Paris, 1950

The war is over and Paris is alive again with artists, writers and musicians. Rosalie Hale has come abroad to study in this exciting and romantic city, but instead she vanishes without a trace. Now her best friend Bella has come on her own to find her. She teams up with Rose's spunky roommate, and they are joined in the search by an American businessman, a battle-scarred reporter, and a handsome painter with his own mysterious past. Following a trail of clues left behind by Rose's letters, they plunge into the dark side of the City of Lights. Who is Royce? What secrets is he hiding? Why did Rose really leave? The search for Rose and life in Paris might just change Bella in ways she never imagined.

Stephenie Meyer owns any Twilight characters that may appear in this story. The remainder is our original work. Copyright 2009 by spanglemaker9 and justaskalice. No copying or reproduction of this work is permitted without our express written authorization.

I woke up surrounded by the sweet, slightly musky smell of Edward's skin. I savored the warm feeling of being wrapped in his arms and smushed up against his chest. I knew he was awake because his fingers were drumming absently on the small of my back, sending waves of goosebumps scattering over my skin.

"Are you awake?" he murmured, his fingers drifting lower.

I pushed my face closer to his chest, and my nose squished sideways over his heart. "Mmmf."

He laughed and kissed my forehead. It was a deceptively sweet gesture, considering his hands were now grabbing firmly onto my buttocks. I squirmed a little, shifting my left leg so it draped over his hip. He was hard, not surprisingly considering our position and the time of day. What was surprising was how playful he was being. Our mornings had been so quiet and somber lately. I usually woke up before he did, and when I didn't, I woke up alone. To have him here, very much awake and clearly in the mood, threw me off.

He ducked his head down and kissed the side of my neck, pulling me from my thoughts and making me shiver. "I've been waiting for you to wake up," he whispered. I felt the tip of his tongue run over the edge of my ear.

"Is that so?" I breathed. My lips were close enough to his chest that they dragged over skin as I spoke.

"Mmhmmm." His hands flexed and I gasped. "You kept talking in your sleep. So many false alarms."

I pulled back to look at his face. "Talking?" Oh no. I used to talk in my sleep as a child. My mother used to have whole conversations with me as I slept, but it hadn't been a problem in years. Rose never mentioned it in the three years we roomed together in college. "What did I say?"

"Mostly my name," he said smugly. "But toward the end you kept talking about home, and Paris." His voice dropped a little lower, and he pulled my face up to his for a kiss, temporarily releasing my behind. "Are you getting homesick? We've almost got things wrapped up here, I'm sure between my father and Garrett, Royce will be taken care of in no time."

There was false confidence in his tone, and a hint of bravado. We had fallen asleep shortly after our escapades last night, but I for one was anxious to talk to Ed about what our next steps would be. The whole thing had been almost too simple, and I wouldn't rest easily until Royce was behind bars and couldn't come after anyone anymore.

I shook off my uneasiness and thought about Edward's question. Truthfully, I hadn't been homesick for weeks.

"No," I finally said. "I'm not. What about you?"

"Me?" he asked in surprise. "What about me?"

"Well..." I hesitated, not quite sure how to say it. "With your father here and everything. I thought you'd be a little, I don't know, nostalgic?"

His arms snaked around me again and hugged me tightly, but he didn't say anything.

"It's okay to miss your home, Edward," I said. That caught his attention for some reason, and he looked down at me with a frown.

"Paris is my home," he said firmly. Then he seemed to realize what he said, and his brow softened a little bit. "That's not right. Home is wherever you are. If you weren't in Paris, there would be nothing for me here."

I kissed him, unable to control the surge of desire and love that rushed through me. He rolled us slightly, and then I was pressed down into the mattress, his warm weight pushing me down, surrounding me.

When I pulled away for a breath, I reached up to gently cup his cheek. "I feel exactly the same way."

His answering smile was brilliant, and for a few minutes I was lost in soft touches and passionate kisses. A knot was forming in the pit of my stomach, and I knew this was the perfect time to tell him what I had decided. Home was with Edward, and Edward's home, as he said, was here. Nothing else mattered.

