"In Paris they simply stared when I spoke to them in French; I never did succeed in making those idiots understand their own language." – Mark Twain

Belle pushed an errant curl back from her face, feeling glum. She limped slightly, her ankle smarting a bit from when she'd caught it on the cobblestones last night. Longingly, she eyed the boutiques lining each side of the road, as bright and inviting as popsicles on a hot summer day. What she wouldn't do for a change of clothes! But without cash and credit cards, the chic jeans and Spanish-style top she admired in a window were way out of range. Hopefully the money Granny was wiring would arrive soon. She needed to straighten out this whole mess, talk to Victor, and go back to Toronto where she belonged. Yes, getting home meant boarding yet another airplane, but at the moment her fear of air travel was far down on her list of worries.

"Well," she hedged, determined not to complain, "that could have gone better."

Luc walked along beside her and even with all that had gone wrong, his presence lifted Belle's spirits. True to his word, he'd escorted her to the American Embassy. For two hours he'd waited with her in line, until a petite man aptly named Sergeant Fatigué yawned loudly and instructed Belle to collect copies of her Canadian citizenship papers so he could process her request for a new U.S. passport.

Surprisingly, Luc was a comforting source of support, even if she had to put up with his scowls and sarcastic comments.

"Perhaps if you hadn't gone on and on to the agent about how wonderful Canada and your Canadian fiancé are, it would have been easier," he pointed out, rolling his eyes.

Belle smothered a secret smile at his grouchiness. She was quickly learning that his bark was far worse than his bite. "I doubt that was the problem," she said dryly. "I think he missed his morning nap. He could barely keep his eyes open while I was talking. I thought he was going to ask for a blanket and fall asleep in the middle of our conversation!"

Luc grinned at that, steering her down the block. "Oui, he did look rather tired. No matter. Come along, cherie. We'll try the Embassy du Canada next."

"Ok," Belle agreed cautiously. He wasn't snarling or snapping at all. Her skin prickled in alarm—was it more than good will that was driving his decision to be nice to her? You're just being paranoid Belle, she told herself. Luc had already recovered the vine he'd hidden in her bag. What else did she have that he could possibly want?

Once at the Canadian Embassy, they didn't have to wait long at all. Within 20 minutes, Belle and Luc were ushered down the hall by another petite man who blushed and gave her a sheepish smile. "Agent Clark will see you now, Miss French," he stammered shyly.

Belle surveyed the modest office, a simple space with grey walls, a grey metal desk, and a small window. Tissue boxes of all shapes, sizes, and colors adorned the small room and the odors of hand sanitizer and Lysol permeated the air. A smiling man with dark hair was seated behind the desk. "I'm Tom Clark, Miss French." He covered his mouth with a tissue and sneezed. "Please, have a seat."

"You have quite a few tissues in here," Belle observed.

"Yeah, it's kind of a fetish of mine," he quipped. "Back in Edmonton, I used to be a pharmacist."

Before Belle could respond, an urgent, ominous sound rent the air. Still standing in the office doorway, Luc fumbled in his pocket for his mobile phone and peered at the screen, frowning.

"Is that the Jaws theme?" Belle teased, listening to the ringtone. "Good friend of yours?"

"Oui," Luc said unsmiling, focused on tapping out a message with his index finger. He exited the screen with a rapid click and shuffled backwards. "Belle, please excuse me. I just remembered something I need to do. I'll, uh, see you later, oui?"

"What do you need to…" Belle began, but Luc had already disappeared down the hall. "Typical," she murmured, dropping into the chair opposite Mr. Clark's desk.

"No worries, Miss French." Clark waved a tissue and wiped his nose, getting down to business. "I really only need to talk to you. Now, I'm going to ask you a series of questions and after each one you comment, ok?" Agent Clark sneezed again loudly, once, twice, three times.

"Gesundheit," Belle told the man sitting opposite her. "Sounds reasonable enough," she nodded, plucking a fresh tissue from a box and handing it to him. He accepted it gratefully.

