Adele Blakesley, only child of Adrian Blakesley, stood limned in the light from the rising full moon. Truth be told, she was a witch. In all senses of the word, but mostly in that she worshipped the Goddess, even if she did it privately and discreetly and talked to no one about it.

She was speaking to her Goddess as the moon rose over the Seine as she stood on the balcony of her bedroom, in the townhouse she'd only just finished redecorating.  The Rue de la Bucherie was behind her, and she looked over the Quai de Montebello toward Ile de Citie and the glory that was Notre Dame. The moon silvered its flying buttresses and lit the roof line and turned the Seine to molten silver. She shivered at the beauty spread out before her.

She touched the stone that made up the house and listened to it speak its name. So many memories and so few could hear the stories. Tomorrow, she swore, she'd begin a journal of the house's history.

Nyree lay asleep in another bedroom. Adele could feel her there, contentedly asleep, thankfully not dreaming of the horrors that had happened and the loss of her lover. Adele, however, still quite often dreamed of Alex. But it was over and she needed to be strong to make sure it remained that way.

She sighed and began to relax as she felt the hand of the Goddess touch her, easing her spirit. Then finally she turned and walked back into her bedroom. She lay down on the bed and sank into sleep.

Several hours later she sat up, startled. She glanced at the clock. 3am. She felt outward toward the wards on the house and sensed him trying to defeat them. Someone magical, or at least talented, she was surprised to realize.

She got out of bed and walked into the hallway, questing outwardly ever so gently so he wouldn't feel the thread of her magic. There. At the servant's entrance door. She ghosted down the stairs to the main floor then down toward the kitchen. She picked the dark part of the stairwell, where it curved and stood still, cloaking herself with magic. She waited until he attempted again to defeat the wards and gave him just the merest bit of help.

She sensed his triumphant thought and smiled.  And waited, silently.

He wove his way through the wards and eased the door open.  He slipped inside the kitchen, pausing just inside the door to let his eyes adjust to the darkness.  Then, on cat's feet, he crossed the room and let himself out into a passage towards the stairs that led up from the basement to the main floor of the house.  What he wanted was in the study and that was directly across the main foyer from the dining room, or so his research had led him to believe.

"Anything I can help you with?" Adele asked, still cloaked from his sight.

Years of training in controlling every muscle, every reaction was all that stopped him from letting loose a string of curses.  "I'm here to read the meter," he said.  "only I seem to have lost it."

"Ah, I see. You're dressed a bit oddly for that, you know. I quite like it actually. Black suits you."

He glanced down.  "I do too, really.  Black is so versatile, you know.  Works for any occasion almost."

"True. So are you here for the silver or for my virtue?"

"Is your virtue on offer?" he asked, picking her out of the shadows.

"I'm rather selective of who it's offered to," she retorted shrugging off the cloaking around herself, forgetting her nightgown was nearly transparent.

He absorbed the view, his eyes warming.  "It is an intriguing prospect," he said.  "The silver would hardly be an adequate substitution.  But I quite understand your reticence."  He smiled at her.   It's so delightful to find a woman these days with the self-respect to take a stance such as yours."

"Oh!" she said blushing furiously and magicking a robe over herself. Then to him, "Get out now before I hit the alarm. I'll give you a five minute head start."

"Five minutes?" he asked taking a step that brought him close to her.

She took an instinctive step back and hit the wall.  He grinned at her, all male predator, his teeth flashing in the dim light.  "Plenty of time," he said, and kissed her.  He felt the shock that went through her, the stunned suspension of thought and firmed his lips on hers, tracing the line where hers met with the tip of his tongue.  When they parted, unconsciously responding to the caress he swept past them and on into her mouth, stroking her tongue with his, inviting hers to dance with his.

He touched no other part of her, though his body was less than an inch from hers and his palms were flat against the wall on either side of her temples.  He heard the hitch in her breathing, sensed the sudden acceleration of her pulse and repeated his invitation, this time by expanding his exploration to the warm, satin caverns of her mouth and was rewarded with a soft sigh of pleasure.  He fed it for an instant longer and then drew back gradually, ending the kiss the way he'd begun it, with a tender, beguiling caress of her lips with the tip of his tongue before lifting his head enough to see her eyes.  The bemusement in them had him biting back a smile she would have taken definite and immediate exception to.

"Au revoir, madamoiselle."

"Au revoir," she replied, moving the stiletto she'd been holding only an inch from his neck.

He caught the glint of it and laughed.  "I bet you have a temper too, don't you sweetheart?  Unfortunately, I haven't time to stay and test the theory.  But I promise you I shall find out."  He stepped back and ran a finger along her cheek bone.  "My name's Patrick, by the way," he said and then he was gone.

"Bloody cheek," she said hotly, but her lips wanted to smile.

