“Whoa!” he said finally, managing to extricate himself from my grip. He took a step back, panting and holding me away from him. “Kate, I’m not going anywhere,” he said with a mock look of reproof on his face. “I have to warn you that my bedroom isn’t the best place to stage an assault on me. It’s where I’m at my weakest, with my bed a mere twenty feet away.”

I tried to focus on his words, but I couldn’t quite pull myself back into the real world. “And you look so tempting,” he said, his ragged breath slowing, “that I find it very hard to resist taking you to bed here and now.”

He turned and quickly walked away from me, throwing his curtains aside and opening the window to let in the cold November air. I felt its icy fingers clear the fog in my head, and slid down the bookcase into a sitting position.

“You might be more comfortable over here,” Vincent said, scooping me up into his strong arms and depositing me onto the couch. He set a glass of water in front of me. “Something to cool your ardor, mademoiselle?” he murmured, with an amused smile.

I nodded gratefully and drank deeply from the glass. Then, handing it back to him, I rolled over toward the back of the couch, in an attempt to bury my face. Oh my God. What have I done? I thought, cringing at the memory of leaping on him and practically devouring his face, just when he had made it clear that he was done.

“What, Kate?” Vincent chuckled, pulling my hands away from my reddening face.

“Sorry,” I said, with a broken voice. I cleared my throat. “Sorry for . . . um . . . jumping on you in your own room. I’m not usually . . .”

“It’s okay,” Vincent said, hushing me, with a look on his face like he was about to crack up.

“No, it’s not. I don’t usually throw myself on people. I mean, I’ve only kissed about three guys in my life, and that’s the first time I’ve ever lost myself like that. I’m just a bit . . . embarrassed. And surprised.”

Vincent stopped trying to control himself and burst out laughing. Then, leaning over and kissing me on the forehead, he said, “Well, it’s a good surprise, then, Kate. I can’t wait to get another chance. But not here. Somewhere very safe. Like on the Eiffel Tower with a hundred Japanese tourists standing around us.”

I nodded, secretly relieved that he wanted to go slowly, but at the same time wondering why.

Vincent read my thoughts. “It’s not that I don’t want to take things . . . further. Trust me. I do.” His eyes were smoldering. My heartbeat accelerated accordingly. “Just not quite yet. I want to enjoy getting to know you without rushing into . . . the main event.” He ran his finger along my jawline and down my neck. “The wait will be fun, but it’s not going to be easy.”

As he leaned in to brush his lips lightly against mine, I felt like I had officially won the Perfect Boyfriend Contest. Hands down. Although at the moment I can’t help wishing he wasn’t quite so perfect, I thought, my temperature rising at his touch as he finished kissing me and pulled back. Trying to distract myself and avoid spontaneous combustion, I straightened my clothes and smoothed down my messed-up hair.

“We better get out of here before I ignore everything I just said. I’ll walk you home,” he said, picking up our coats and my bag. He opened the door and waited for me.

“I must say, I had my suspicions,” he said cryptically.

“Suspicions of what?” I asked.

“That there was a savage beast hiding behind that good old-fashioned demeanor of yours,” he laughed.

Biting my lip, I walked past him and into the hallway.

Chapter Thirty-One

GOING HOME THAT NIGHT WAS LIKE AWAKING from a long sleep. When I was with Vincent I occasionally forgot about all the weird revenant stuff, but still felt like I was wandering through a Salvador Dalí dreamscape. Mamie and Papy’s world felt amazingly comforting after twenty-four hours in a surrealist painting.

“So?” said Georgia as we sat down to dinner. “What is the status of this ‘thing’ with Vincent? Did your little pajama party give you two enough time to work out your problems?” She grinned wickedly at me and popped a piece of bread into her mouth.

Mamie tapped her on the arm reprovingly and said, “Katya will tell us what she wants us to know when she wants us to know it.”

“That’s okay, Mamie,” I offered. “Georgia can’t help herself from living vicariously through me, since she has no life of her own to speak of!”

