Moonlight in Paris - Pamela Hearon Mills & Boon Cherish

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can’t even bear that thought.” Josh chuckled. “How’s Dylan doing?”

      “Growing too fast for me to keep him in jeans. We’ve resorted to rolled cuffs and belts.”

      “Well, let’s hope cuffs, belts and, of course, the deed never go out of style.”

      “I hear you,” Garrett agreed. “And to what do I owe the pleasure of this call, Monsieur Essex? Especially in the middle of your work day.”

      “I have a friend—a colleague—who’s wanting to come to Paris in a couple of weeks and plans to stay a month. Does your building have any short-term rentals?”

      Garrett’s eyes cut to the flat across the way, and then wandered on around the terrace to the window boxes devoid of flowers—a dead giveaway in spring and summer that spaces were empty. “Yeah, probably. Hold on.” He fished his wallet out of his back pocket and thumbed through the cards until he found the one he wanted. “You have a pen handy?”

      “I’m just waiting on you.”

      “Here’s the number to call.” Garrett read it off slowly. “That’s the main office of the company that owns my building. They’ll have listings of what’s available.”

      “Got it. Thanks.”

      “Will we be seeing you this summer?” For the past three years, Josh had brought groups of his students for ten-day tours of the City of Lights. The visits had certainly been the highlight of the summer for Garrett, who tried to deny to himself how much he missed the U.S.

      Josh’s sigh was fraught with frustration. “I don’t have too many interested, and a couple who were had to drop out. June 20 is the cutoff, and I’m still not sure.”

      Garrett didn’t know who was more disappointed, he or Josh. “That’s too bad.”

      “Yeah, well, it’s the damn economy. How about you? You and Dylan planning a trip stateside any time soon?”

      Garrett had been thinking this might be the year to go home for Christmas, but he was keeping mum on it in case he backed out. “Economy here’s just as bad. I might have to hock Dylan to buy tickets.”

      Dylan perked up at the mention of his name, but not enough to tear his concentration away from his task. The ball he was bouncing off the wall shot back at him. He missed it, but not for lack of trying. Garrett took that as a sure sign his boy was meant for the big leagues, and the thought made him smile.

      The familiar jangle of a school bell reverberated in the background. “Gotta go, man.” Garrett could tell his friend was on the move. “It’s the last week of school, and I’m showing The Diving Bell and the Butterfly to my third-year students.”

      “Great movie.” Garrett motioned a thumbs-up to Dylan, who’d made a successful catch. “I hope you get enough students to make your group, so we’ll get to see you.”

      “Me, too.” The background sounds heightened as lockers slamming joined the mix. “And thanks for the number. Maybe I’ll see you in a couple of months.”

      “We’ll look forward to it. See you, man.”

      “Later, dude.”

      The call ended before Garrett realized he hadn’t asked who needed a flat for a month—hadn’t even asked if the interested party was male or female. Man, he was slipping.

      While he liked the idea of having someone from close to home in the building, he hoped whoever it was wasn’t interested in the flat across from them. He and Dylan would hate to give up their private recreation area. Would hate to give up their privacy, in general.

      After the years of chaos with Angela, this terrace had become his and Dylan’s oasis of tranquility. Beyond the walls was one of the most exciting cities in the world, but here was quiet space.

      He didn’t want anything to interfere with that.

      Not even for a month.

      CHAPTER THREE

      TARA BREATHED A RELIEVED sigh as the key turned in the lock. Getting lost twice in the maze of dark, windowless corridors had her convinced she’d entered some kind of Parisian warp zone and might never find the flat she’d rented. The lights in the hallways were on a timer, and didn’t stay on very long. Just finding the switches was like being on a treasure hunt...blindfolded...with no map.

      Elbowing the door open, she rolled the duffel into the small foyer, dropping it and her shoulder bag as she took in her new surroundings.

      “Well...thank you, Josh...and whomever you got that number from.” Tara tried to recall the name—some college friend of Josh’s. It didn’t matter. What did matter was that this place, with its warm wood floors and modern furniture, was cheery and chic and perfect for a month’s stay. She would have to pick out a nice thank-you gift for the French teacher.

      A quick tour found the rest of the apartment much to her liking, too. The bathroom seemed antiquated with its pull-chain to flush the toilet, but the living room and the bedroom both looked out on a terrace rimmed with ivy-covered lattice work and flower pots brimming with color.

      A notebook lay prominently on the dining table. Lettering across its front spelled out the word tenant in several languages. She flipped the book open to the section labeled English. Coming to Paris had been such a quick decision that there’d been no time to study the French language in any depth. She’d hoped her two years of high school and college Spanish would help, but it hadn’t yet.

      Everyone she’d been in contact with so far had spoken at least a little English, except for Madame LeClerc at the front desk. Hand gestures had been the language that had landed Tara the key to the flat. There were a few other gestures she’d wanted to use with the awful woman, but she would have hated to get kicked out before she got moved in.

      Inside the notebook, Tara found a note of welcome, which she scanned for important information. “Oven temperature displayed in Celsius...shutters on a timer, which can be reset to your schedule...take key when you leave as the door locks automatically...terrace shared by one other flat...call if you are in need of any assistance.”

      The words blurred on the page. The excitement of being in Paris for the first time and facing the opportunity to find her birth father was fast losing ground to jet lag. What she needed was a breath of fresh air, and with rain imminent, she’d better make it quick.

      She unlatched the sliding door and stepped outside into the heat of the sultry morning, careful to close the door behind her so as to not allow any of the precious air conditioning to escape.

      Latticework placed strategically around the large concrete patio gave some definition to what area belonged with each of the flats. Her section was a bit smaller than the other, but still quite large.

      The sliding door to the other flat directly across from hers was open as were many of the windows of other flats. Vague sounds of morning with families and children drifted through.

      Around the corner from her door and several yards away, a railing hung with flowerboxes added an explosion of color to the gray day. Below lay a courtyard with a lovely formal garden and a huge wooden door that looked as if it was left over from the Middle Ages.

      She heard a shout, and a boy who looked to be eight or nine ran through the courtyard below, trying to make it to the wooden door ahead of something—or someone. At that point, the first drop of rain hit the top of her head.

      Maybe the boy was trying to beat the impending downpour?

      But then a second shout filtered up toward her, and two more boys appeared, larger and older than the first, who was frantically working to open the massive door.

      One of the older boys pounced on the child from behind, pinning his arms behind his back while the third boy approached menacingly.

      Tara’s schoolteacher persona pushed to the forefront. She had to do something, but if she

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