When a good deed goes awry, Lillian Price finds herself at the chateau of Rafael Dumont, the mysterious Falcon, a man who haunts the rooftops of Paris. Though neither of them wants anything to do with the other, they must work together if they are to find Rafael’s missing nephew.
For lovers of romance mixed with adventure, troubled heroes and the strong women who save them…
Rafael Dumont left France and his painful past behind to focus on his passion for flying only to be forced back when his nephew goes missing. His only connection with the child is a beautiful woman with no memory of who she is. Unaware of the danger, he brings her to his childhood home where a series of accidents raise suspicion even as his desire for her grows.
Attacked in a Paris slum, Lillian Price forgets who she is and is forced to trust the dark, brooding stranger who rescued her. Except, he doesn’t trust her. Determined to prove her worth, she makes plans to convert his home into a school. Everything goes according to plan—until her memory returns.
When a good deed goes awry, Lillian Price finds herself at the chateau of Rafael Dumont, the mysterious Falcon, a man who haunts the rooftops of Paris. Though neither of them wants anything to do with the other, they must work together if they are to find Rafael’s missing nephew.
For lovers of romance mixed with adventure, troubled heroes and the strong women who save them…
Rafael Dumont left France and his painful past behind to focus on his passion for flying only to be forced back when his nephew goes missing. His only connection with the child is a beautiful woman with no memory of who she is. Unaware of the danger, he brings her to his childhood home where a series of accidents raise suspicion even as his desire for her grows.
Attacked in a Paris slum, Lillian Price forgets who she is and is forced to trust the dark, brooding stranger who rescued her. Except, he doesn’t trust her. Determined to prove her worth, she makes plans to convert his home into a school. Everything goes according to plan—until her memory returns.
PARIS, AUGUST 6, 1885
When the scent of gardenias hit, Lillian bolted for the side door. With any luck, she could slip out undetected.
A moment later, her mother entered through the main door. Her gaze snared Lillian where she stood halfway out of the room. “There you are.” A voice, sonorous as a church bell, filled the space and froze Lillian. “Mrs. Southerly will be calling today.”
Arranging a smile on her face, Lillian turned, her hand still clutching the handle, and tried for a pleasant tone. “I’m heading to see father and make myself useful. I should be back to greet your guest later.”
“The sick will be at the hospital tomorrow. Why don’t you skip today’s visit?” Gold rings flashed on the hand she reached toward Lillian.
With a side step, Lillian pulled the door open between them. She closed her eyes and blew out air before resettling her smile and tipping her chin up. “I was just leaving for Hôtel Dieu. I have my own interests, but…never fear! I’ll be back to smile politely at Mrs. Southerly. ”
Like round-cut tourmalines, her mother’s eyes flashed. “Lil—”
The door clicking shut cut off the rest of her mother’s words.
Her heart raced all the way down to the courtyard, where Francis, their coachman, was polishing the already gleaming mudguard of her father’s new coupe d’Orsay.
“The carriage fairly sparkles,” she said.
Francis spun around, hands and rag behind his back. The carriage, a recent splurge by her father, made the coachman the envy of his peers. Francis made sure to keep it in pristine condition.
“She is magnificent, Mademoiselle!” A bead of sweat traveled down his temple then vanished in the wrinkles around his eye. “Are we off to the hospital?”
“Suffering takes no breaks, and neither must we.”
Francis assisted her up the carriage steps. “Would that it did, Mademoiselle. Would that it did.”
The coupe tipped to the side as Francis mounted. A moment later, it lurched forward. Lillian slumped back and fanned her face with both hands. Perspiration trickled down her nose; she thrust her jaw forward and blew. Beneath her gown, her drawers clung to her legs. The coach slowed and then stopped.
Muffled by thick wood and silk finishes, Francis’s voice barely reached her ears. “A snarl up ahead.”
Lillian let out an unladylike huff. She should have brought a book. Now she had nothing to distract her from thinking about her mother.
Sometime after Lillian turned five and twenty, the woman grew obsessed with her finding a husband.
Think of how the right husband could improve your father’s standing. Don’t be selfish; time is not on your side. Good works are all well and…well, good, but they don’t take the place of a family.
The pressure might have always been there, like dust in the air, waiting for sunlight to illuminate it. Or perhaps Lillian’s lie about being engaged to Alexander Bennett had started it. Matchmaking with Mrs. Southerly, Alexander’s aunt, would make Lillian the laughingstock. Charles, Mrs. Southerly’s son and Alexander’s cousin, would be the first to crown her with a jester’s cap. They’d been friends until her lie. Charles would probably still be her friend if Alice hadn’t left.
This was Paris. A lie about love was romantic to most. Even the Americans living there, like her family and the Southerlys, had adopted the French attitude—love makes one do crazy things. Most people thought it romantic. Alice Gordon was not most people. She resigned her post as Lillian’s companion and disappeared without saying goodbye.
Charles had always liked Alice far more than he liked her, and rightly so. Alice was a better person. After Alice left, Charles also seemed to disappear. He and Lillian no longer attended the same social events. Now, their mothers were interfering.
