Before she could look away, one of the men smiled a surly smile, licked his lips, and winked.

Oh, no, he did not do that, she thought, her face flaming. She was no cougar; she had no intention of following in Evan’s footsteps. Not ever. Evan may have been a surgeon, but deep down, he was very simple. Probably because his work became so stressful, he preferred people as easy and uncomplicated as he could get them. Thus, Tilda. But those men, the ones leering at her? She knew what they were after, and it wasn’t her age-old wisdom and thought-provoking conversation.

She grabbed her itinerary and stared at it, her cheeks still stinging red. She was about to blow it out of the water, big time. And right then, she didn’t really care. So far, nothing about Paris had been very good. Why had she thought it was so wonderful?

One word came to mind at that moment: Stéphane.

If he had been here, everything about this place would be different . . . she knew it. She’d be here—and in love, and isn’t that what they said? There is no place like Paris when you’re in love.

When you’re alone, maybe it just . . . sucked.

Calm yourself, Diana. You have only been in France for an hour. It is bound to get better. Just think of Versailles. It’s going to be amazing.

Yes, it would be. But it still would be better with company.

Before she could stop herself, she lifted her phone and quickly tapped in Stéphane de Fonblanque.

The Google results were as they’d been before. Limited. There was only one mention of the de Fonblanque family, an entry stating that they’d owned property in Nantes in the late 1800’s, and a flat in Paris, in Saint-Germain-des-Prés. But that was all.

It made sense. He’d told her that, as a member of nobility, his family had a duty to stay largely out of the public eye and not cause too much scandal. At least his father had been extremely strict with Stéphane, telling him that he needed to keep a low profile in America, which was why he’d been so secretive about it around her.

She stared at the address as the waitress came by with her coffee and croissant. As she set it down, Diana said, “Excusez-moi,” and pointed to the address on her phone. “Où est-ce?”

The girl finally lost the disinterested look. Now, she raised both eyebrows, clearly impressed. Obviously, it must’ve been a nice neighborhood. Then she started to spout off directions that made Diana’s head spin.

“Hold on,” Diana said sheepishly. “Could you say that slower?”

“Arrondissement six,” she said.

“Arrond—what? I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”

As she tried to remember how to translate that into French, the woman said, “Oh, you’re American,” as if that explained some things. She pointed outside and said, “The arrondissement. They are our neighborhoods. Six is that way. You’ll have to go past the cathedral. Cross the river. Just keep walking, and you’ll see the signs. It’s about a twenty-minute walk. You really can’t miss Arrondisement six. Just look for the people with their noses so high in the air that airplanes need to watch out for them.” She chuckled at her own joke.