She nodded towards where a wooden sign advertised the tiny hotel run by a cheerful woman, who’d taken one look at Chiara and pressed a plate with the most incredible breakfast she’d ever tasted into her hand when she’d arrived from the night bus.
Everything she’d ever been told about French pastries was definitely true.
“Let’s get you back,” the stranger said. He gave her a careful look. “He hasn’t hurt you?”
She shook her head, then belatedly remembered her manners. “I’m Chiara, by the way. Thanks for helping me.”
“Chiara. That’s a gorgeous name. I’m Jared. And I could hardly stand by and watch.”
Together, they made their way to Chiara’s hotel. It was really little more than a bed and breakfast, and when Chiara let herself in, she saw that no one was on night duty. But there was a small lounge with comfy chairs, and a kettle with little sachets of tea and instant coffee.
“Do you want coffee?” she asked, still a little shocked by the sudden attack.
“Maybe some herbal tea for you? You look really pale,” he said, gently steering her to one of the old chairs.
Gratefully, she fell into it, then took a deep breath.
“Coffee,” she said with determination. “I’m drinking so much of it it’s long since lost any effect. Please.”
“Coffee it is.” A moment later, he pressed a steaming cup into her hand.
Gratefully, she inhaled the aroma. A moment later, she realized that he’d gone for the coffee instead of the calming tea as well.
“You too, huh?” She gave him a small smile.
He shrugged, grinning at her over his cup. “I can drink coffee at midnight and still sleep like a log five minutes later. It’s a useful talent.”
“Me too.” She sighed with pleasure when she took a sip, the familiar taste and heat as comforting as a warm blanket.
“So,” he said a moment later, tilting his head at her. “What was that all about? Shall I call the cops?”
“Ugh. I don’t even speak French,” she said—and then realized that even if she did, she knew exactly what would happen.
At the first word mentioning secret maps and scary demonic eyes, the cops would give her that condescending smile and call her “that crazy lady” behind her back.
Maybe it would even sound a little charming in French.
Still, she’d lived through that once; she wasn’t about to do it again.
“No need,” she said a moment later, setting down her coffee. She’d calmed enough that she was finally able to look her rescuer up and down.
And he looked every bit the knight in shining armor. Up close, his broad shoulders and muscled arms were even more impressive.
He had a square jaw with just a hint of light stubble, blond hair he wore a little longer than was fashionable, but just the right length for her to bury her fingers in it and play with it, and the most impressive blue eyes she’d ever seen.
He wore black jeans and a simple white shirt, much like many of the tourists filling this part of the French countryside.
But he looked nothing like a tourist. He moved with a strange grace and assurance—as if he’d never ever had to worry that people would laugh at him or call him crazy.
Which was understandable, because Chiara knew that if he told her right now that he was a French duke or the long-lost heir to a tiny European kingdom, she wouldn’t doubt it even for one second.
He had something that set him apart from anyone else she’d ever met. And it wasn’t just his charm or his gorgeous eyes. There was an aura of confidence and command around him. The sort of thing she’d seen military men give off—but it went even deeper than that.
Something about him made her trust him.
And that was the weirdest thing of all, because she hadn’t been able to trust anyone since that werewolf thing had happened to her.
It’s just because he doesn’t know me yet. And he’s admittedly gorgeous. But as soon as I mention werewolves, he’ll be out of here...