A Lasting Impression

me an inquiry, Miss Laurent?”
    She lifted a brow. “ One, Mr. Monroe.”
    “Do I detect a trace of France in your voice?”
    “ Oui, monsieur. I was born in Paris.” She tilted her chin. “ Parlez-vous français, Monsieur Monroe?”
    He gave a hesitant shrug. “ Un peu. And not very well. But—” Pleasure crept into his expression. “I very much enjoyed your country.”
    All playfulness fell away. “You’ve been to France?”
    “ Oui, Mademoiselle Laurent.” His graveled tone and French accent touched places inside her that Claire hadn’t known words could reach. “I was in Paris this past March, in fact.”
    She mentally counted back. Only six months ago. “What was it like? What did you visit while there?”
    His look turned puzzled.
    She rushed to explain. “My family left Paris when I was but nine years old. I haven’t had occasion to return.” Vivid scenes rose in her mind, accompanied as always by the familiar scents. “What I remember best are the smells. The gardens of Les Tuileries, passing the open doors of pâtisseries on nearly every corner.”
    “ Mmmm . . .” He briefly closed his as eyes as though he too were remembering. “Fresh croissants, steaming café au lait . . .”
    “ Pain au chocolat, ” she whispered, her mouth watering.
    “And another pastry”—he squinted—“made in layers with vanilla cream and—”
    “ Napoléons, ” Claire supplied, feeling a pang of hunger. She pressed a hand against her stomach to quell the gurgle. “And did you happen to visit the Palace of Versailles?”
    The delight in his eyes answered before he did. “ Oui, mademoiselle. We enjoyed the privilege of breaking our journey there for a night.”
    “You stayed at Versailles? In the palace itself?” Who was this man . . . “Your family must be most influential, Mr. Monroe.” The thought—intended to be kept to herself—slipped past unrestrained.
    Staring at her, he blinked, and an abrupt awareness moved over him. He looked away, and an almost boylike shyness—or was it sadness—overtook his expression.
    “I beg your pardon, Mr. Monroe. I didn’t mean to speak out of turn or—”
    “No.” He shook his head, his smile slowly returning, still genuine, though more guarded than before. “It’s all right, Miss Laurent. No offense taken. I assure you.” His posture, already arrow straight, became more so. “Would you permit me one more question, Miss Laurent?” His gaze grew contemplative. “One . . . far more to the point.”
    The moment between them had passed, and the change in the tone of their conversation was not one Claire welcomed. Yet she had no choice but to nod. “Of course, Mr. Monroe.”
    “Do you make it a habit, ma’am, of . . . hiding beneath church pews?”
    So he had seen her crawl out.
    She looked away, then quickly realized that was what Papa had always done when he lied to her. Thinking of her father brought the threat of tears, but she restrained them—more easily than she would have thought—by remembering how his lying had made her feel.
    She looked back and met Mr. Monroe’s discerning gaze. She didn’t want to lie. But how much of the truth to tell this man was another matter entirely.
    “No, Mr. Monroe, I don’t. As it happened, I saw this church and decided to come inside.” She tried to add a smile, thinking it would help lessen the tension of the moment, but she found herself unable to sustain it. “Two women came into the church sometime after me.” She motioned to the front doors, but his focus remained steady on her. Very steady. “They didn’t see me when they first walked in, and I hated to interrupt their conversation, which quickly took a more private turn, so I . . .”
    She licked her lips, realizing she was rambling, and that she was absolutely no good at this. At telling a more condensed version of the truth while still not telling a lie. But one thing she did know. . . .
    Saying the least she could would serve her best.
    “So I hid beneath the pew. Not with the intention of eavesdropping, I give you my solemn oath. But only to prevent them from—” Hearing, inside her head, what she was about to say, she winced, realizing there was no excuse for her actions, however innocent they’d been. She’d known it then, and she knew it now. “I did it to prevent them from seeing me, and from feeling uncomfortable . . . once they discovered that I was privy to their conversation.”
    The blue of his eyes took on a steely