I forced my lips away from his, groaning lightly as he continued to trail sloppy, wet kisses over my neck and shoulders. His hands palmed my breasts, squeezing me just roughly enough to make the pleasant tingle between my legs surge.

"Edward," I gasped, placing my hands firmly on his shoulders. He was dragging his lips down the curve of my right breast, and while I was definitely interested in where he was headed, the need to tell him about what I wanted—no, needed—was too strong. I pushed down until he looked up, confused.

"Did you not want—"

"So much," I sighed, but kept him at arm's length.

"Then...why?" He looked so endearingly confused that I kissed him again.

"I need to tell you something."

He arched an eyebrow and nodded, encouraging me to continue.

"Do you promise you'll listen to what I have to say and not try to change my mind?"

He got a wary look in his eye. "No. Absolutely not."

I sighed and fell back onto my pillow. "It's nothing bad, I promise."

"I don't care," he said firmly. "Remember what you said last night? We're in this together. No matter what. That means neither one of us gets to make decisions without input."

I wrinkled my nose, but nodded. "Okay."

"Okay. So..." he prompted. His beautiful green eyes looked so worried.

"I don't want to go back to America," I said quickly, as if speaking faster would make this conversation easier. I was prepared for him to argue, so I kept talking, determined to get my whole statement out before he commented. "I want to stay here, with you. I know you said you'd come back with me, but I don't think I fit there anymore. You'd be miserable, and so would I."

I kissed him again, trying to pull strength from the feel of his lips. "I love you. I'm happy here in Paris. I'm happy with you. If you want to try going back to London, I'll be right there with you. I don't want to be separated from you."

"Bella," he breathed, but he didn't continue. We just stared at each other, his features stretched in stunned confusion, mine concentrated and, I hoped, sincere. "Bella, are you sure? Your family, school—"

"What about them?" I interrupted. "If we went back to Washington you'd be just as far away from your family and your life. The only difference would be that we'd both be unhappy there. Edward, we can be happy here."

"You're sure?" he asked again, the hint of a smile finally filtering through. "You want to stay here?"

"I'm positive," I whispered, weaving my fingers through his always-unruly hair and pulling his lips to mine. He met me with a forceful passion that I almost wasn't ready for, sucking my tongue into his mouth and moaning with abandon.

He was already positioned above me, and I couldn't have moved if I wanted to. His hands started to wander again, no longer so feather light as they forged burning trails down my side and across my stomach. I gasped when his lips closed over my nipple, pulling my attention from his hands and making me arch my back. A funny half-squeak, half-purr left my throat, and he laughed as he reached across me to the bedside table.

"Damn," he muttered as he pulled back with the French letter in his hand.

"Is something wrong?" I asked breathily. He shifted a little, and I felt his hardness move closer to me. Just a little to the right and we'd be connected. My body was humming, and I had to fight to stay still. I never would have described myself as a sexual creature before Paris, but with Edward I was insatiable.

"This is my last one," he sighed, tossing the empty case over his shoulder. It clattered to the ground somewhere near the corner of the room.

"Well, let's make it count then," I suggested with a sly smile. Unable to resist, I rotated my hips a little, feeling a groan rip through his chest as he struggled to put it on without separating himself from me. His answer wasn't verbal.

Almost immediately I felt him fill me in a fast, fluid movement, one hand still working me quickly as he started to kiss his way back up to my lips.

I thought I knew what this felt like—Edward moving in me, through me, the two of us twisted together and gasping for breath. I should have been used to the sensations that ripped through me by now, and the sounds of sweaty skin slapping together lightly as we tangled between his sheets. The plain truth of the matter, though, was that every time was different. There would be no getting used to it, no gradual decay into boredom or routine. I simply knew, deep down, that even if I spent the rest of my life trying, I would never experience everything that there was to know and feel with Edward.

He pulled me closer into his chest and sat up abruptly, changing our angle and wrapping his arms around my hips as we continued to move together. My eyes flew open in surprise and pleasure, and Edward chuckled a little as his eyes locked with mine.

"Shhhhhh. Just feel," he murmured. I didn't close my eyes again, preferring to watch his eyes narrow in concentration. A bead of sweat trickled down his forehead, and I focused on it as the tingling between my legs started to build and radiate outward.