Adele waved good day to her friends at the Sorbonne and sauntered up the street, her mind on things other than a job. It wasn't that she needed one for the money, but there was only so much shopping even she could do, even in Paris.

They'd had a downpour and now the skies were clearing up. The streets and sidewalks steamed, the cooled air evaporating the water off the hot concrete. People began filling up the streets of the Left Bank now that the rain had stopped. The Cafes were already wiping off tables and chairs, setting out tablecloths and silverware, and the people would come, including, she laughed aloud, the tourists.

She enjoyed the tourists.  She liked seeing them react to the beauties of the city particularly to the beauties of her stones. The stones enjoyed it too.  She paused a moment then turned and instead of heading home decided to head toward Sacre Coeur.

She caught a cab and had him drop her off at the bottom of the steps. She hurried up them suddenly anxious to see the basilica, to touch the stones, to hear them speak with her. As she emerged on Montmartre and walked over to gawk with the tourists who looked out over the city from its height.

She laughed to herself, remembering what Julian had said about the place, how he'd once played dice with his Roman officers here when the city was only a few hovels and mud. Long before the place was known only as a place of death and truimph.

She wandered through the basilica, avoiding the guided tours, running her hand along the stone where it wouldn't damage the carvings or the murals and let the singsong of the mountain speak to her. Several hours later she walked out into early evening in Paris. Most of the tourists had left so the sidewalk cafes were not mobbed.  She walked over to take a seat at a table and ordered Parisian coffee. She was staring dreamily off over the vista of Paris below her when her daydream was interrupted by the sensation that someone was watching her.

He followed her for days, off and on.  A morning here, an afternoon there, trying to make up his mind about her and about what he was going to do.  Today, he'd watched her head up the stairs and had decided to take the funicular up to the top, just to be safe.  Then he sat outside in the square while she was in the church, watching the tourists and the adding the view of Paris from the heights to his memory bank.

She was trouble of the worst sort.  He had an obligation to meet.  Together that was bad news.  But that kiss, that impulsive, insane kiss he'd stolen wouldn't go away.  He'd relived it a dozen times a day since then, like a giddy school girl.

Now, here he was, watching her from the shadows of the Museum of Sex, firmly ignoring the irony and wondered what he was going to do.  When her attention jerked back to the present and she started scanning the street he smiled.  Then he waited until she'd relaxed again, keeping his focus off of her until she did, before he crossed the street and slid into the seat next to her.

"Lady Adele Blakesley, only child of the Earl of Avery, who fled the cold milieu of England for the City of Lights.  How nice to see you again."

Her eyes narrowed as she regarded him.  "And you are?" was what she finally asked.

"Patrick," he said, lifting her hand to his lips.  "Here to test my theory."

"The stiletto is in my hand if that's your theory," she replied. "I learned to use it from an expert. One who, I might add, nearly slit my throat with one. It seemed a good idea to learn how to use one."

"Did it?  I'd probably have thought the same," he said, signaling the waiter.  "Another coffee?"

"What do you want, Patrick?  Think I'll invite you into the house due to your magnetic personality so you can steal whatever it was you came there for in the first place?"

"No, not at all," he assured her, ordering coffee for them both.  "Where's the fun in that?  If I can't get it on my own, clearly I don't deserve it, do I?"

She sat back in her chair, the stiletto no longer visible in her hand.  In fact she crossed her arms on her chest and regarded him levelly. "Then what?"

"To see your face in the daylight," he said, his eyes teasing her to laugh at his foolishness with him.

She waited to answer until the waiter had left the coffee and they were alone again. She shook her head looking him over while doing it. "Flattery will get you no where with me, buster. My father is prettier than I am."

"Then isn't it fortunate I'm not flattering you?" he asked, unperturbed, dropping a sugar cube into his coffee.

"So, Patrick, if that really is your name, what brings you to Paris, besides the desire to rob my townhouse?"

"Last I checked at the Hall of Records it was owned by one Julian Vaurien.  Did you just buy it?" he asked.  "I certainly would if I got the chance.  The view of Notre Dame alone must be spectacular."

"I wish. I asked him to sell it to me. No joy," she replied. "And stop avoiding the question. Or just go off and rob some other poor woman and see if you can tease her into trusting you."

"You must think I'm simple-minded.  I have no expectation that you'll trust me," he said, looking wounded for an instant.  "I came to Paris for the water."

"For the water..." she repeated as if she thought she'd misunderstood him.

"The water."

"Ah, I see," she replied, her eyes narrowing again. "But you're in the wrong establishment then."

"So it would seem.  Clearly I was misinformed.  But the Seine is a more than adequate substitute," Patrick said.

"Again you're rather far afield. It's way down there."

