“I’m not looking at you in any particular way,” Claire said, striving for calm. She reached out and fiddled with her coffee, refusing to meet his eyes.
“All right, it was a stupid, romantic gesture. I wanted to experience life as it really was, without the cushion of credit cards,” Tom said somewhat desperately, running a hand through his thick, curly hair. “Listen, I didn’t turn them in, I just left them back in the States. I could get a replacement for my American Express card in less than twenty-four hours.”
“So can I. Don’t worry about it, Tom. We’ll be fine. One more night in that apartment won’t kill us.”
“But what about Bonnard?”
“I’m sure Marc is touring somewhere in the south and that Solange was wrong.”
“Then what happened to your passport and credit cards?”
“A sneak thief.”
“A sneak thief who specializes in passports and credit cards? Surely there was something of value in that place besides the contents of your wallet?”
“Maybe the thief was part of a band of terrorists, looking for new identification papers to get people out of the country. Under normal circumstances it would have been weeks, months before I looked for my passport. It may have already been missing that long.”
“You’ve been reading too much Ludlum.” Tom was clearly disapproving. “Even if a female terrorist wanted to get out of France posing as you, why would she want a passport for a nine-year-old?”
“Maybe terrorists have children too.”
“Don’t be flippant.”
“What else can I do?” She could hear the note of desperation in her voice, and quickly she tamped it down. She wasn’t going to lose it, not at this stage of the game. Tomorrow she would get her credit card—after that she had all of France to hide in until she figured out how to get Nicole’s passport.
“You can let me help you. For starters you and Nicole could spend the night in my apartment.”
She raised her eyes from her rapt contemplation of her coffee cup and looked up into his face, seeing what she was afraid to see. “No, we can’t do that. Don’t worry about us. I’m sure we’ll be fine.”
“I’m not.”
Claire turned her head to stare out into the streets. The café window was streaked with rain, the tables and chairs outside in the downpour looking oddly forlorn. Quite suddenly she hated Paris, hated the incessant rains of winter and spring, hated the beautiful streets where it was so easy to lose her way, hated the people and their liquid, incomprehensible language.
“God,” she whispered, “I want to go home.” And it was a cry of desperation.
“Are you certain you can’t leave Nicole with her grandmother?”
She shook her head. “As a matter of fact, she’s been there too long already. What time is it?”
“Five-thirty.”
“I’d better go.”
He rose, towering over her, his rangy height protective, not threatening, Claire thought wearily, still fighting. “I’m coming with you.”
“Why?”
“Why not? You’re so guilty, Claire, and unfortunately there’s nothing to be guilty about. I’m simply a fellow expatriate you ran into, who’s helping you deal with the vagaries of Paris. Why shouldn’t you take me to meet the old lady?”
She shook her head. “I shouldn’t.” She rose also, pulling her heavy sweater over her head once more. “But I will. Do you think there’s any chance of finding a taxi?”
“Where does the old lady live?”
Claire stared at him in mute frustration. “In a red building. Twelve blocks east, two blocks north past the church with the bronze roof.”
“This is from your apartment?”
She nodded, anger and misery at her own inability clouding her already furious mind.