The Paris Key by Juliet Blackwell Page A

“Thank you so much for the coffee.”
    â€œOkay, okay!” Philippe responded. “Then you will open this man’s door, and come to my house?”
    She took another deep breath and then released it slowly, starting to feel the effects of the medicine dulling the edges of the pain.
    â€œMonsieur D’Artavel—,” she began, but he waved a hand in the air.
    â€œPhilippe. Please! When a beautiful young woman calls me ‘Philippe’ it makes me feel like a man,
n’est-ce pas
?” He seemed to address this last to Killian, who smiled and nodded.
    â€œPhilippe, then,” Genevieve said. “I will look through my uncle’s things and see what I can find. But, just to be clear: I practice sometimes, just for fun, but I haven’t really worked with locks since I used to follow my uncle around as a kid. Besides, I just arrived from California a few hours ago. Could you give me a few days to try to find your information and settle in?”
    â€œOf course. You are a good girl, Genevieve. Dave always says this. I will wait, and you will come in a few days, okay?” He held out an old-fashioned calling card, the kind with his name and address and phone number.
    â€œVicomte?”
she asked, reading the title before his name.
    Philippe laughed and waved his hand in the air. “Just a little bit royal, perhaps not enough even to have my head off in the Revolution! I only include that so the people will treat me well at the
boulangerie
.” He winked. “My house, she is not far, only two miles. Dave, always he walked.”
    â€œToday is Sunday, right?”
    He nodded.
    â€œAll right, let me see what I can find out from my uncle’s papers, and I will come on Wednesday if I find the file, the
dossier
.
Mercredi.
”
    â€œCome on
mercredi
even if you don’t find the
dossier
. We will have lunch.”
    â€œLunch isn’t necessary, thank you,” Genevieve said, tucking her hair behind her ear, wondering if she looked as unkempt as she feared. She still felt headachy, and awkward in front of these two men. All she really wanted right now was to take a shower, to be left alone. “I’ll just come and finish the locks, if I can.”
    â€œI have many doors at my house,” said Philippe, waggling a finger. “You will see. We will need to eat lunch first.”
    â€œThere’s really no need,” Genevieve continued. “I—”
    A smiling Killian interrupted: “I think you’re going to have to give up on this one, Genevieve. The French take invitations to lunch seriously.”
    Genevieve blew out a breath. She had dreamed of a new life as a locksmith in Paris, so why was she pulling back now? “All right, Philippe, thank you. I will see you for lunch on Wednesday.”
    â€œOkay?”
    â€œOkay.”
    â€œOkay!” Another round of kisses, and he tottered off.
    Killian raised one eyebrow. “You’re willing to give my door a go?”
    Genevieve nodded, grabbed her uncle’s tool bag—an old black leather satchel—and followed Killian across the street.

Chapter Ten

    1997
    T he morning after Uncle Dave picked up Genevieve from the airport at Roissy, she awoke bleary-eyed and out of sorts. Catharine was reading in bed, big ugly glasses perched on her nose.
    When she saw Genevieve stir, she yelled out:
“Elle est prête!”
    Then, in a softer voice, she asked, “
As-tu bien dormi?
Did you sleep well?”
    Tante Pasquale hustled in then, a tray in her hands, asking the same thing.
    Genevieve nodded, mute. She had never been a morning person; even as a baby, her mother used to say, she woke up crying and combative, unhappy to release the bonds of sleep, to start her day. Making her mother miserable from day one, she supposed.
    Pasquale set the tray on a little bedside table. There was a pot of hot chocolate; a cup and saucer; and a plate holding a baguette, a
pain