Die for Me

“It’s off the beaten path.” Vincent seemed proud of his knowledge of Paris’s out-of-the-way spots. And I was just happy that he wanted me along to explore them with him.

“I’ll say,” I agreed. “It’s almost completely hidden from the outside. So . . . you’ve been here before. Where do we start?”

We strolled through stores and galleries packed with everything from old posters to ancient Buddha heads. For a city heaving with summer tourists, the shops had surprisingly few visitors, and we wandered through the spaces as if they were our own private treasure troves.

As we browsed through an antique clothes store, Vincent stopped in front of a glass case that held jewelry. “Hey, Kate, maybe you can help me. I need to get a gift for someone.”

“Sure,” I said, peering into the case as the shopkeeper lifted the cover for us. I fingered a pretty silver ring with a cluster of flowers curving outward from its surface.

“What would someone your age like?” he said, touching a vintage jeweled cross pendent.

“My age?” I laughed. “I’m only three years younger than you. Maybe less, depending on your birthday.”

“June,” he said.

“Okay, then two and a half.”

He laughed. “All right, you got me there. It’s just that I’m not sure what she’d like. And her birthday’s coming up.”

I felt like someone had punched me in the stomach. What an idiot I had been: totally misreading his intentions. He obviously just saw me as a friend . . . a friend with good enough taste to help him choose a present for his girlfriend.

“Hmm,” I said, closing my eyes and trying to hide my dismay. I forced them back open and stared at the case. “I guess it depends on her taste. Does she wear more feminine, flowery clothes, or is she more into . . . um . . . jeans and T-shirts like me?”

“Definitely not flowery,” he said, stifling a laugh.

“Well, I think this is really pretty,” I said, pointing to a leather cord with a single teardrop-shaped silver pendant hanging from it. My voice wavered as I tried, unsuccessfully, to swallow the lump in my throat.

Vincent leaned closer to the piece. “I think you’re right. It’s perfect. You’re a genius, Kate.” He lifted the necklace from the case and handed it to the shopkeeper.

“I’m just going to wait for you outside,” I said, and left as he fished through his pockets for his wallet.

Get a grip, I chided myself. It had seemed too good to be true, and it had been. He was only a really friendly guy. Who said I was cute. But who must just like to hang out with cute girls while buying vintage jewelry for his girlfriend. I wonder what she looks like. My hands were clenched so tightly that my fingernails dug little trenches into my palms. The pain felt good. It relieved some of the stinging in my chest.

Vincent came out of the shop, tucking a little envelope into his jeans pocket as he closed the door behind him. Seeing my face, he came to an abrupt stop. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Nothing,” I said, shaking my head. “I just needed some air.”

“No,” he insisted. “Something’s bothering you.”

I shook my head resolutely.

“Okay, Kate,” he said, linking his arm through mine. “I won’t force you to talk.” The pressure of his arm against my own filled me with warmth, but I mentally pushed it away. I was so used to self-protection by now that it was almost a reflex.

We wandered out of that courtyard and into another, walking in silence for a few minutes as we paused to look into shop windows. “So,” I said finally. I knew I shouldn’t say it, but I couldn’t help myself. “Who’s your girlfriend?”

“Sorry?” he asked.

“Your girlfriend. Who you bought the necklace for.”

He stopped and faced me. “Kate, the necklace is for a friend . . . who happens to be a girl. A very good friend.” He sounded uncomfortable. I wondered for a second if it was the truth, then decided to give him the benefit of the doubt.

Vincent studied my face. “You thought I was asking you to help me choose a present for my girlfriend? And that made you feel . . .” From the smile stretching across his lips I could tell he was about to say something that would embarrass me, so I began walking away.

“Wait, Kate!” he said, catching up to me and lacing his arm back through mine. “I’m sorry.”

I decided to play nonchalant about it. “You told me this wasn’t a formal date when you invited me to come. Why should I care if you have a girlfriend?”

“Absolutely,” he said, giving me a fake-serious look. “Yeah, you and I are just friends . . . out for a friendly walk. Nothing more, nothing less.”

“Exactly!” I agreed, my heart giving a little painful twist.

He broke into a large grin and, leaning over, kissed me on the cheek. “Kate,” he whispered, “you are way too gullible.”

Chapter Seven

I WAS ABLE TO BASK IN THE MEANING OF HIS words for exactly three seconds before he put a firm arm around my shoulders and began steering me toward an exit. “What—” I began, but his steely expression quieted me and I followed his lead—walking steadily, but not quite ru

Once on the street, he headed back toward the subway. “Where are we going?” I asked, breathless from the brisk pace.

“I saw someone I didn’t want to run into.” He slipped his cell phone from his pocket and speed-dialed a number. Getting no response, he hung up and tried another.

“Do you mind telling me what’s going on?” I asked, confused by his sudden personality change. In an instant Prince Charming had morphed into Secret Agent Guy.

“We have to find Jules,” Vincent said, talking more to himself than to me. “His painting studio’s right around the corner.”

I stopped, and since he had ahold of my arm, I pulled him backward. “Who are we ru

It took a lot of effort for Vincent to compose himself. “Kate. Please let me explain later. It’s really important that we find one of my . . . friends.”

The wonderful feeling from five minutes ago had disappeared. Now I felt like telling him to go ahead without me. But remembering what my days had consisted of lately, I decided to throw caution (and boredom) to the wind and follow him.

He led me to an apartment building that practically oozed with old-Paris charm next to the Église Saint-Paul. We climbed a tightly winding wood staircase to the second-floor landing. Vincent knocked once before pushing the door open.

The studio’s walls were hung with paintings all the way up to the high ceiling. Reclining nudes hung alongside geometric-looking townscapes. The visual overload of color and form was as overwhelming as the strong smell of paint thi

In the far corner of the room a stu

Vincent’s friend, Jules, walked out of a tiny bathroom just beyond the couch. Wiping some dripping paintbrushes on a rag, he said without looking up, “Vince, man. Just getting started with Valerie here. Did you get Jean-Baptiste’s call?”

“Jules, we have to talk,” Vincent said with a sense of urgency that made Jules jerk his head up. He looked at me in surprise and then, seeing Vincent’s face, his own darkened. “What’s going on?”

Vincent cleared his throat, staring expressionlessly at Jules. He pronounced his words with care. “Kate and I were walking around the Village Saint-Paul and I saw someone there.”

The code word meant something to Jules. His eyes narrowed. “Outside,” he said, looking sideways at me, and strode out the door.