LITMIR.BIZ

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romantic river cruise. Why not cap that experience with an equally touristy romantic gesture?

      “Do you see these locks?” she asked as she and Dev crossed the street and approached the iron bridge.

      “Hard to miss ’em,” he drawled, eyeing the almost solid wall of brass obscuring the bridge’s waist-high grillwork. “What’s the story here?”

      “I’m told it’s a recent fad that’s popping up on all the bridges of Paris. People ascribe wishes or dreams to locks and fasten them to the bridge, then throw the key in the river.”

      Dev stooped to examine some of the colorful ribbons, charms and printed messages dangling from various locks. “Here’s a good one. This couple from Dallas wish their kids great joy, but don’t plan to produce any additional offspring. Evidently seven are enough.”

      “Good grief! Seven would be enough for me, too.”

      “Really?”

      He straightened and leaned a hip against the rail. The breeze ruffled his black hair and tugged at the collar of his camel-hair sport coat.

      “I guess that’s one of those little idiosyncrasies we should find out about each other, almost as important as whether we prefer dogs or cats. How many kids do you want, Sarah?”

      “I don’t know.” She trailed a finger over the oblong hasp of a bicycle lock. “Two, at least, although I wouldn’t mind three or even four.”

      As impulsive and thoughtless as Gina could be at times, Sarah couldn’t imagine growing up without the joy of her bubbly laugh and warm, generous personality.

      “How about you?” she asked Dev. “How many offspring would you like to produce?”

      “Well, my sisters contend that the number of kids their husbands want is inversely proportional to how many stinky diapers they had to change. I figure I can manage a couple of rounds of diapers. Three or maybe even four if I get the hang of it.”

      He nodded to the entrepreneur perched on his overturned crate at the far end of the bridge. The man’s pegboard full of locks gleamed dully in the afternoon sun.

      “What do you think? Should we add a wish that we survive stinky diapers to the rest of these hopes and dreams?”

      Still a little embarrassed by her descent into sappy sentimentality, Sarah nodded. She waited on the bridge while Dev purchased a hefty lock. Together they scouted for an open spot. She found one two-thirds of the way across the bridge, but Dev hesitated before attaching his purchase.

      “We need to make it more personal.” Frowning, he eyed the bright ribbons and charms dangling from so many of the other locks. “We need a token or something to scribble on.”

      He patted the pockets of his sport coat and came up with the ticket stubs from their lunch cruise. “How about one of these?”

      “That works. The cruise gave me a view of Paris I’d never seen before. I’m glad I got to share it with you, Dev.”

      Busy scribbling on the back of a ticket, he merely nodded. Sarah was a little surprised by his offhanded acceptance of her tribute until she read what he’d written.

      To our two or three or four or more kids,

      we promise you one cruise each on the Seine.

      “And I thought I was being mushy and sentimental,” she said, laughing.

      “Mushy and sentimental is what phase two is all about.” Unperturbed, he punched the hasp through the ticket stub. “Here, you attach it.”

      When the lock clicked into place, Sarah knew she’d always remember this moment. Rising up on tiptoe, she slid her arms around Dev’s neck.

      * * *

      She’d remember the kiss, too. Particularly when Dev valiantly stuck to their renegotiated agreement later that evening.

      After their monster lunch, they opted for supper at a pizzeria close to the Hôtel Verneuil. One glass of red wine and two mushroom-and-garlic slices later, they walked back to the hotel through a gray, soupy fog. Monsieur LeBon had gone off duty, but the receptionist on the desk relayed his shock over the news of the attack on Lady Sarah and his profound regret that she had suffered such an indignity while in Paris.

      Sarah smiled her thanks and made a mental note to speak to the manager personally tomorrow. Once on her floor, she slid the key card into her room lock and slanted Dev a questioning look.

      “Do you want to come in for a drink?”

      “A man can only endure so much torture.” His expression rueful, he traced a knuckle lightly over the bruise she’d already forgotten. “Unless you’re ready to initiate phase three, we’d better call it a night.”

      She was ready. More than ready. But the companionship she and Dev had shared after leaving Inspector Delacroix’s office had delivered as much punch as the hours they’d spent tangled up in the sheets. A different kind of punch, admittedly. Emotional rather than physical, but every bit as potent.

      Although she knew she’d regret it the moment she closed the door, Sarah nodded. “Let’s give phase two a little more time.”

      * * *

      She was right. She did regret it. But she decided the additional hours she spent curled up on the sofa watching very boring TV were appropriate punishment for being so stupid. She loved Dev. He obviously loved her. Why couldn’t she just trust her instincts and...

      The buzz of her cell phone cut into her disgusted thoughts. She reached for the instrument, half hoping it was Alexis trying to reach her again. Sarah was in the mood to really, really unload on her ex-boss. When her sister’s picture flashed up on the screen, she almost dropped the phone in her excitement and relief.

      “Gina! Where are you?”

      “Lucerne. I...I waited until morning in New York to call you but...”

      “I’m not in New York. I’m in Paris, as you would know if you’d bothered to answer any of my calls.”

      “Thank God!”

      The moaned exclamation startled her, but not as much as the sobs her sister suddenly broke into. Sarah lurched upright on the sofa, the angry tirade she’d intended to deliver instantly forgotten.

      “What’s wrong? Gina! What’s happened?”

      A dozen different disasters flooded into her mind. Gina had taken a tumble on the ski slopes. Broken a leg or an arm. Or her neck. She could be paralyzed. Breathing by machine.

      “Are you hurt?” she demanded, fear icing her heart. “Gina, are you in the hospital?”

      “Nooo.”

      The low wail left her limp with relief. In almost the next heartbeat, panic once again fluttered like a trapped bird inside her chest. She could count on the fingers of one hand the times she’d heard her always-upbeat, always-sunny sister cry.

      “Sweetie, talk to me. Tell me what’s wrong.”

      “I can’t. Not...not over the phone. Please come, Sarah. Please! I need you.”

      It didn’t even occur to her to say no. “I’ll catch the next flight to Lucerne. Tell me where you’re staying.”

      “The Rebstock.”

      “The hotel Grandmama took us to the summer you turned fourteen?”

      That set off another bout of noisy, hiccuping sobs. “Don’t...don’t tell Grandmama about this.”

      About what? Somehow, Sarah choked back the shout and offered a soothing promise.

      “I won’t. Just keep your phone on, Gina. I’ll call you as soon as I know when I can get there.”

      She cut the connection, switched to the phone’s internet

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