“Ha!” said Georgia.

Papy rolled his eyes, obviously wondering how his peaceful home had so quickly transformed into a sorority house.

“So?” asked Georgia, wheedling now.

“We seem to have worked things out,” I said, and turning to Mamie, asked, “Is it okay if he comes to dinner tomorrow night?”

“Of course,” she responded with a broad smile.

“Woo-hoo!” crowed Georgia. “No more Kate pining away in her bedroom. I should go over to his house and thank him myself.”

“That’s enough now, Georgia,” said Papy.

“You can thank him tomorrow night,” I said, and quickly changed the subject.

At seven thirty the next night I got a text from Vincent: Good evening, ma belle. Could I please have your digicode?

I sent him the four-number and two-letter code, and a minute later our doorbell rang. I pushed the interphone, buzzing open the door to the stairwell. “Third floor, left,” I said through the speakerphone.

My pulse sped up as I opened our front door and stood in the hallway waiting for him. He was up the three flights of stairs in no time, carrying a huge bouquet of flowers in one hand and a bag in the other. “These are for your Mamie,” he said, leaning over to give me a quick, soft kiss on the lips.

The pounding of my heart went into overdrive. Vincent lifted his eyebrows suggestively. “Are you going to ask me in, or were you testing to see if I could cross your threshold without the invitation?” Then he whispered, “I’m a revenant, not a vampire, chérie.” His teasing expression made me forget my nerves, and taking a deep breath to compose myself, I reached for his hand and led him through the doorway.

“Mamie’s right here,” I said as she walked out of the kitchen toward us. She had gone to her salon that morning and was looking stunningly elegant in a black-and-white wool dress and four-inch heels.

“You must be Vincent,” she said, leaning over to kiss his cheeks, her gardenia-scented perfume enveloping us like a grandmotherly hug. She backed up a step to get a look at him. She seemed to be grading him, and from her expression he was getting an A.

“For you,” he said, handing her the massive flower arrangement.

“Oh, from Christian Tortu,” she said, spotting the florist’s card. “How lovely.”

“I’ll take your coat,” I said, and Vincent shrugged off his jacket, revealing a robin’s-egg blue cotton shirt tucked into dark corduroys.

I could barely believe that this crushingly handsome boy had dressed up and brought flowers expressly to impress my family. He had done it all for me.

“Papy, I would like to introduce you to Vincent Delacroix,” I said as my grandfather approached from his study.

“Nice to meet you, sir,” Vincent said in a formal manner as they shook hands. He held up the bag and said, “For you.”

Taking it, Papy pulled out a bottle and looked startled as he inspected the label. “Château Margaux, 1947? Wherever did you find this?”

“It’s a gift from my uncle, who says he has already had the pleasure of making your acquaintance, madame,” Vincent said, looking back at Mamie.

“Oh?” she said, her interest piqued.

“He recently brought you a painting to repair. Monsieur Grimod de La Reynière.”

Mamie’s eyes widened. “Jean-Baptiste Grimod de La Reynière is your uncle?”

Vincent nodded. “I have lived with him since my parents died.”

“Oh,” Mamie said, her eyes softening. “I am sorry to hear that you have that in common with our Katya.”

Fearing more in-depth questions, I took Vincent by the hand and quickly turned toward the sitting room. “Would you like something to drink? Maybe a bit of bubbly?” Papy asked as we sat down next to the fire.

“That would be nice. Thank you,” said Vincent.

“Yes, please,” I said, nodding at Papy, and he left the room, just as Georgia made her way in.

She looked stunning in a green silk frock that made my own simple black dress look drab in comparison. Vincent stood up politely. “Georgia,” he began, “I know that Kate apologized for me after we left you at that restaurant. But I just wanted to tell you myself. I am so sorry. I never would have done it if Ambrose hadn’t been in such a bad state. Even so, it was unforgivable.”

