‘Are you from here?’
The corners of his lips turned upwards. ‘Close enough.’
Mystery. She liked it. Perfect for New Year’s Eve.
Under normal circumstances she might have felt a little nervous, a little wary around a mysterious stranger. But Alex didn’t give her those kind of vibes.
Trust your instincts. That was what her gran had always told her. And she should have. Because if she had she probably wouldn’t have found her boyfriend in bed with her ex-best friend. Truth was, she couldn’t wait to see the end of this stinker of a year.