"You weren't supposed to leave Canada, eh?" He punctuated the question by blowing his nose.

Belle squirmed in her chair, recalling her conversation with Victor while they were packing for the trip. Her temporary international travel ban was the reason she'd decided not to come to Paris in the first place. Well, one of the reasons. "I realize that, Mr. Clark. I do. But an emergency situation arose and I needed to….wait, what are you writing?"

Furiously he pounded on his keyboard, angling the computer screen away from her as Belle craned to see the words. "Why didn't you request permission to leave for your emergency?

"I should have," Belle said contritely. "I realize that now. But an emergency, by definition, really doesn't give you the time, does it?"

"Hmmmmm," he sniffled, banging repeatedly on the Enter key.

Belle frowned. All she wanted was to get her fiancé back and go home, but this interview was going south fast. Hoping to appeal to his sense of patriotism, she explained, "You see, Mr. Clark, I want to be a Canadian more than anything. I want to be just like you. It's home. Please, believe me, I just want to go home."

With a pride-filled smile Agent Clark nodded, then drew his attention back to the screen. "Uh oh." His face fell.

"What are you reading now?" Belle worried, her palms beginning to itch. Earnestly she leaned forward in the chair, blinking her eyes.

"Oh, ok," he said, mimicking her actions and peering closely at her face. "Have you…ever been convicted…of a felony?"

He glanced back at the screen, then looked at Belle. Nervously, she darted her eyes around the room, looking everywhere but at Agent Clark. She glanced out the window and concentrated on breathing slowly and evenly, but what she saw outside made her do a double-take. Luc was standing across the street talking to someone. The interview forgotten, Belle stood up and stepped over to the window, trying to get a closer look. His companion was a stunningly beautiful woman with dark brown hair, smartly dressed in a sensible pantsuit. Belle watched the woman hand Luc an envelope and then he kissed her, brushing his lips across both cheeks. Inexplicably uncomfortable, Belle massaged the back of her stiff neck. He'd never greeted her that way.

Insufferable man. He could kiss whomever he wanted however he wanted whenever he wanted. Why should she care?

"Uh, Miss French?" Clark sneezed again.

"Yes?" Belle said, still engrossed in the scene on the sidewalk.

"Could you answer my question?" Agent Clark waited, tapping his fingers on the desktop.

"What question was that?" Belle blanked, her mind on whatever Luc d'Or was up to now.

"Have you ever been convicted of a felony?" Clark repeated.

"No…" Belle cringed, glancing back at Clark and then looking back out the window. Luc was gone and so was the other woman. She turned back toward Clark.

"No?" he said, scanning the computer screen once more.

"All right, yes!" Belle colored and paced behind her chair. "I was in college trying to make a little extra cash to pay for classes and I played some pool at the local watering hole. No one expects a library sciences major to be a player, so I made good money. One night I was playing this woman and she accused me of hustling. Can you believe that? Do you know how many books I had to read on billiards to get that good? I won the game fair and square. She refused to honor her bet and picked a fight with me. I punched her and kind of broke her nose. I was very young. It was a mistake; a moment of weakness."

"That's terrible," Clark agreed solemnly. "I hate misunderstandings."

"You do?" Belle felt a little better. Maybe this minor indiscretion wasn't going to be a problem after all.

"Sure." Agent Clark cleared his throat. "Here's the problem: we just received this statement from a Sergeant Fatigué at the U.S. Embassy. It says here you were once convicted of assault by a Zelena Greene."

"Is defending my honor against a lying, cheated harpy really considered assault?" Belle reasoned. "It was just the one time and I did apologize. I even paid her medical bills."

"Look, the point is that you didn't include this information in your application for Canadian citizenship. Paragraph 12, article 7."

Belle nodded helplessly. At the time, withholding those details had seemed like a really good idea. Pool playing, whiskey drinking, smart mouthed Belle was all in the past. She'd nearly forgotten that rebellious period in her life ever existed. More importantly, Victor didn't know that person and she didn't want him to.

