Blame It on Paris. Jennifer Greene
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Praise for the work of USA TODAY bestselling author
JENNIFER
GREENE
“A book by Jennifer Greene hums with an
unbeatable combination of sexual chemistry and
heart-warming emotion.”
—New York Times bestselling author Susan Elizabeth Phillips
“Written with a deliciously sharp sense
of humour and her usual superb sense of
characterisation… Greene’s latest romance is a
sweetly sexy, thoroughly satisfying, and
simply sublime literary confection.”
—Booklist on Blame It on Chocolate
“A warm-hearted romance with endearing
characters, simmering sensuality, and a very
interesting subject matter. A book to curl
up with on a cold night.”
—Rendezvous on Blame It on Chocolate
“The characters are likeable, the plot is realistic,
and the book is fantastic.”
—Romance Reviews Today on Blame It on Chocolate
Also available from Jennifer Greene and MIRA ®
BLAME IT ON CHOCOLATE
Dear Reader,
I’ve been to Paris only once, but I’ve never forgotten it. It’s a mesmerising, magical city like none other – a city of lights and legends, of sights and smells and sounds just made for fantasies and lovers.
Over the years, those memories kept brewing in my mind…just waiting for a story to weave around them…and finally it came.
I needed a special man, the kind of man who could make a girl want to throw away all that was safe and sure, everything she thought she believed about herself…just for the chance to be with him. And I needed a special woman, the kind of woman who could challenge and entice a man to be more than he was, more than he thought he could be…just for the right to be with her.
So I created Kelly…who meets the wrong man at absolutely the wrong time. And then I found Will…who has such a code of honour that he can’t possibly seduce Kelly, much less become involved with her.
But in Paris, what seems wrong anywhere else can be impossibly, wonderfully right – if my two lovers will just take that huge risk and leap off a cliff together.
I loved writing this story…and love having the chance to share it with you. hope you enjoy it!
All my best,
Jennifer Greene
JENNIFER GREENE
Blame It on Paris
To my lar
For being MY Paris
CHAPTER ONE
GUILT WAS so much fun.
Kelly Rochard grabbed her shoulder bag and bounded down the cracked porch steps of the centuries-old bed-and-breakfast. She couldn’t wait a second longer to inhale all the sights, smells and sounds of Paris in the springtime.
Who’d have thunk it? That a gregarious, nosy, hopelessly open person such as herself could possibly have managed to keep a secret this big?
No one even knew she was here.
Of course, in a week, she’d go back home to South Bend, confess everything to her new fiancé, never tell another fib again as long as she lived, and probably do penance for two or three aeons. As her mother loved to say, you could take the Catholic out of the girl, but you were stuck with the guilt for life.
But today, she just plain didn’t care. Guilt or no guilt, she was thrilled to be here.
Blithely she stepped off the curb—and a dozen horns shrieked at her mistake. She backed up fast, heart pounding. A couple taxi drivers yelled as they passed by—something about connarde and ballot and une tête de linotte. She was pretty sure the insults were aimed at her specific genetic heritage, with a few general references about her being an American scatterbrain, as well.
Okay, okay. So she was suffering jet lag, not at her brightest, and it was going to take her a while—and a map—to figure out how to get around…preferably without getting herself killed.
The small inn where she was staying didn’t seem located in exactly the newest, safest part of town, but the neighborhood still exploded with color.
Three street vendors in a row tried to woo her into taking a bouquet of fresh flowers. The next one sold café—which she fumbled with her brand-new euros to buy, and then sipped as she ambled on. Pedestrians bustled past, clearly on their way to work. All the women looked so savvy—their clothes not necessarily expensive, but even basic styles jazzed up with an interesting scarf tied the right way. A man winked at her. She gawked at an open-air grocery, where the smell of fresh fruits mixed with a luxurious array of fresh flowers.
The grin on her face just kept getting bigger and sillier. She was free. This was Paris. In May. The city of romance. The city of lights.
Her father’s city.
The open door of a bakery drew her inside. A single look at the croissants and baguettes made her realize she was starving to death. Euros were exchanged—too many, she was positive—but the first taste was better than sin, and well worth whatever the baker had cheated her out of. The pastry was buttery, light, a puff of sweetness on her tongue.
Juggling the pastry and the coffee and her bag, she stepped back into the throng of pedestrians…when a stranger suddenly grabbed her arm.
Initially Kelly reacted with more exasperation than fear.
When the mugger tugged, she tugged back. And no, tangling with a thief wasn’t the wisest thing Kelly Nicole Rochard had ever done—particularly when the jerk was a good half foot taller than her five feet five inches and easily outweighed her by fifty pounds. But, as her mother had noted during labor, Kelly was as naturally stubborn as a goat.
Her roll went flying. Coffee splattered everywhere. She was so busy struggling just to keep her balance—and free herself—that she didn’t originally realize why the mugger was yanking so hard on her arm. But then she did. Fast. Her engagement ring did tend to glitter in the sun, which was probably what caught the jerk’s attention. He yanked on her finger so hard she almost cried, but that was just pain.
When he managed to wrestle off the ring, Kelly let out a war cry worthy of a marine. “You give that back, you rotten son of a flea-bitten scumbag!”
She couldn’t finish because the mugger suddenly jerked her around and yanked her tight against his chest. Her courage suffered an instant and complete crash. She forgot the ring. Forgot the dazzling day and the wonder of Paris.
When the bony arm cut off her windpipe, she forgot just about everything.
Faces and storefronts blurred. Sounds muted to a distant cacophony. She’d never tasted fear this acid, this consuming. Her entire consciousness was zoned in on her thief. The man wasn’t huge, but he was still a ton bigger than she was, and he stank of drugs and desperation. His breath blew fetid on her neck, his body reeking of old sweat. He hissed something to her in French.
Four years of high school French didn’t seem to address his particular choice of vocabulary. Still, she was ninety-nine percent certain that she understood him. He seemed