"Oh I understand.  You really want to know what brings me to Montmartre.  It was to ride the funicular and to visit the museum," he said, gesturing across the street.  "Most definitely a disappointment.  Don't waste your money."

"Yes, I'm not surprised at all," she replied, amusement curving the edge of her mouth. "You look the type. Why are you following me?"

"Following you?" he said.  "Well, if I were, it would have to be because of your walk."

"Yes, I'm quite sure my walk is remarkable," she said her eyes crinkling up as she fought down a smile. "Rude and not ginger."

He lifted a hand to his hair.  "I told the stylist she was going a shade too dark but would she listen.  No!  I'm definitely going to someone else next time, even if she is fabulous when it comes to waxing."

"I give up," Adele said with a laugh. "All right, I'll give you amusing. Maddening goes without saying. Rude, definitely."

"Rude?  How have I been rude?" he asked.

"Stealing a kiss isn't rude?" she asked. "Not to mention breaking into my house. I definitely call that rude."

"Well when you put it like that, I'll give you the breaking in to your house.  The stealing a kiss....that wasn't rude, that was an irresistible impulse, a wholly understandable response to that pouty lower lower lip that was just begging to be..."  He stopped abruptly.  "Worse than purple prose," he said.  "I apologize and accept the validity of rude as it applies here."

"Thank you. It was, by the way, quite a creditable kiss."

"'Worthy of often limited commendation,' according to the Oxford Dictionary, or words to that effect," he recited.  "I do beg your pardon."

She cocked her head and regarded him. "Why do you steal things?  For the rush, I expect. You dress well, you speak well. I find it hard to believe you couldn't find a better way to get on in the world. Unless you have addictions you can't control, of course."

"No, no addictions, unless pouty lower lips count.  And not for the rush either, thank you."  He shrugged.  "Sometimes needs must.  But fortunately, only rarely.  So why are you in Paris?"

She shrugged. "Why not. It's a lovely city and I have .. I like it. I attended the Sorbonne so it seemed like a good idea to come back. And you're here for the water."

"Indeed, I am," he agreed.  "The Sorbonne?  And what field of study did you pursue?"

"Art history. And I only recently finished a degree in Florence on Building Restoration techniques. Why?" she asked, eyes narrowing again.

"What do you mean why?" he asked.  "I was curious and since it didn't seem all that horribly personal a question I asked."

"And where did you go to school. That's not an Oxbridge accent."

"No it certainly isn't," he said.  "I've studied a number of places."

"Ah, why did I expect an answer. No last name, no details to tie him down with. Monsieur Mysterioso. Hoping to intrigue the poor little rich girl with his charm."

He smiled and put some money on the table.  "Cavenaugh, Patrick Cavenaugh," he said standing up.  "And if you're a poor little anything, then I'm a woman in drag."  He lifted her hand to his lips.  "But I'm not.  And rather than upset you further with my failure to cooperate with your efforts at dissection I'll bid you adieu."

"Giving up so easily?  As you will. Bon soir, Patrick."

"Bon soir, Adele," Patrick said and left, smiling.

Patrick Cavenaugh had tried to forget her.  He really had.  She was more trouble than he wanted to even imagine, let alone take on.  But then, when he wasn't trying to follow her she was everywhere he looked.  The theatre, the opera, the symphony...there'd seemed like there wasn't anyway to avoid her the last couple of weeks and it had started to get to him, making him feel almost fatalistic.

Then the last few days he hadn't seen her.  It might have been because she had no interest in superstring theory or particle physics and the implications of differential geometry and so wouldn't have been at the lecture, or because he'd been in Marseilles for the last two days.  He didn't know.  But it had been a relief.

He tucked his shirt in and grabbed a jacket and his saxophone, heading for the Metro.  Janine and the band were playing in Montmartre tonight and he had promised to sit in.  It sounded like exactly what he needed.  Playing jazz until dawn for people who know what they were listening to, drinking beer and letting it all fall away in the music.

Two hours later, sweat soaked and flying from the music, he set down his sax and upended his beer, draining it.  He felt relaxed for the first time in two weeks.  He lowered the bottle and stood up to get another, signaling to Janine he'd be right back.  Then, stepping down off the risers he scanned the crowd.  And froze, his eyes caught by hers.

She wore a slightly sardonic smile. She was at a table full of people, so it must have been planned, probably by someone other than her.  She picked up her glass of wine and saluted him with it.

He nodded slightly and then forced himself to look away, keeping to his original trajectory to the service bar.

Her laughter, somehow he knew it was hers, rang out at something the fellow sitting next to her said. She replied but he couldn't make it out and they all responded with a chorus of laughter.

He was staring at his beer when he knew she was leaning against the bar next to him. "Nice job," she said.

He stiffened and then wrapped himself in the person she knew him as, adding a grin for good measure.  "Thanks.  We aim to please," he said, turning perpendicular to the bar so he was facing her.

