Where Do I Go? (2 page)

“So what? If it rains this afternoon, we can go to a movie at the theater over there.” Gabby pulled the straw out with her teeth and pointed the dripping end at the domed building that said
Cinema Gaumont.

“Gosh!” Linda rolled her eyes. “Do you always have to be so cheerful?”

Gabby giggled. “Yes. And I'd be even happier if Damien, the jerk, could see me now—
in
France, having a ball, with only one year to go getting my BA. Without him actually
being
here, I x mean.” She tossed her hair back and snorted.
“That
would be a bummer.”

Linda raised her frosty glass. “To Damien, king of the jerks—”

Gabby clinked her lemonade on Linda's glass. “—may he get seasick on that fishing boat with the captain's daughter, who no doubt smells a bit
fishy
by now.”

The two young women collapsed into laughter, which stopped abruptly when a male voice said,
“Excusez-moi, ma'amselles?”

“Ohmigosh,” Linda said under her breath. “It's them.”

Gabby looked up, startled. A tall young man with dark hair and sunglasses stood beside their table, accompanied by another young man with sandy hair. “Yes?”
Oh, dear. I should've said, “Oui?”
or something. He sounds French.

“May I introduce myself ?
Je suis Philippe
Fairbanks, and this is Cameron Brewer, my housemate. Graduate students at La Faculté des Lettres.” He pointed at himself. “Business.” Then at his companion. “History.” He flashed a smile revealing perfect white teeth. “And you are—?”

His French accent rolled off his tongue like melted chocolate. Gabby cleared her throat, hoping her mouth hadn't been hanging open. “Oh! Uh, I'm Gabrielle Shepherd—most people call me Gabby—and this is Linda Banks. University of North Dakota.” She had never seen such a beautiful man. Tall, dark, and hand-some. Literally! And French to boot!

“
Pardonne
. May we sit?”

“Uh . . . of course! Please. Sit down. Right, Linda?”

Linda nodded, eyelashes fluttering, licking her lips.

“Have you ladies ordered yet?” The dark-haired one pulled over another chair. “The lamb kebobs here are superb.”

“
Mmm
,” the other seconded, sounding decidedly British. “Abso­­lutely scrummy.”

Linda snorted. “
Humph
. Gabby needs a salad or something light. She nearly lost it on the carousel back there—ow!” She glared at Gabby. “What did you kick me for?”

The two young men laughed. Gabby flushed. “I am
fine.
Just a momentary dizzy spell. The lamb kebobs sound great.”

“Excellent.” The dark eyes gave an approving wink. “Lunch is on us—right, Cameron?”

And so they talked and laughed over succulent lamb kebobs and freshly baked bread. Gabby was aware that the dark eyes seemed to feast on her, and she flushed at the attention. His English was perfect—unlike her French—and his lovely French accent gave her goose bumps . . . until Cameron pulled the plug. “Aw, ladies, don't be fooled by this bloke. His name is Philip, not
‘Philippe,'
and he hails from Virginia in the US of A. I, on the other hand, am London born and bred.”

Gabby's mouth dropped. Then she laughed, grabbed a cloth napkin, and playfully whipped Philip's arm with it. “You imposter!”

He threw up his hands and grinned. “Ah, well. Fun while it lasted.”

She was actually relieved at the joke. It would have been charming to be romanced by a Frenchman, but her small-town roots in Minot, North Dakota, were so . . . so
provincial
. She'd married her teenage sweetheart right out of high school, but a divorce two years later made her determined to get out of Minot and do something with her life. Until this junket through Europe with Youth Hostels International, the farthest she'd been was the University of North Dakota in Grand Forks. Big deal.

However, an
American
in Paris—or, Montpellier, in this case—put this charming looker on more equal footing. She tossed her curls back confidently. “So, why did you decide to study in Montpellier,
Philip
?”

Philip's grin was half grimace. “Oh, you know the story. Family business. Dad's got my life planned, wants me to follow in his footsteps.” He shrugged. “It's a good business, but I want to broaden my horizons, explore some new ideas to bring the business into the twenty-first century.”

