Free French kiss by Aimee Friedman Page A

nodded, feeling a tug of sorrow. How had things fallen apart so abruptly? That morning, she and Diego had been cuddling in the Louvre. Now, their glorious vacation was over, ruined. So much for having the best week of their lives.
    For one crazy moment, Alexa wondered if she should follow Diego to Barcelona. It would be easy -- she'd trail him to Gare Austerlitz, hop on his
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    train and, in the middle of the night, sneak over to his seat and start kissing him. By morning, they'd have made up and arrived in sunny Barcelona; Alexa had been to Barci before, and though the city wasn't as romantic as Paris, it would do in a pinch.
    But no, she realized. She didn't want to go to Barcelona. And she certainly didn't want to follow some boy there.
    After all, Alexa was fiercely independent.
    Wasn't she?
    So she reached up, touched Diego's cheek her fingers caressing the very spot she had smacked and, her throat thick with tears, whispered, "Au revoir."
    In French, the expression literally meant "until we see each other again." Alexa wasn't sure if she and Diego ever would. But who knew?
    Then they turned and headed in different directions he for the Métro , she for the nearest pay phone to call her cousins. Unfortunately, the closest phone was several blocks down, and Alexa, lugging her heavy bags down the empty boulevard, was cursing the mules that pinched her feet. When she made it to the phone booth, Alexa dropped her bags in relief, but then realized she'd never bought one of those little phone cards that were needed to place a call that was why she'd never gotten around to calling her dad.
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    Crap.
    Alexa drew a deep breath. She'd work it out; she always did. She was nothing if not resourceful. Miraculously, she spotted a tall man with a trim moustache, wearing a double-breasted coat and a cockeyed black beret, striding down the boulevard toward her. A real Frenchman, Alexa thought, catching his eye and feeling a warm rush of familiarity. He reminded her of her father's brother, Uncle Julien. He'd definitely be able to help her.
    "Pardon, monsieur, " Alexa called, waving him over.
    He stopped before her with a ready smile. "Oui, mademoiselle?"
    In her fluent, fabulous French, Alexa explained the phone card sitch, asked if she could borrow his card, and -- gesturing to her Miu Miu clutch -- promised to repay him.
    Alexa noticed that the Frenchman's eyes lingered a beat too long on her clutch -- and on her Coach bags and she felt a flicker of hesitation. But then he shot her another smile, reached into his pocket, and said, "Pour une belle jeune fille? Mais bien sûr."
    Alexa grinned and fluttered her eyelashes, accepting the phone card he was extending. She was a sucker for being called a beautiful girl, especially when she'd just broken up with her boyfriend. Then, the instant the phone card touched her hand, the Frenchman
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    reached over and snatched her clutch out from under her arm, scooped up four of her Coach bags and took off down the boulevard in a flash.
    " No!" Alexa screamed after him. In her blind panic, she found herself shrieking in English. "Come back here, you asshole! Give me back my bags! Somebody stop him! Thief!" Of course, there wasn't another soul on the boulevard, so Alexa grabbed her remaining two bags and started off after him. But it was impossible to run in her mules, and by now, the nimble thief was a mere spot in the distance. Alexa let out a helpless sob. She'd never catch him.
    Her whole body shaking, Alexa quickly assessed her bags to confirm that -- whew -- the thief hadn't made off with the one that contained her passport. But since he had taken her clutch -- and with it, her wallet she now had no money, and no scrap of paper with her cousins' phone number, which she'd never bothered to memorize.
    And by far the worst news of all was that the bastard had snatched the precious suitcase that contained her new lilac-colored piqué Behnaz Sarafpour strapless dress -- and most of her best