"Ah, I see. I'm not allowed to see the real you. Never mind," she said and turned to walk away.

He reached out and grabbed her arm before he knew he'd done it, pulling her back to face him.  "I'm the guy who broke into your house, remember?  At whose throat you've twice felt justified in holding a knife."

She shrugged off his grip, and frowned at him. "I make friends slowly."

"In this case," he said slowly, "that's probably wise.  Are you a wise woman Adele Blakesley?"

"No, I'm not. I'm headstrong and temperamental not to mention completely immoral and uninterested in behaving myself.  You?"

"Very likely not," he said.  "If I were I'd walk away from you and do whatever it takes to not look back, even though it seems not to have worked the last time I tried it."

She looked back at her table and said, "I need to get back to my friends. Can we talk once you finish?"

"Why don't we leave it like this," he said carefully.  "I'm here 'til the gig ends.  If you're still here and want to talk then we can.  Otherwise..."   He shrugged.  "Two things will be true.  I'll never forget kissing you and I hope we never meet again."

"If I don't go home with George, I'll be here," she replied evenly and walked back to the table.

His eyes followed her, staying with her until she sat down.  Then he turned back to the bar, reaching behind it for a towel and wiped his face.  When he finished he asked for and got a large single malt and another beer before heading back to his saxophone and the oblivion of jazz played right in a smoky bar at midnight.

He hadn't seen her leave but at some point near the end of the night he noticed the table where she and her friends had sat was empty.  He told himself she was wiser than she thought and put it aside, blowing the disappointment into every note he played after that.

When he finally left the bar at 3am she was sitting on the stoop outside the band entrance, "Hi."

"Hi," he said, sitting down next to her.  "Nice night."

"It has been. Good friends, a little wine, nice music. You play well, but then you know that."

"I play," he said.  "John Coltrane, Charlie Palmer, those guys played well.  I just play.  But thanks for the appreciation."

"Think nothing of it. I'm envious is all. I never could learn to pay the piano."

"When did you try last?" he asked.

She frowned, thinking about it. "Uhm, 1875 or so. I was twelve. I threw the book at my teacher.  I never did like her.  She was one of those poor me sorts of women."

"Possibly, if you were still interested, you'd have a different experience if you tried again.  I mean you never know.  A lot has changed since 1875," he pointed out.

"True. But I'm not sure I have. I'm still a brat."

"If you redefine it as temperamental," he said, "you'll still get to behave that way, but it will be said to improve your playing."

"You do have a one track mind, don't you," Adele groused.

"Do I?" he laughed.  "My apologies, mademoiselle.  I was trying for non-threatening conversation while I adjusted to you actually being here."

"Non-threatening to you or to me?" she wanted to know.

"Both of us.  Are you hungry?  I know a bakery where they're just about to take the croissants and the rolls out of the oven."

"Mmmm. Sounds wonderful. I make a mean pot of coffee."

He stood up and offered her a hand.  "The perfect joint project," he quipped.  "You make the coffee and I'll spread the jam."

An hour later found them sitting around the kitchen table in Julian's Quai townhouse, coffee, croissants, butter and jam between them.

"So what else do you do besides break into townhouses and play the sax?" Adele asked. "Or do you still want to protect your man of mystery persona."

"I'm a dilettante," he said.  "So it really depends on what I"m interested in at the moment."  He replayed his words and made a face.  "Though I'm not nearly as flighty as that makes me sound.  My interests tend to revolve around mathematics and theoretical physics on the one side, magic on another and things like music and books in the spaces left over."

"That's ... rather frightening," she replied, carefully daubing jam on a piece of buttered croissant. "I feel completely inconsequential as a result."

"Why ever for?"

"I suppose because the most notable thing I do is useless. Well, we did use it once. It didn't work out well. And when I've used it myself it's... never mind. Little princess here. Useless but for eye candy."

"I really hate stating the obvious, so you'll have to just assume it," he said.

"So are you going to make love with me, or not? How's that for obvious?"

"Right this second?" he asked, leaning back with his coffee.  "Highly unlikely."

She sighed. "Fine. I'm going to bed. Good night. Let yourself out."  She got up and climbed the stairs toward the main part of the house.

"Adele," he called just before she disappeared from view.

She stopped and turned around. "Oui?"

He considered her for a moment, a self-deprecating smile twisting his mouth.  "I must be insane.  Sleep well, mignonne.  Try not to hold it against me."

"Actually, it speaks rather well for you.  Bon nuit, Patrick."

He watched her disappear up the stairs, then he finished his coffee and cleaned up.  When he finished he looked up the stairs for a moment and then pulled a scrap of paper out of his pocket, scrawled his name and some numbers and left it on the table.  Then he left.