"This is the part where I tell you that your request for a new residence visa has been denied," Clark said, finality in his tone. "I'm sorry, Miss French. You're welcome to reapply in 60 days."

"Sixty days? 60 days? Agent Clark, I don't have 60 days!" Belle wailed.

"Have a good afternoon, Miss French," he said kindly but dismissively, handing her an unopened box of issues. "I'm truly am very sorry."

Bewildered, Belle left the Canadian Embassy clutching her strange consolation prize. Tears welled up in her eyes, threatening to spill, but she wasn't ready to give up. Not yet. She'd been delayed but she hadn't been thwarted. Making a sudden decision to return to Victor's hotel, she wiped her eyes and plastered on a hopeful smile. Ariel had said Victor and was going to the south of France to meet his new girlfriend's parents. All Belle had to do was find out where he was heading and when.


Luc was waiting for her in the marble archway just outside the door. "Cherie, how did it go?" he asked, taking a drag of his cigarette.

"No luck," Belle replied, easing the box of tissues from Agent Clark into her bag. "I can reapply in 60 days. Let's go back to the Hotel du Louvre. I want to talk to that concierge again."

Grinding the butt of his half-smoked cigarette beneath his toe, Luc gave her a questioning look.

"Don't ask," she shrugged. "Anyway, it's my turn to ask the questions. Who was that woman you were talking to across the street?"

"Pardon?" Luc scratched his head, looking puzzled.

"I saw you talking to someone. Beautiful brunette. Dark eyes. Red lips," she described. Then Belle pulled up short as they walked by a gambling hall. A small gaggle of scantily clad prostitutes sauntered by, smiling and winking at Luc. A few of them even skimmed their manicured hands across his chest and whispering invitations in his ear.

Smiling broadly, he nodded and accepted their affectionate pats, acknowledging each woman and pausing to speak to some of them in rapid-fire French. Belle watched in amazement as he charmed them all just by existing. Not a single one of them even glanced her way.

"I see how far you'd go for the love of your life," Belle snorted in disgust as the last call girl passed by, wriggling her rear end.

"Oh, please," he scoffed. "I'm finished with women."

"Maybe you haven't found the right one," she needled peevishly. Those women had been falling all over him and he was blithely unaffected. Remorse for her attitude ate at her conscience as she recollected the closetful of small outfits in the spare bedroom at his flat. Luc had a son, so evidently at one point there had been a woman. Had she hurt him so terribly?

"I have found plenty of them," he retorted, stuffing his hands in his pockets and walking ahead.

He had told her on the airplane that she was 'dreaming of life rather than living it.' Trailing behind him, Belle wondered if his accusations were more about his own experiences than they were about hers . "Perhaps something happened?" she probed gently, "that has soured you on love and relationships? It sounds like you might be afraid of commitment."

Stone-faced, he whipped around to look at her, eyes so black and fierce with warning that she shrank back as he spoke through clenched teeth. "I'm not afraid of anything."


"You know how this works, don't you, Jones?" Detective David Nolan crossed his arms over his chest and pinned the gigolo with a hard stare. "If the little fish is to survive, he must tell the fisherman where the big fish are."

"Forget it. I'm no rat." Jones shook his head, refusing to give any information to the tall, charming police officer.

David smiled ruefully. "You're mixing metaphors, my friend. Who buys the passports?"

After months of tracking his activities, David and his partner Detective Tatiana "Tink" Bell had arrested Jones for loitering in the Hotel du Louvre—it was the perfect opportunity to pick him up for questioning. Now the crook and the two officers were ensconced in the hotel's back office, Jones seated behind the desk while Tink barred the door. David sat on the edge of the desk facing Jones, framed by a large one-way window. The opening appeared as a mirror to the guests, but offered the workers inside a clear view of the front desk and a large portion of the lobby. Surreptitiously, Jones took advantage of his unique vantage point to study the comings and goings of the hotel's guests, visitors, and staff.