Intrigued, Gabby leaned forward, chin resting on her hand as Philip talked. A slight shadow of a beard lined his strong jawline. His dark brown hair had a boyish way of falling over his fore-head—though Damien had been drop-dead gorgeous, too, she reminded herself, and look where
that
got her. But . . . Philip was different. Damien was just a local pretty boy who'd swept her off her feet with empty promises. But this man . . . he had roots. A solid Southern family. (How romantic was
that
?) Heir to a family business. And he had new ideas. Vision. She liked that. He seemed so self-assured—the type of guy who would go places and do things—and that excited her.

“—been to Paris yet?” he was saying. “You must see the Eiffel Tower.”

Gabby let slip a wry grin and an exaggerated sigh. “Probably not. Uh, heights don't agree with me . . . nor carousels, it seems.”

“Oh, nuts.” Linda jumped up, bumping the table and nearly spilling their drinks. “It's starting to rain.” The leggy blonde joined the throng surging toward the inside tables of the café.

Gabby was feeling giddy and bold. “So, what's a little rain?” Instead of going inside, she ran into the square, laughing and twirling around slowly in the warm shower, arms outstretched, letting her damp hair twist up tighter, like a crown of curly ribbons.

Standing under the awning of the café, Philip Fairbanks watched the sprite from North Dakota swirl, laughing, in the rain. “I'm going to marry that girl,” he murmured.

“Don't be barmy, Philip.” Cameron hunched his shoulders against the damp breeze. “She's just a ditzy yank from North Dakota. What would your mum do if you brought home a girl named
Gabby
?”

Philip laughed. “Probably have a hissy fit. I'll tell her the girl's name is Gabrielle—that sounds French, don't you think? And I think she's charming. A free spirit. Different.”

Cameron snorted. “Different, all right. Look at that hair. Little Orphan Annie grown up.”

Philip
was
looking at Gabrielle's hair. The sun broke through the light rain, and raindrops sparkled on the mop of chestnut curls flying around and around. “Mm-hm,” he murmured to himself. “I'm going to marry you, Mop Top. You wait and see.”

chapter 1

Looking thirty-two floors down was almost enough to bring up my lunch. Philip
knew
I had trouble with heights. So what kind of sadistic joke made him buy a penthouse, for heaven's sake! Not to mention floor-to-ceiling windows that curved around the living room, like putting a glass nose on a Boeing 747.

I groaned. It'd take me a week to wash the inside of those windows. And who in the world washed the
outside
—?! My knees wobbled. Uh-uh. Couldn't go there or I'd lose my lunch for real.

But the view . . . oh my.

I stood in the middle of our new living room and tried to take it all in. Trees dotted the park along Chicago's Lake Shore Drive, wearing the fresh new wardrobe of spring. On the other side of the Drive, the western edge of Lake Michigan lapped at the miles of beaches separated by occasional rocky retaining walls and dis-appeared southward amid the misty skyscrapers of Chicago's Loop. Tall, billowy thunderheads caught the late afternoon sun. Earlier that day, cars had hurried along the Drive, like toys zipping along a giant track some kid got for Christmas. But now, at the height of rush hour, the far lane was packed solid as commuters headed for the northern suburbs.

O-kay .
Looking
out
at the view wasn't so bad. I stepped closer to the window, keeping my chin up, refusing to look straight down. Near the beach, cyclists whizzed along a bicycle path, swerving around joggers. Dogs with their masters chased Frisbees or dashed into the water after a ball. No one was in the water—too early in the spring, I guessed. But the sand sparkled in the late afternoon sunshine. What I wouldn't give to—

“Is that all, Señora Fairbanks?”

I jumped. The sweet face of the maid, who'd been setting up the catered buffet in the dining room the past hour, looked at me expectantly. Dark hair. Dark eyes. Plain white blouse with a name tag that said “Camila.” Black skirt hugging her chunky legs. A wedding band on her left hand. Obviously hoping to go home and take care of her own family.

