Safe in His Arms by Vicki Lewis Thompson Page B

Texan as he carried on a conversation without stumbling. Prior to this trip she’d enrolled in an online course and had learned enough to find a bathroom and order a meal. But this guy was fluent, which was her good luck.
    If she was super lucky, he had an international plan and she’d be able to borrow his phone to call Val, who could help her straighten things out with the credit card companies. Maybe it was cheeky to ask, but she was in desperate circumstances.
    Although he was dressed casually, his jacket looked expensive and his watch might even be a real Rolex. Judging from his ease with the language, he could be a businessman who traveled to Paris regularly. If so, he wouldn’t mind loaning her his phone for two minutes.
    He disconnected the call and tucked the phone inside his jacket. “They’re sending someone over, so we need to stay put.” He gestured toward a stone bench a few feet away. “Let’s sit a spell.” He was once again her guy from Texas.
    “Sounds good.” She wouldn’t mind sitting down. She felt a little shaky. “I’m afraid I’ve ruined your plans for this morning.”
    “No, ma’am, you certainly haven’t.” He waited until she sat down before joining her on the bench. “You’re the one with ruined plans. When did you get here?”
    “This morning.”
    He swore softly under his breath. “I figured that might be the situation when I saw you eyeballing Notre Dame as if you’d never seen it before.”
    “I hadn’t, except in pictures.” Then she realized the significance of his statement. He’d noticed her before the mugging. “Did I stick out that much?”
    He smiled. “Let’s just say I pegged you as an American.”
    “How?” She liked the way he’d managed to smile without appearing to patronize her. And he had a great smile, one that made the corners of his eyes crinkle just enough to add character. As the shock of being mugged wore off, she registered the fact that her rescuer was drop-dead gorgeous.
    “White gym shoes, for one thing. French women don’t usually wear gym shoes unless they’re working up a sweat. But the whole getup—the jeans, the hoodie, the backpack—told me you were from the States, probably a new arrival.”
    She grimaced. “I’ll bet the muggers figured that out, too.”
    “They might have.” He held out his hand. “I’m Drew Eldridge, by the way.”
    Eldridge.
She’d heard that name, and she thought it might have been from Astrid, whose family was rich. Did that mean her Texan was wearing a real Rolex? His handshake was warm, firm, and gave her goose bumps. She was really sorry when the handshake was over. “I’m Melanie Shaw.”
    “Pleased to meet you, Miss Melanie. I wish it had been under different circumstances.”
    “Me, too.” If he was related to the Eldridge family Astrid knew, Melanie wouldn’t have been likely to meet him under any circumstances, unless she was with Astrid, who moved in those circles. “Are you from Dallas?”
    “Yes, ma’am.”
    “Then you might know a friend of mine, Astrid Lindberg.”
    “Astrid Lindberg.” He chuckled. “I haven’t seen her in a coon’s age. We were at the same equestrian camp one summer, although she was with the younger kids. Some old horse tried to run off with her and I was handy. I was worried she’d swear off riding, but she didn’t.”
    “She sure didn’t.” Melanie noticed that although Drew had come to Astrid’s rescue, he’d downplayed his role by saying he was
handy.
“She’s a large animal vet, now.”
    “Is she? That’s great.”
    “So are you here on business?” Melanie imagined multi-national deals involving millions. From what she could recall, the Eldridge family was loaded.
    “Some business. Some pleasure.”
    “Ah.” So the multi-national deal-making was followed by glittering parties and sophisticated French women who never wore gym shoes with their regular clothes. Yet he’d interrupted all that to help a stranger from home.