"That's it," I gasped, breaking eye contact and gripping his shoulders tightly as we sped up again. He leaned forward and started kissing the crook of my neck, his movements increasingly erratic until finally he shuddered and collapsed, letting me fall back onto the pillows and resting his head on my breast over my thundering heart.

"Wow," he said eventually, dropping a kiss on the nape of my neck and rolling off of me.

"Mmmhmm," I hummed absently, not ready to open my eyes yet. When he came back to bed, he pulled the covers over our bodies and wrapped his arm around my waist, his stomach and chest flush to my back. We just laid there, soaking in the feeling. The sun was up now, peeking through the dirty skylight and reminding us that there were things to do today. We had to talk with Ed, break the news to Rose, and sometime in there I had to go to work. We had lives to live.

I laughed lightly at the thought.

"What is it?" he asked. I could feel his smile against my neck.

"It's just... this is our life now. Our lives, Edward. You and me."

He laughed, a happy, free sound that rang from his chest. "I'm looking forward to it, Bella." He kissed my neck and whispered in my ear, "So very much."

A half an hour later we were sitting in the kitchen with Ed, sipping terrible coffee. I had tried to make myself presentable, but I was afraid that my messy waves and too bright eyes were a dead giveaway for what we had been up to this morning. I wanted very much to make a good impression on Ed. Maybe Edward thought he didn't need a relationship with his parents, but it was possible that it wouldn't always be that way. And with everything I had heard about Kate looming over me, I didn't want to give Ed any reasons to think that I was less than worthy of his son.

"Have you heard anything from Garrett yet, Dad?" Edward asked. His face was calm, betraying nothing, but under the table I saw his hands clench into tight fists. I put my hand on his knee and patted him softly.

"We spoke this morning," Ed said. He took a sip of his coffee and winced. "The Police Nationale don't have anything concrete yet, but Garrett thinks there's a solid chance that James will cooperate. He's already let a few vague hints go. I think with the proper motivation he'll give us the information we need to arrest Royce."

"What about Royce?" I asked. "What if he hears that James is talking and tries to run?"

"It's a possibility," Ed admitted. "But even if he runs, he has to return to London first. And we'll get him there."

"Are you sure?" Edward asked, his voice grim and slightly accusatory. "After all, the Police Nationale haven't been able to scrape together a case against him in years. What makes you think they'll be able to arrest him if he runs?"

"I'm not a complete novice, Edward," Ed sighed. "I did my homework before I left London. Scotland Yard has been building a case on him for a long time, but they haven't been able to touch him in France. If he tries to go home, they'll be able to arrest him. That, combined with what the French have got, will be enough to convict him of a number of crimes. I have quite a few connections. You needn't worry."

Edward just stared at his father, completely nonplussed. "Connections," he said flatly. "I see."

The tension that always lingered between the two men seemed to thicken and surge. They stared each other down. I knew Edward had questions for his father, and their silent war had gone on for far too long. It would have to stop, and soon. But for now...

"Edward? I have to go to work now. Should I find Carlisle, or...?"

"I'll walk you," he said immediately, still staring at his father. Ed gave him a smile and a little nod, and he blinked and looked over at me. "Let's go," he sighed.

"Are you okay?" I asked him quietly as we walked to the café. He looked down at me and smiled.

"I'm..." He paused and blinked. "I'm not sure. It's been a very strange several weeks."

"I know what you mean," I chuckled, squeezing his hand. He smiled absently and swung our hands back and forth between us.

"It's just that I always thought I knew exactly who my father was. He was boring and consistent, snooty and stuck in his ways. He loved my mother and spent all his free time lecturing me about behaving like a gentleman. That's how I remember him."

"And now?"

"Now, it seems like I was mistaken about a lot of things. What if I've had it wrong this whole time?"

We stopped at the door to the café and he sighed. "I'm not sure about anything anymore."

I reached up to touch his face, smoothing his hair back from his forehead and trying to erase the deep worry lines that creased his forehead. "Talk to him, Edward. It's the only way you're going to get the answers you want."

"I don't know," he said slowly.