The coupe picked up its pace. The knot in Lillian’s gut, coiled earlier by her mother and strengthened by memories of Alice, doubled her over. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.
There was no way to change her life or be a different person. One could not escape from oneself. If that were possible, she would gladly give up being Lillian Price to be someone else. Someone free to do as they wished, someone unconstrained by family and circumstance.
The coupe came to a smooth stop. A moment later, the door swung open.
“I will be here when you are ready to leave, Mademoiselle.” Francis helped her down.
She nodded, noting how few people were about for a Thursday. As she crossed the courtyard, the quiet crunch of her footfalls mixed with the gentle drone of bees and the soft snicker of the horses. Francis had slipped them each a sugar cube.
Within the walls of the hospital, all was hushed, as if the bustle of Paris were miles away instead of right outside the gates. The long history of Hôtel Dieu flowed around her, across the courtyard, up the stairs, and through the arched colonnade to the ladies’ changing room. Inside, light filtered down from high windows, revealing a row of empty benches running down the middle of the space. The click of her heeled boots against the marble floor echoed through the vaulted expanse.
Halfway down the room, she stopped. Arms bent at the elbows, she undid the small pearl buttons at each wrist. One finger at a time, she removed her damp gloves, laying them beside each other on a shelf within a cubby. Her straw hat, its satin ribbon limp, followed. Next, she unfastened the fabric-covered buttons along each sleeve and down the front of her bodice. She exhaled as the garment pulled away from her body. Gown and bustle quickly followed. In her shift and drawers, Lillian closed her eyes and rolled her shoulders. Tension fell away like the layers of cloth.
The murmur of voices galvanized her back into action. She covered her hair with a black coif, donned a simple gray bombazine gown made for her visits to the hospital, and slipped a starched white smock over her head before heading to her father’s ward.
“You’re late, my dear.” His voice raced down the hall to meet her.
At his side, she kissed his bearded cheek in the French fashion and felt the tangle in her stomach ease. “The streets were busy.”
His gaze shifted sideways. “Did Mother speak with you?”
Lillian took him by the arm and led him down the hall, his question hanging between them. “About dinner with Mrs. Southerly?”
The wrinkles on his forehead deepened. “She is considering a sizeable donation to the hospital.”
“Considering?”
“It’s no secret she would like to see her son, Charles, settle down.”
Lillian held up a hand to stop him. “He has no interest in me.”
“Perhaps because you show no interest in him.”
The tension she’d left in the changing room returned. It wasn’t that her parents’ attitudes were a surprise. Many years earlier, she’d overhead her father’s associates at a dinner party saying her father owed his position at the hospital to his wife and daughter’s charm. Ever since she could recall, they’d dressed her up and trotted her out to play the pianoforte and smile at their guests. Many hands had reached out over the years to pat her on the head.
She met his gaze. “Why would I do such a thing?”
“You care about my work here, the reforms I’m enacting.”
“I do. Does it mean I must prostitute myself for the cause?” He flinched, and a pang of guilt cut through the soft armor of her resistance. “I will be polite to Mrs. Southerly and pretend an interest in Charles if it pleases you.” She forestalled his comment with a hand. “The hospital means a lot to me too.”
“Good girl.” He led her further down the hall. “You’ll see—”
Loud caterwauling halted them near the main staircase. A woman staggered down the hall, a trail of blood in her wake. A nun waddled after her, arms waving in the air. The injured woman’s wide eyes darted between Lillian and her father as she approached the steps. She lurched toward Lillian, wobbled like a spinning top, and collapsed. Lillian knelt at her side. Though her nose wrinkled at the metallic smell of blood, she did not hesitate to place a hand on the woman’s shoulder.
In French, her voice gentle, Lillian stated the obvious: “You’re badly hurt.”
The woman grasped the hem of her gown. “I must go, or they will take the boy!”
“Please let a doctor attend to you first. When you are well, you can see to your son.”
The whites of the woman’s eyes showed all around as she met Lillian’s gaze. With a surprisingly strong shake of her head, the woman insisted, “There is no time. The Falcon comes today.”
“The Falcon?” Lillian exchanged looks with her father and the nun who had just reached them, red faced and out of breath.
Her father lifted his shoulders. “This woman is hallucinating. Sister Jeanne, did you administer the laudanum as I requested?”
“She refused it, sir. Tossed the glass across the room and started screaming. Best let her go to her boy.”
“She won’t make it out of the building.” Lillian looked between the nun and her father.
The woman tugged her gown. “I must go to Pip. Today is the day.”
Lillian gentled her tone. “Madam, you are grievously injured. After my father attends to you, you will be reunited with your son.”
“I cannot leave the boy!” The woman clasped Lillian’s booted foot and dropped her forehead to the ground.
Heedless of the blood, Lillian enfolded the woman in her arms. “Please calm yourself.”
Dr. Price, kneeling beside his daughter, added his own argument. “Madam, if you leave now, you risk death. That means leaving Pip forever. Surely—”
The prostrate woman turned her face toward him. “But the Falcon!” The woman persisted, although her shoulders slumped and her voice lost its initial fervor.