"I'm losing patience, Jones," David warned as the interrogation wore on. He'd grilled the con man for 40 minutes and received nothing for his trouble but a series of oaths, grunts, and one-word answers.

None of their other threats had worked and now was time to for David and Tink to reveal their secret weapon. "Tink, is Detective Horder on duty today?" David asked slowly, his gaze not wavering from Jones' horrified expression.

"I believe he is," Tink replied, smirking. "He's on the evening shift. In fact, he should be rolling into headquarters right about now." Horder was notorious among Paris crime rings for being ruthless; he took great pleasure in inflicting pain like no other inspector in the city.

"Perhaps, Mr. Jones, you would prefer to accompany us to the station to be questioned by Detective Horder. Though I can assure you, " David cracked his knuckles, "your treatment downtown won't be nearly as pleasant."

Jones blanched, swallowing audibly. Swiveling slightly in his chair, he caught a glimpse of Luc d'Or and his American friend entering the hotel. Jackpot. "Now that you mention it, a big fish did just return from the United States."

"Oui?" David pressed, pleased that the other man was finally ready to talk.

"Luc d'Or. Your friend, right?" Jones watched David for a reaction.

"Mais oui," David replied pensively, remembering Luc's odd fidgeting and rush to return to the city at brunch the other morning.

"When you see him, ask him about a stolen necklace," Jones suggested, gesturing toward the one-way mirror. "He won't be hard to find; have a look for yourselves."


Belle approached the hotel's concierge station with a sullen Luc in tow. Oh, phenomenal! It was the same wild-haired snooty concierge she had dealt with yesterday, guarding the desk like a clownish bloodhound. Today he was wearing an enormous top hat and the tails on his velvet jacket were ridiculously long. Belle inhaled deeply and gathered her courage. This time she was going to be prepared.

"Hello," she offered politely, catching his eye. "It's me again. Belle French."

"Welcome back, Madam, to the Hotel du Lourve," Jefferson greeted, irony lacing every word.

Belle chuckled gravely. "Really, it's amazing how you do that. The words come out, 'welcome back,' but the meaning is completely different. Is that a French thing or a concierge thing?"

"As madam wishes," he said coolly, brushing some imaginary lint from the arm of his suit.

"Ah, there it is again. Tell me something," she requested, her voice swelling in volume. "Perhaps we have a language barrier because I don't understand. Do you enjoy being that rude?"

He looked at her blankly.

"Because when you treat me that way, it makes me angry. Really, really angry!" she shouted, repeatedly slamming the service bell, her face awash in fury.

Gulping, Jefferson whisked the bell away and said meekly, "Thank you, Madam, for the fascinating lesson in our cultural differences. I don't believe it would betray my duty now to inform you that your fiancé and his friend are no longer our guests."

"Well, whose guests would they be now?" Belle demanded.

"The Majestic Barriere will have that happy privilege when they arrive in Cannes tomorrow. He laughed nervously. "Perhaps Madam would care to catch the last train out of Paris tonight? I could arrange for transportation immediately."

"Yes, thank you." Triumphant, Belle turned to Luc, who had remained uncharacteristically silent throughout her exchange with the snobbish concierge. "See, I do know how to take care of myself," she said proudly to…no one at all. "Luc? Luc?" Belle called, scanning the lobby for any sign of her maddening companion.

Not for the first time, the concierge looked at her oddly. "Madam?" He sounded frightened. "Who are you talking to?"

He thought she was a raving lunatic. Belle shrugged; may as well enjoy his discomfort for all it was worth.

"The voices," Belle whispered eerily, sending her eyebrows into her hairline. She'd been abandoned yet again. Next time she saw Luc d'Or, (if she ever decided to speak to him again) she would demand a damn strong explanation for these repeated disappearing acts.

"Voices?" Jefferson scrambled to pick up the phone, hands quaking. "I will call you a taxi right now, Madam."

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Up Next: Belle follows Victor to Cannes, Luc follows Belle, and Detective Nolan follows Luc.