Kissing his cheek, I turned and walked toward the doors. "Think about it, Edward. I can't make you do anything you don't want to do, but I think if you give the idea some time, you'll realize you need to do this in order to move forward."

He gave me a crooked smile and a nod. "Okay, I'll think about it." Then he straightened out his grin and shook his finger sternly. "Wait here for Emmett tonight. I have to play the early set at Le Tabou, so he's going to come and walk you back home, okay?"

I nodded and blew him a kiss before walking inside.

"Bonjour," I called to Angelique and Pierre as I wrapped my apron around my waist. "Ça va?"

Pierre gave me an absent wave from his spot behind the counter and Angelique grinned and walked over to talk to me.

"Very well, thank you," she said sweetly. "Did you sleep well?"

"Très bien," I answered.

We chatted back and forth, trading French and English until Pierre cleared his throat loudly and glared at us. Angelique burst into giggles and I rolled my eyes, but we got to work.

Later in the afternoon, Marguerite wandered into my section of outdoor tables. She was carrying a sheaf of loose leaf papers and a fountain pen, and for a few minutes I simply watched her arrange everything in impeccable order, straightening pages and testing the nub of her pen.

Before she could focus too entirely on her writing, I walked up to her table.

"Bonjour, Marguerite."

She looked up and smiled. "Bella," she said with a nod. "Nice to see you again."

"Can I get you anything?"

"A coffee and a menu, chérie."

I nodded and scurried off to get her order. The stern, older woman had been in my thoughts ever since I met her. She was the first honest to goodness female writer I had spoken to, and it was obvious she loved her work. When I asked Esme about her, she gushed for 15 minutes about Mademoiselle Badeau and her fabulous short stories. She even had a copy of one of Marguerite's early manuscripts, bound in worn leather and printed on a hand press. Edward was helping me translate it from French, and though we hadn't made a lot of headway, I was completely enthralled with what I had been able to read. Her writing was honest and plain. It was like she had granted me a seat inside her head, and I was privy to all her thoughts in one streamlined, perfectly articulated fashion.

I was hoping she would return to the café so I could talk to her about my own writing. Honestly, she scared me half to death, but I also knew that she would be blunt with me about the quality of my work. I wanted that honesty.

"Where are your friends today?" I asked, setting the coffee cup down in front of her.

"Probably still sleeping," she snorted. "The fools were out until 4 a.m. I prefer to get a little more sleep than that."

I smiled and nodded. "Me too. My friend Alice loves to stay out late, but I just can't get used to keeping those hours. I know it's not very Parisian of me, but late nights are difficult for me."

She snorted. "Well you're not exactly Parisian, now, are you, young one?"

My cheeks flushed and I looked down at my feet. "I suppose not."

When I looked up, she was staring at me critically. "And yet, here you are. Why is that?"

"It's a long story," I laughed.

She kicked out the chair across from her and my eyes widened. "Oh no," I stuttered. "I couldn't. I'm working."

She looked around at the empty tables that surrounded her. Angelique was lounging against the wall chatting with Benjamin, and Pierre was snoozing at the counter. "Yes, it looks like things are quite busy," she said dryly.

I sighed and sat down hesitantly. "What do you want to know?" The blunt force of her stare was intimidating.

"Everything, bien sûr."

So I started at the beginning with Alice's letter and my decision to leave for Paris. She peppered me with questions about leaving home and my journey to France, especially my ocean voyage. She wanted to know how I felt when I got off the train in Paris, and the first thing I smelled when I left the train station.

It took me most of the afternoon to get my story out. People started to trickle in, and I was forced to split my time between chatting with Marguerite and actually doing my job. I caught a few pointed stares from Pierre, but my customers were taken care of and my work was done, so he couldn't really complain.

The end of my shift found me cleaning off the tables and telling Marguerite about the raid on Le Tabou. She seemed completely taken by my words; she had stopped asking questions a half hour ago and was watching me with rapt attention.

"And now? What do you intend to do when all of this is behind you?" she asked after I had finished the story.

"Well, that's why I wanted to talk to you," I said slowly, not daring to look her in the eye. I took a deep breath. "I'm... I'm going to stay in Paris. And I want to try to write."

