LITMIR.BIZ

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      Jasmine woke up to the sound of her own groans. She lay there for a few minutes, listening to the pounding cymbals inside her head, each clash punctuated with a sharp pain that lanced the side of her skull and reverberated through her temples down to her jaw.

      Random images from the last few days flashed through her brain. Her wedding had been cancelled, she’d boarded a plane to Paris...

      Jasmine’s stomach heaved dryly as she recalled nearly getting kicked off the plane. But she hadn’t, had she? She’d made it to Paris, right?

      Then what...?

      Hmm...? Why was it so hard to remember? Was she hungover? She sat up and her head swam like she was wearing glasses with the wrong prescription. Wait a second, she didn’t wear glasses, did she?

      She touched her face. No glasses. Then Jasmine rubbed her eyes, and when her vision cleared, she took in her surroundings. She didn’t recognize a thing.

      Where the hell was she?

      “Ah, our patient is awake.”

      Jasmine turned her head—too quickly—causing her to squeeze her lids shut in pain. When she opened her eyes, she saw a man she’d never seen before. He was tall and thin, wearing a tailored shirt and pants. His face was all angles with sunken eyes and cheeks that made his cheekbones prominent. He had close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair and smiled kindly.

      “Who are you?”

      “My name is Hugo Caron. I am a doctor.” The man spoke English slowly, with a French accent.

      “Where am I?”

      “You are in a private residence in Paris.”

      “In Paris?”

      “Yes. You have bumped your head and I believe you have sustained a concussion. I need to perform some tests to see how serious it is.”

      When the man stepped to the side of the bed, Jasmine realized there was someone else in the room. Another man who stood in the shadows.

      “Who’s that?” she asked, pointing.

      The doctor turned, as if he also hadn’t realized there was someone there. “That is...” he began slowly, “the man who found you. You were unconscious on the street. He brought you here and called me.”

      “Oh.”

      Why was everything so foggy? Why did none of this make sense? What had happened to her once she’d arrived in Paris?

      “Oh!” She put her hand to her mouth, a snippet of a memory returning.

      Have yourself a sex-venture. It was Ashley’s voice in her head.

      Slowly this time, Jazz took in her surroundings. The queen-sized bed with the dark sheets and comforter. A masculine choice. The room, a foil to the suite at the hotel—oh, wait, she remembered the hotel! It was airy and light and decorated with antiques—this room was painted taupe and had modern furnishings.

      “I’m going to do some tests and then ask you some questions, okay?”

      Jazz nodded but stopped herself when the motion caused instant nausea. “Okay,” she whispered.

      The doctor shone a light in each of her eyes and then asked her to follow his finger as he moved it from side to side in front of her face. He checked her ears with a scope, and her hearing by speaking quietly into each one. With gentle fingers, he touched a tender spot on the side of her head.

      “Ouch.”

      “I’m sorry.” He tilted her head up and to the side to get a better look at whatever injury she’d sustained and he hmmed.

      “Okay. Straighten your arm out to the side,” the doctor instructed. “Now I’m going to push down, try to resist. Good.” He changed his grip so that he held the underside of her arm and asked her to push down against his hold and then he did the same on the other side.

      Following that, he helped her to stand and asked her to balance on one leg and then the other, and each time he instructed her to touch her finger to her nose while balancing on one foot. There were some more balance and coordination tests before he helped her back onto the bed. He pulled up a chair right beside it and leaned forward.

      “I’m going to ask you some questions, okay? You might not know the answers to some but don’t worry. It’s normal to experience some short-term memory loss after a head injury.”

      “Okay.” Jasmine touched the side of her head gingerly.

      The doctor proceeded to ask her full name, where she lived, what she did for a living. All of those were easy to answer. She may have fibbed that she was still employed.

      “How long have you been in Paris?”

      “Just a day. I think. What day is it? The twenty-fifth?”

      “Yes, June twenty-fifth. Good. Where are you staying in Paris?”

      “Um...a hotel. It’s very pretty, very posh.”

      “Do you remember the name?”

      “Ahh...l’hotel...d’something?” Jasmine bit her lip. “I can’t remember, but it’s near the Eiffel Tower.”

      The doctor raised a single brow. “I see. So, what brought you to Paris?”

      “It’s my honeymoon.”

      The man straightened. “And where is your husband, madame?”

      “My husband?” Jasmine put a hand to her forehead. “I’m sorry. No. It’s not my honeymoon.” She shook her head and then wished she hadn’t. “I’m not married. I just always wanted to come to Paris on my honeymoon.” The words came out in a flurry.

      “So, are you here with anyone?”

      “Um...no. Just me. By myself.” Jasmine was vaguely aware of the doctor getting up and going to speak quietly to the man who had been observing from the corner of the room.

      “What happened to me?” Jasmine asked.

      The doctor didn’t answer as the conversation between the two men increased in volume. Were they arguing? Over what? Surely not her?

      “Excuse me?” She waved. “Hello?”

      Still the men did not respond. The doctor was gesturing at her and speaking rapidly in French. The other man made some guttural remarks and then threw his hands in the air.

      “Hey,” Jasmine called. “Can someone please tell me what’s going on?”

      “Oui, bien sûr.” The doctor turned toward her. “We were just discussing your situation. You have a mild concussion. It’s nothing to worry about. However, you must be observed for twenty-four hours.” He glanced back at the man in the corner. “I can take you to the hospital—but you have no passport.”

      “Oh, yes I do,” Jasmine said. “It’s in my bag.”

      “And where is your bag, mademoiselle?”

      “It’s—” She bit her lip. Blinked. “Isn’t it here?”

      The doctor turned to speak quietly to the other man who answered quickly. “Non. You have nothing here except for what you are wearing.”

      “Really?” Where the hell was her bag? It would have everything. Her phone, her hotel key, her ID, Parker’s credit cards!

      Dammit!

      “So,” Jasmine said slowly, “what will happen to me if I go to the hospital?”

      “You will be asked to show identification and because you don’t have any, they will have to contact the embassy and your next of kin.”

      Jasmine held up her hand. “No.” The last thing she needed was to have to contact her parents, or worse, Parker, and ask

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