Free The 13th Fellow: A Mystery in Provence by Tracy Whiting Page B

American’s openness. “Yes. Why?”
    “Do you want children?” she followed up. “I mean you are 38 and not married. I know Frenchmen marry late but by 38 there is usually at least one marriage or divorce and 2.02 children. Besides you have an enviable safety net in France. And yet you are single. But then again I shouldn’t assume that you are without a lover, male or female.”
    He offered a simple but truthful retort, “I’d like to marry and have children. It’s been difficult to manage in my line of work. Is there someone else I should know about? Do you still see your ex-fiancé?”
    “That’s none of your business,” she sniped.
    * * *
    Of course she had been seeing her ex. That was the problem, wasn’t it? Now Thierry had gone and kicked the hornet’s nest and made her think about how stupidly she had been conducting herself with that hopeless relationship— which was why she had done a six-month time out and fled to France. She pulled at her dress. To her everlasting aggravation, it had inched up to her mid-thigh.
    “I thought we were getting to know one another.”
    Havilah stared at Thierry, narrowing her eyes. They had been in the car talking at least five minutes in front of Académie.
    “Is there someone else I should know about?” she asked pointedly.
    “No,” he said softly in response.
    “No, I don’t need to know about them, or no there isn’t anyone?”
    “No to the second part of your question.”
    “Well, no and no to yours.” She fumbled around trying to open her door.
    “Havilah, despite my shortcomings in the areas of marriage and fatherhood, there are some customs I continue to abide by as a Frenchman. I’ll get the door for you.”
    * * *
    Gasquet thought it would be best if they appeared as natural in one another’s company as possible. He needed Havilah to be relaxed so no one would suspect who he was. She was understandably on edge. They had laid a lot on her today.
    “By the way, you look lovely this evening,” he offered as he opened his door. The compliment was sincere even if the reason for giving it had another motive.
    “Thank you.”
    “May I have your cell phone?”
    “Whatever for?”
    “In case you need me. Anytime. For anything.”
    “Let’s hope I will never need you anytime. For anything ,” she said, handing him the cell phone.
    “I said ‘in case’.”
    “#1?” Havilah Gaie looked incredulously from the agent to the cell phone.
    “There was no one else occupying that slot in your cell phone directory.”
    * * *
    Coy and cute . She knew what Thierry Gasquet was up to. She would play her role. He needn’t have worried. When he’d opened her door, he extended his hand. She took it without the slightest frisson. Good girl , she nearly squealed. She didn’t have time for sexual tension or coy bantering. She had a killer to catch before he or she caught her slipping. She would not allow herself to be disarmed by Thierry Gasquet. She just needed to keep him away from her ears.
    * * *
    Améline Fitts was at the top of the stairs when she saw Havilah entering the Académie with a tall, bronzed Attis. She hoped he would not suffer the beautiful Phrygian’s fate of castration. She remembered that the younger professor was now single after a messy break-up. She had obviously recovered well. Améline was wearing a light beige sheath dress with a strand of marble-sized, black Tahitian pearls. She had slicked her blonde hair back into a bun. In a profession in which female professors were stereotyped as plain Janes, Birkenstocks and sock wearers, she was an undeniable exception. As was Havilah.
    Because Améline wore makeup and refused to wear a sack to teach her classes, sex-starved graduate students and juvenile senior male professors imagined that the very feminine, single, and self-confident professor who wrote about sex only sometimes, was exceedingly libidinous. Yet she had never slept with graduate students despite a paragraph here and there