She nodded as if this made perfect sense. "You have an excellent grasp of storytelling. I'd love to see your draft."

"What draft?" I said blankly. "I have some notebooks with a few short stories and some character sketches."

"Don't be silly," she snapped. "That is your story, Bella. The foreigner, arriving in a strange land and giving up everything for a friend. Living as an alien in a city where you don't speak the language. Surely you see the potential?"

"I suppose so," I murmured. "I started something that's more abstract about growing up, but—"

"That is the subtext of course," she said airily. "You don't want to beat your readers over the head with it. It's not your style."

"My style?"

"Yes, your style, child! The way you shape your words, the choices you make. Writing is about choices. Every word, every comma, every phrase is a choice. Your choices define who you are as a writer and an artist."

I stared at her, wishing that I was carrying my notepad and pen at that moment.

"Bah, I cannot explain. You will give me something you have written, and then I will show you."

"When?" I breathed. It was everything I was prepared to beg her for, and she was just offering it to me as if it was no big deal. I didn't want to blink in case she changed her mind.

"When is Esme's next party? I'll come and you will show me these notebooks of yours."

"I think there's one the day after tomorrow."

"Perfect. I'll be there."

A shrill whistle startled me before I could thank her. "Hey, kid, get the lead out!"

I whipped my head around and saw Emmett standing on the sidewalk with his hands in his pockets. He grinned and gave me a little wave. Marguerite gave him a disapproving look, but he only laughed and bowed. I rolled my eyes.

"Sorry, I think that's my cue to take my leave. I'll see you at Esme's party though, right?" I was still a little bit in disbelief, and something in me had to confirm that she was really going to look at my writing.

"Of course, of course," she said, dismissing me with a sharp wave of her hand.

I checked in with Pierre and tossed my apron to Angelique before running out to where Emmett still stood on the sidewalk.

"Ready, short stack?" he asked. When I nodded, he threw his arm around my shoulders and we started walking. He seemed in a hurry to get home, which I said out loud after I almost tripped because he was walking so fast.

"Sorry," he said, slowing down to a more sedate pace—sedate for Emmett, that is, I was still jogging a little to keep up with his long strides. "Rose got her crutches today and when I left Alice was walking into her room with an armful of ribbons. Alice can be a little overwhelming, and I don't want—"

"Rose to eat Alice for supper?" I finished, laughing a little.

"Well... kind of," he admitted.

"Still a little scarred from the other day, huh?"

"No, it's not that." He paused, seeming to collect his thoughts. "She doesn't like being helpless. I didn't mean to, but I was making her feel more helpless with the way I was treating her."

"Exactly," I said, happy that he understood Rose so quickly. Most people were a little put off by her refusal to be treated like a declawed kitten, especially because she was so beautiful. "I think it's because she's always kind of had to look out for herself. Her parents died when she was four, and her aunt raised her. Helen worked a lot, so Rose was either looking out for herself or over at my house. My parents aren't exactly the kind to coddle a child, even a pretty one." Emmett snorted and I gave him a wry smile.

"She's a lot like my mom," he said softly. "Independent, strong. Imogene McCarty never takes anything lying down." His face seemed to brighten as he grinned mischievously down at me. "So today I'm trying a new strategy."

"What's that?"

"You'll see," he laughed, refusing to say anything else, even though I pestered him.

Emmett's fears about Alice weren't that far off. Rose's bed was covered in piles of silk and fluttery ribbons, and Alice sat in the center, winding her crutches with pink and blue and green. Rose sat in her wheelchair, looking impatient and more than a little annoyed.

Alice was talking her ear off, providing a steady stream of conversation with no need for Rose to contribute. For a while, Alice had felt so guilty about Rose's situation that every time she came to visit the room was filled with tense silences and awkward pauses. Then one day, not long after Rose had opened up to me and Esme, I had walked into Rose's room to find the two of them curled up in her bed, teary eyed but smiling. I didn't ask either of them what had happened, but things seemed to get better after that.

"Finally," Rose sighed when Emmett and I walked in. "Bella, will you tell her that my crutches are fine and if I don't get to stand up soon she's going to seriously regret it once I'm walking again."

