Chapter 1
"Oh, Spike! Really! Is that any way to show Christian Spirit?" The young woman irritably brushed her fair hair back from her perspiration-beaded forehead and prayed that her unholy impulse to smack the teenager's smirking face wasn't evident in her voice. "Of course you'll be happy to give poor Cordelia a hand with her luggage. Look, she's not strong enough to carry more than one of her big bags . . . and you're a husky guy with only a flight bag."
Something told the harassed blonde that she wasn't taking the right tactics, and she suddenly wished that her Sunday school and practice teaching experiences had been with adolescents. Spike, his impudent grin fading to a rebellious glower, stared intently out the wide glass windows of Paris' Orly airport lobby as though he hadn't even heard her, and then his sneaker shot out to give one of Cordelia's brand-new white Samsonite cases a vicious kick.
"Awhh, shit, how come she had to lug all this crap along, anyhow?" he mumbled. "If she's g nna be that dumb, then it's her tough luck!"
"Spike Soderberg! What kind of lang-"
"You stupid slob! You've ruined my suitcase!" Cordelia's elaborate hairdo had wilted during the overnight charter flight from Chicago to Paris, and her white dress was rumpled and stained, but her air of arrogant insolence was in no way impaired. "Look what he did, Miss Blakesley! Look! He'll have to pay for getting it cleaned, won't he!?"
Monica Blakesley's attractive face tautened with barely repressed exasperation. If she weren't a Christian chaperone who was supposed to be setting a good example, she'd tell these spoiled brats exactly what she thought of them in no uncertain terms; but as it was, she felt obliged to smile patiently and modulate her voice. Her summer job as a translator-chaperone for the World Worshipers Youth Group tour of France and Italy had seemed the chance of a lifetime, especially considering the unemployment situation in the States ... but after that harrowing plane ride she wasn't so sure.
"Please, Spike. Stop arguing and give Cordelia a hand with her bags." Despite her best efforts, her voice cracked, rose too thin and shrill, and tour leader Dubois shot her a questioning glance from across the lobby. "Don't you think you've caused enough problems already?"
"Huh? Who, me? Whaddya mean?"
There seemed no point in reminding him that the freaky clothes he'd insisted on wearing and his blatant rudeness to the self-important customs inspector had so offended the official that he'd spent an hour tearing apart the bags of everyone in the group. Sighing, she hoisted her own sensibly lightweight suitcase and flightbag.
"Never mind, Spike," she sighed. "Just take Crodelia's things out to the airport bus now, please."
"I dunno why everyone's picking on me. Hell, I-" Suddenly Monica started as a firm hand was placed on her shoulder and an even firmer masculine voice sounded just behind her. Alan Dubois, the handsome young tour director, had come to her aid, and from the way the boy jumped to obey his command she could see he was a good deal more experienced at dealing with teens than she was. Although she'd disapproved of the way he'd asked the youngsters to carry in dutyfree alcohol and cigarettes for him, he did have a warm, friendly smile and the way he took her own heavy bags away from her was most gentlemanly. Monica liked men who were polite and respectful, even though she knew that her views wre a bit old-fashioned.
"You handled that very well," she complimented shyly as they made their way through Orly's busy lobby toward the row of buses parked out in front. "I'm afraid I just don't seem to have the knack, Mr. Dubois."
The tall man grinned down at her, an irresistibly sunny smile which made his sun-bronzed face more attractive than ever and which caused Monica to relax even though strange males always made her feel very self-conscious and ill at ease. He seems really nice, she thought, and thank goodness for that, because the kids mostly are little terrors.
"You'll catch on soon enough," he reassured. "And don't call me 'Mr. Dubois', okay? Makes me feel like an old man! Even the kids on my tours call me 'Alan'."
Monica rather hoped they could continue their conversation on the bus so he could give her some useful pointers, but it was so crowded that she found herself squeezed next to an obese female World Worshiper while the director crouched on one of the fold-down seats in the back aisle. Her seatmate, a dishwater blonde who wore an expensive gold cross with her bulging jeans and oversized tee-shirt, appeared to be one of the few dedicated Christians among the group. None of the young chaperone's attempts to engage her in conversation brought much response, so she rather gratefully turned her attention to her first glimpse of Paris. It looked a good deal less romantic than she'd expected for the fabled "City of Light", but nevertheless she was too enthralled to be aware of the pair of intently burning male eyes behind her.
The owner of the interested brown eyes had to snap orders to the unruly, over-stimulated teens now and then, but he found plenty of time to study the shapely blonde who was to be his assistant on this particular three-week tour. What a piece of luck! he rejoiced silently, ignoring the industrial ugliness of the autoroute leading into Paris which he'd seen dozens of times before. And what a piece of ass! This is going to be one hell of an interesting three weeks ...