Page 57 of When Fashion Turns Deadly

Taking Isabelle’s hand, he led her to the far side of the building, allowing Lars and Marit to claim the corner that looked out over the Seine. Lars tucked his arm around Marit’s small waist, and they moved to stand beside the wrought-iron railing that ran around the perimeter of the roof.

The wind tugged at Marit’s hair, sending wisps streaming across her face. She laughed, capturing the wayward strands in one hand and tucking them into her coat. Her joy at such a small thing was the best thing Lars had witnessed all day.

“I’ve missed this.” He drew her closer. “I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you too.” Relaxing against him, she laid her head on his shoulder. “Thank you for finding this place and for bringing me here. It’s perfect.”

Her definition ofperfectneeded a little work, but Lars wasn’t going to argue with her. He didn’t care how dilapidated the chairs behind them appeared, or how sooty the chimney stacks were that lined the rooftop. All that mattered was that they were together and that she was happy.

“Look,” she said, pointing at something far below them. “Do you see the little tour boats all lit up?”

Lars smiled. “I do.”

“And the glass pyramid at the Louvre.”

“Uh-huh.”

She turned her head and caught him watching her. “You’re not even looking at how pretty it is,” she accused.

“Yes, I am.” An errant strand of hair escaped her coat again, and with gentle fingers, he brushed it off her face. “And if you were to ask me, I’d say my view is stunningly beautiful.”

Her expression softened. “You must like the windswept look.”

He turned to face her, sliding his other arm around her waist. “Ilovethe windswept look,” he said. “And the fancy-party look, and the first-thing-in-the-morning look, and the I-just-took-down-Cole look...”

She laughed softly. “That was the stunned look.”

“Whatever it was, it suited you.” He sobered. “I’m sorry for all the terrible things you’ve had to endure this week. You’ve been so brave and so uncom­plaining.”

“You didn’t see me shaking like a leaf after the last mugging attempt.”

Regret coursed through him. “I wish I’d been with you.”

“I would have just had you hold me.” She threaded her arms around his neck. “And maybe kiss me.”

He brushed his lips gently across hers. “Like this?”

“Kind of.” Her fingers found his hair, and his heart began to thump.

“‘Kind of’ isn’t good enough. Can I try again?”

Her lips were tantalizingly close, and they curved upward.

“I think maybe you’d better.”

This time, when their lips met, Lars let his emotions free. Days’ worth of fear and anxiety over Marit’s well-being mingled with the thrill of holding her in his arms. Her fingers wove through his hair, and he tightened his hold on her as the rooftop seemed to tilt beneath his feet. The wind swirled around them, his kiss silently expressing his ever-deepening love even as he accepted hers.

From somewhere far below, a siren wailed, the sound increasing in volume as the police car drew nearer. Marit shifted slightly. Slowly, reluctantly, Lars raised his head to rest his forehead against hers. This woman was everything to him, and he couldn’t imagine—didn’t want to imagine—a future without her in it. He moved one hand in a slow circle across her back. It was time. As soon as he returned to Amsterdam, he was going to talk to Coster’s head jewelry designer about a ring.

“Was that more like it?” he asked.

She nodded faintly. “Uh-huh.”

“Pretty sure I’ll remember how from now on.”

“That’s good,” she whispered. “But if you need to practice again, that’s okay too.”

Lars smiled into the darkness. “More practice sounds like a great idea.”

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