“Oh. Yes, yes, I'm sure it's fine, Mrs. . . . Mrs. . . . ?”

She reddened. “Just Camila, señora
. Gracias.
”

“Well, then, call me Gabby.” I glanced at the Fairbanks' heir-loom grandfather clock patiently ticking away in the corner of the large room. Almost six o'clock. Philip had said to expect him between seven and eight. “What do I need to do when the guests arrive?”

The short, stocky woman smiled with relief. “No problem. Cold salads in the refrigerator. Beef tips and saffron rice in the warming oven set at one hundred fifty degrees. Will be safe. Just take them out.” Picking up her bag, she disappeared quickly into the entryway—called a “gallery” in the Richmond Towers brochure—and out the front door of the penthouse.

Still standing in the middle of the living room, I suddenly felt bereft. I was alone. Again. Philip had been gone since seven that morning. The boys were still in Virginia at boarding school. Philip wouldn't hear of taking them out so close to the end of the school year. And so we'd moved, lock, stock, and oriental rugs, to Illinois so Philip and his new partner could hurry up and dream big dreams in their luxurious office in downtown Chicago. And here I was, not only alone, but stuck up here in the sky, like an eagle impaled on a flagpole.

I imagined Camila in the elevator, riding down, down, nod-ding at the doorman, going outside. Free.

Stepping close to the curved window, I steadied myself with my hand, daring myself to look down, hoping to see her emerge. The glass was thick and cool to the touch. Probably leaving a grubby handprint on the glass. Huh. I'd have to clean it before Philip's guests arrived. Had to have a clean prison wall, right?

Stop it, Gabby.

A jogger caught my eye as she ran through the park below, ran past the trees, did a sharp turn, and then suddenly disappeared.
Wait a minute. What just happened?
I squinted . . . then a movement on the other side of Lake Shore Drive caught my eye. The same jogger was now running on the path by the beach!

There must be a pedestrian tunnel under Lake Shore Drive. My eyes widened. Why hadn't I seen it before? We'd been here five days already, and all this time I thought the ubiquitous Drive cut us off from the sand and water unless we got in the car and drove somewhere.

I cast another furtive glance at the clock. Ten after. Philip wouldn't be here for another fifty minutes at the earliest—maybe longer. I was already dressed in a white pantsuit and gold-strap sandals. The temperature was almost eighty—warm for April.
What if—

On impulse I grabbed my keys from the wooden bowl on the table in the gallery and headed out the penthouse door. I felt slightly giddy as I stepped into the elevator and pushed the button for the ground floor, like the time I'd ditched classes in middle school back in Minot, North Dakota. When the elevator doors opened, I pushed open the security door into the lobby and breezed past the African-American doorman, not wanting to chat, and found myself on the narrow frontage street that gave limited access to several high-rise condos besides Richmond Towers.

But beyond the street, beyond the park, beyond the pedestrian tunnel was sand and water.
Sand! Sand between my toes.
Splashing in the miniwaves.
The desire drove me on like an urgent hunger. How long, how long had it been since I'd even been barefoot?

I burst out of the pedestrian tunnel under Lake Shore Drive like a runner carrying the Olympic torch.
Oh Gabby, you are so bad.
I laughed out loud. Kicking off my sandals, I ran barefoot across the grass and stepped down a low concrete wall to the sand, sending a flock of seagulls hopping into the air and landing a short distance away. Delighting in the feel of the warm sand on my bare feet, I ran at the birds, sending them scolding and hopping again.

I giggled, turning around and around, arms outstretched to catch the wind off the lake, wishing I was wearing a princess skirt to whirl. Hardly anyone was on this strip of beach, so who cared if I looked stupid? No one knew me anyway.

On a whim, I rolled up my pant legs and waded into the water—and screeched.
Ay ay ay.
That was
cold.
Hurting cold! I splashed back onto the warm sand, but now wet sand clung like chiggers between my toes and up my legs. I sat down on the concrete bench to brush off the sand when I felt the first drop. And the second. I looked up. The clouds now hung low and heavy and looked about ready to dump.