“I consider myself a very understanding person,” she said, with just a tinge of her fake Southern accent coming through. “If you weren’t so darn cute, I’m not sure I would let this one go. However, under the circumstances . . . ,” she trailed off as she slowly kissed his cheeks.

“For God’s sake, Georgia! Could you try to leave a bit of him for me?” I exclaimed, shaking my head in disbelief.

“I’ll take that to mean I’m forgiven,” Vincent said, laughing.

Meals in France can last for hours. And when guests are invited, they usually do. Luckily, since tonight was a school night, we only spent a half hour over each course. I didn’t want my grandparents to have enough time to get too far past the polite conversation stage into the personal information stage with my mysterious guest.

“So, Vincent, I would guess you’re a student?” Papy asked about halfway through the hors d’oeuvres. Vincent answered that he was studying law. “At such a young age? Not wanting to pry, but how old . . .” My grandfather let his sentence fade out so he wouldn’t have to ask a direct question.

“I’m nineteen. But my uncle had me tutored privately, so I’m a couple of years ahead.”

“Lucky boy!” Papy nodded approvingly.

After that, Vincent deflected more personal questions by asking his own. Papy was delighted to tell him in detail about his business and the travels he had made to pick up the special objects he dealt in, which had taken him all over the Middle East and North Africa.

Vincent mentioned his interest in antique and ancient weaponry, and that conversation alone got us through the main dish, a tender-as-butter side of beef. Mamie asked him about his uncle’s painting collection and seemed impressed by his broad knowledge of the artists and stylistic periods.

By the time we had gotten to dessert, Vincent and my family were talking and laughing together as if they had known one another for years. He and Georgia teased each other and teased me, and I could see Mamie glancing between Vincent and myself and looking pleased with what she saw.

Finally, after settling into the comfortable sitting room chairs with decaf espressos and a plate of chocolate truffles, Mamie asked Vincent if he would like to join us for dinner in two weeks. “It’s Kate’s seventeenth birthday on December ninth, and since she refused to let us give her a party, we thought we’d have an informal dinner here at home.”

“Now that is very interesting information,” Vincent said, smiling broadly at me.

I put my head in my hands and shook my head. “I don’t like to make a big deal about birthdays,” I moaned.

Vincent gestured to the others and said, “Well, too bad that the rest of us do!”

“It’s settled, then?” asked Mamie, looking at me for approval.

I grimaced but nodded my head.

“Now that we’re handing invitations out left and right, how about coming out with me and Kate on Friday night, Vincent?” asked Georgia.

“I would love to, but I already have plans that night.” He winked at me.

“Not with Kate, you don’t!” said Georgia defensively. “She’s promised my friend Lucien to come to a party at his club. And from what I’ve heard, you might want to accompany her, since he’s promised to supply a crop of handsome friends for all the single ladies showing—” Georgia stopped midsentence, seeing the dark look spreading across Vincent’s face.

“Are you talking about Lucien Poitevin?” he asked.

Georgia nodded. “Do you know him?”

Vincent’s face turned flame red in seconds flat. He looked like a pressure cooker about to explode. “I know of him. And quite honestly, even if I didn’t already have plans, I would have to refuse.” I could tell he was using great restraint to sound calm.

“Vincent!” I whispered. “What—” He cut me off by taking my hand and unintentionally (I hoped) squeezing it so hard it hurt. This is officially very bad, I thought.

“Who is this Lucien Poitevin?” asked Papy sternly, frowning at Georgia.

“He’s a very good friend!” she retorted, glaring at Vincent.

The room was quiet. Vincent finally leaned toward her and said in his most diplomatic voice, “I wouldn’t say this if I wasn’t a hundred percent sure of myself, but Lucien Poitevin doesn’t deserve to stand in the same room as you, Georgia, much less be counted among your friends.”

There was a collective dropping of jaws. Georgia, for once, seemed lost for words. She looked like she had been slapped. And then had a bucket of ice poured down her back.

Mamie and Papy gave each other a look that made it clear they had been worrying about Georgia’s nocturnal activities.