“Colin?”
Something about the deep voice was familiar. Colin Lambert looked up from his sketch pad, squinting at the tall silhouette blocking the blanched Parisian sun. It was a golden autumn afternoon and the last of the tourists were crowding the cafés and narrow streets of the “village” of Montmartre. The background babble of French voices, the comfortable scents of warm stone and auto exhaust and Gauloises and something good cooking–always something good cooking in Paris–and the old world colors: the reds of street signs and awnings and the greens of ivy and window shutters and the yellow of the turning leaves and fruit in the grocer stands — all of it faded away as Colin gazed up, frowning a little.
“It is Colin, isn’t it?”
Gradually the black bulk resolved itself into broad shoulders, lean hips, black hair and gray eyes. Colin blinked but the mirage didn’t vanish, in fact it smiled–an easy, rueful flash of white. “You probably don’t remember me.”
“Thomas?”
Not remember Thomas Sullivan? Did anyone forget their first love?
Colin was on his feet, sketch pad tossed away, chair scraping back on cement. He moved to hug Thomas and Thomas grabbed him back in a rough, brief hug, laughing. They were both laughing–and then self–consciousness kicked in. Colin recalled that he wasn’t seventeen anymore, and that Thomas wasn’t–
And never had been.
He stepped back, Thomas let him go, saying, “I can’t believe how long it’s been. You look…” Words seemed to fail him.
Colin knew how he looked. He looked grown up. Ten years was pretty much a lifetime in puppy years, and he had been such a puppy back when Thomas knew him.
Knew him? Back when Thomas had been his bodyguard.
“How are you? Are things going right for you?” There it was: The Look. That keen, searching gaze–wow, Thomas’s eyes really were gray. Not just something Colin had imagined or remembered incorrectly.
Gray eyes. Like cobbled streets after rain or smoke or November skies.
And Thomas’s smile conveyed a certain, er, je ne sais quoi as they said over here. A friendly understanding. Like Thomas had been there, done that, and made no judgments–but nothing surprised him anymore either. It was almost weird how little he’d changed. A few faint lines around his eyes, a little touch of silver at his temple. What was he now? Forty–something?
Every woman in the café was looking at him. A lot of les hommes as well.
“I’m good. I’m great,” Colin answered.
“Yeah?”
And Thomas was still studying him. Measuring the boy against the man? Or just wondering about what scars the bad times had left?
Colin said firmly, “Yeah. I’m here painting.”
“Painting?” Thomas looked down at the sketch pad as though he’d only noticed it.
“Well, sketching just now, but yeah. I’m painting. What are you doing here?”
“You’re a student?”
“No. I’m a… doing this.” He nodded at the sketch pad, then reached down to flap the cover over the rough sketch of a steep flight of steps. It still sounded so… not exactly pretentious–or not only pretentious–but unlucky to say I’m a painter.
Thomas’s smile widened. “Good for you. And you’re making a living at it? At your painting?”
“Er… define making a living.” Colin laughed, and Thomas laughed too, but his gaze continued to assess and evaluate. Well, old habits probably died hard. Especially for a guy in Thomas’s line of work.
“What are you doing in Paris?” Colin asked again.
“The usual. A job.”
Well, whoever the client was, they were lucky to have Thomas on their side. Still, Colin preferred not to think about Thomas’s job–preferred not to remember that time in his own life. “How long are you here for?”
“Tonight. Just tonight.”
Colin was aware of an unexpectedly sharp jab of disappointment. “Oh. Right.”
They continued to stare at each other and then Thomas looked around at the small, crowded tables. “Do you have time for a quick drink?”
“I’d like that, yes.”
They had wine, of course. Beaujolais Nouveau. The waitress brought it out, chilled, with two fluted glasses, perfumed aromas of plums and blackberries wafting into the bright cold autumn air. And for the space of a glass of wine, they could have been alone in the world.
