Chapter 25
“Well,” I announce as we stand on the Le Havre dock watching our floating home disappear into the distance like a romantic tragedy with excellent scenery. “This is what happens when you prioritize French kissing over French departure schedules.”
“I’ll get us back to the ship,” Ransom declares, having navigated more challenging waters than missing cruise connections, “but first—a night in Paris.”
“A night in Paris?” I stare at him like he’s just suggested we take up professional juggling. “Ransom, there’s a killer loose on that ship. Our friends are sailing toward Valentine’s Day with a murderer who’s probably planning their grand finale.”
“And we’ll catch up with them tomorrow,” he says, pulling out his phone with ease.
He’s made impossible arrangements before.
“I’ve got contacts who can get us a helicopter to the ship’s next position.
But tonight?” He gestures in the direction of the glittering city we just left.
“Tonight, we’re headed back to the most romantic city in the world. ”
“You’re serious.”
“Dead serious. When’s the next time we’ll have Paris to ourselves?”
Two hours later, we’re standing beneath the Eiffel Tower once again as it erupts into a million dazzling lights, the entire structure sparkling as if someone’s wrapped the monument in liquid diamonds and set it ablaze with romance.
And I’ve got to say, I’d miss a thousand cruise ships to witness this moment.
“Good grief,” I breathe. “It’s like someone turned the volume up on beauty itself.”
“Dance with me,” Ransom says as a street performer’s saxophone weaves through the evening air with notes smooth as aged wine.
“Here? In front of everyone?”
His lips brush over mine. “Especially in front of everyone.”
He pulls me into his arms for an impromptu waltz right here on the cobblestones, and suddenly we’re starring in our own romantic movie while other tourists become our audience as we spin through melodies that seem written specifically for this moment—for us.
“This is insane.” I laugh, breathless from dancing and the sheer audacity of it all.
“The best things usually are,” he replies, dipping me dramatically as the tower sparkles overhead.
Dinner unfolds at a restaurant so exclusive I’m pretty sure reservations require genealogical proof of sophistication.
“How did you get us a table here?” I ask as we’re seated beside windows overlooking the sparkling Seine.
“I have my ways.” Ransom tips his head as he says it. “Former FBI connections come in handy for more than just catching criminals.”
We feast on steak au poivre—perfectly seared beef with a peppercorn crust that cracks under your fork, swimming in cognac cream sauce that I want to drink straight from the plate.
The frites are crispy outside, fluffy inside, and disappear faster than Ransom can steal them.
Then the chocolate soufflé arrives still puffing from the oven, and when we break it open, molten chocolate flows out like the most beautiful disaster ever.
“This is incredible,” I murmur around a bite of chocolatey goodness.
“You’re incredible.” Ransom doesn’t hesitate with his words, his eyes never leaving my face. “And I mean that.”
We order more dessert just because we can. Soufflé au Grand Marnier that rises like edible clouds, tarte tatin with caramelized apples, and the crème br?lée arrives with that perfect sugar crust you get to crack like delicious glass, revealing vanilla custard so smooth it should be illegal.
“I can’t eat another bite,” I protest as profiteroles au chocolat arrive stacked like sweet architectural marvels.
“Me either, but that’s what we said three desserts ago,” Ransom points out, already signaling for more champagne.
The hotel room he procures overlooks all of Paris spread below us like a living jewelry box, the Eiffel Tower commanding center stage in our floor-to-ceiling windows.
“Ransom,” I gasp, taking in the suite that whispers luxury in silk curtains and marble bathrooms, “this must cost a fortune.”
“Some things are worth any price,” he says, pulling me into his arms as the City of Light glitters beyond our windows. “Like making sure my wife knows exactly how much I love her.”
He pulls out his phone and quickly types a message. “I should thank the man responsible for this.”
“Are you talking about Wes?” A little laugh escapes me. “What in the world are you saying?” I ask, peering over his shoulder.
Thanks for leaving us behind, Captain. Best mistake you ever made.
His phone buzzes almost immediately with Wes’s reply.
Some things are more important than departure schedules. You’re welcome. Try not to miss tomorrow’s pickup, too.
“Some people always have to have the last word.” Ransom chuckles, tossing his phone aside.
“It’s part of his charm,” I agree, though I’m already being distracted by the way the Parisian lights reflect in my husband’s eyes to think about anyone else.
What follows involves champagne that never stops flowing, rose petals that appear like magic, and hours of rediscovering exactly why we fell in love in the first place.
But even as we lose ourselves in each other’s arms with Paris sparkling beyond our windows, I can’t shake one haunting thought.
While we’re creating memories that will last a lifetime, somewhere on the dark Atlantic, a killer continues to stalk the decks of the Emerald Queen, and our friends are sailing into Valentine’s Day completely unaware that death might be planning its own romantic finale.