She was grumpy and glaring and more than likely actually cranky, but I couldn't help but smile. She sounded alive. Still, no need to push our luck.

"Alice, those are very, um, pretty, but don't you think you should let Rose try to start moving around?"

She scowled. "Pretty?"

"Stylish?" I tried again. She sighed loudly, but stood up and relinquished the crutches, muttering something about Philistines in the Holy Land. I walked over to Rose and crouched in front of her crutches. "You ready to go?"

She scrunched her eyebrows together, and for a second I saw fear and sadness flash in her bright blue eyes. Emmett must have seen it too, because he leaned over and picked one of the crutches up from her lap.

"Doesn't seem terribly difficult," he mused, hunching over and leaning heavily on it. "Anyone with half a brain could do it."

"I don't think brains have anything to do with it," Rose said coldly, though fear still lurked in her eyes. "And if they did, it wouldn't help you any."

"Ouch," laughed Emmett. "I thought we were friends, Rosie."

"Don't call me that," she said, sounding more and more frustrated.

"What? Your name?" he asked innocently. "Okay, how about Sam?"

"My name is Rosalie."

He grinned, she glared, and Alice gaped. Emmett's "new strategy" was apparently making her so angry that she launched herself out of her wheelchair through sheer willpower. She looked like she was ready to give it a shot.

"Anyway," Emmett continued, "I doubt you have the upper body strength to use these. I could wrap one hand around your arm."

That was the last straw.

"Hand it over," she growled. He simply arched an eyebrow at her. "Now."

"Okay, okay," he said. He gave it back to her and held up his hands defensively. "Go ahead. But don't say I didn't warn you."

She didn't respond, merely curled her lip and gritted her teeth. "Bella, can you steady my chair for a second?"

Emmett crossed his arms and leaned casually against the wall. His whole attitude was one of studied indifference. He simply quirked his eyebrow, like he was daring her.

"Rose," I started.

"Just do it, Bella." She was practically snarling. I shut up and steadied the back of her chair while Alice propped the crutches up. Rose put her feet on the ground, gingerly at first but then with more confidence as she leaned into the crutches and hoisted herself up. It took her a couple of minutes to steady herself but once she had she smiled triumphantly.

"No upper body strength?" she gloated.

"Standing's the easy part," Emmett said easily. "It's not like you've gotten anywhere."

Angry pink spots burned into the apples of her cheeks. Her bruises were gone now, and she was starting to fill out a little, putting on the weight she had lost. With the little bit of color her anger had given her, she looked radiant.

"Fine," she fumed. "Then watch me."

I kept right up behind her, just in case she fell backwards, but I wasn't stupid enough to touch her. She was determined to do this, and I wasn't about to stop her.

Slowly, she stuck one foot out, swinging her arm swiftly so that she could continue to move forward. About half way across the room, she had to stop and lean on my shoulder for a second. Emmett's smile widened as she took a couple of deep breaths, but she was past acknowledging him. Her anger was still simmering just below the surface, but there was something else now. Her mouth was set in a thin line and her eyes burned with an energy I hadn't seen there in a long time, even back in Seattle.

When she reached the wall where Emmett was leaning, she straightened up as tall as she could and looked him in the eye.

"Okay, okay," Emmett said, putting his hands up again, this time in surrender. "Maybe you're stronger than you look, Rosie."

Her eyes flashed, and without another word she turned and walked the length of the room again, faster this time and with more confidence. When she reached her chair, she didn't wait for me to steady her. She simply reached behind her with one arm and while keeping her balance with the other.

"Maybe?"

He just ducked his head and smiled before walking out of her room.

"Well." She preened a little, then seemed to remember that Alice and I were in the room. I could tell the instant she realized it because her smile faltered a little and she cleared her throat. "Well, I guess I showed him."

She turned her chair to face out the window, closed her eyes, and smiled into the sun.

"Yeah," I murmured, staring out into the hallway where Emmett had disappeared moments ago. "I guess you did."

A/N: In case you missed it, I posted the Jasper outtake last week. It's called Frozen, and it's currently available on and on fanfiction here: http://www(dot)fanfiction(dot)net/s/5807871/1/Frozen