Despite having no idea why a bird terrified the woman, or what the urgency was to be with her son, Lillian seized on the opportunity to help. “I will fetch Pip for you.”
“You would do that for a stranger?” asked the woman, forestalling Dr. Price’s protestations.
“Tell me where to find him so Sister Jeanne can take you back to your room.”
“Truly?”
At Lillian’s nod, the woman tugged at a locket around her neck. “Take this. Pip’s picture is inside. You must show the child, so he knows I sent you and it is safe.”
“Won’t you help with the locket, Sister Jeanne?” Lillian extended the chain to the nun.
Sister Jeanne looked to Dr. Price for guidance.
He pushed himself up and rubbed the back of his neck as he contemplated his daughter and the woman wrapped in her arms. His expression dour, he dipped his head. Sister Jeanne unhooked the clasp and held the locket out to Lillian.
A filigree gold heart the size of a macaroon swayed in the air. Lillian palmed it, flipped the clasp, and studied the small portrait inside. Dark, mischievous eyes looked back at her from a face haloed with loose curls. Lillian bowed her neck, and the nun fastened the chain and let it drop.
As soon as the weight settled against her chest, Lillian turned back to the woman. “Where will I find him?”
“Number twelve Rue de la Roquette.”
Lillian helped ease the woman into Sister Jeanne’s arms. Although she had no idea where the address was, she gave one quick nod of her head. Francis would know where it was.
“I will be back with Pip shortly.”
Dr. Price reached a hand to stop her. “What of this falcon? Has there been any news of aggressive birds?”
She placed her hand over his and squeezed. “An exaggeration or a folktale. Even a large falcon could not carry off a child. Help this woman so her son does not find himself an orphan.”
His lips pressed together, Dr. Price accepted Lillian’s kiss to his cheek. “Be careful…and quick. You’ll need time to prepare for tonight.”
She tossed him a wink before she hurried down the stairs. “You won’t even know I’m gone!”
When she neared the ladies’ changing room, she slowed her steps. Changing back into her gown would waste precious time. Without breaking stride, she untied the soiled smock and hooked it on the doorknob as she strode by. She crossed the courtyard in half the time as before, arriving at the carriage buoyant.
Francis, taking in her hospital attire, tilted his head to the side. “Has something happened?”
While she explained their mission, Francis’s head started to pivot back and forth. It started with a series of subtle movements of his chin, which at first barely shifted and eventually grew wider and wider. By the end of her explanation, his head swung violently from side to side, and his hands slashed at the air.
“No, no, no. It is too dangerous!” He jabbed a finger in her direction. “Rue de la Roquette runs through the shantytown east of the city. You will find nothing there worth rescuing—only hovels where the poorest struggle to survive.”
She waited until he’d finished before speaking. Her tone, reasonable, dulcet, settled like a blanket over his anxiety. “I made the woman a promise. If it is truly as awful as you say, we must rescue this boy.”
He gave another shake of his head. “It is dan—”
“A child depends on us.”
“You cannot go there. You are far too…too lovely—”
“That is hardly a reason.”
“Your father—”
“I have his blessing. He is going to save the mother’s life.” She placed a hand on his arm. “Help me bring her son back to her.”
Francis’s head hung low. “I don’t like this.”
Bringing her other hand up to his arm, she squeezed. “Thank you!”
“Aargh—swear to remain in the carriage. Let me fetch the boy.”
“There is a special place in heaven for you, Francis. From the depth of my heart, I thank you.”
Although he refrained from complaining, Francis’s frown grew deeper as he handed her up the carriage steps. A moment later, the coupe moved through the congested streets toward Rue de la Roquette, with Francis’s grumbles matching the sound of the carriage wheels on cobblestones.
*****
Crouched atop a roof ledge in the slums of Paris, Rafael scanned the streets below for a boy. He already had half a dozen boys. Today he would find his nephew—had to find him—for today was the sixth of August. The appointed time in the note he’d received.
Jean-Philippe in grave danger. Come for him. Noon. Sixth of August—number twelve Rue de la Roquette, Paris.
He slipped a hand in his pocket, where he kept the envelope. Jean-Philippe’s hair was between the folds of the letter. That tangible bit of his nephew haunted him.
After the failed test flight that had landed Clay in the hospital with a broken leg and a concussion, Rafael returned to the stack of unopened letters from his solicitor in France. He should have been reading them.
While he’d been focused on aerodynamics and flight, Lucas had been lost at sea and declared dead. A year later, in late June, his brother’s wife died, making Rafael guardian of a child, an unwelcome complication to his life.
Jean-Philippe would be nine years old. Rafael knew what being alone at that age, even if only metaphorically, felt like. So, for the first time in almost a decade, he returned to France. He would establish his cousin, Augustine Harvey, as the boy’s guardian. Then, conscience clear, he could return to Egypt. At least Clay wouldn’t be hounding the administration for his job while he was away.
First, he must find the boy. Second, eliminate the grave danger. Arriving two weeks before August sixth, he’d scoured Rue de la Roquette for his nephew. Everyone in number twelve denied knowing the boy. In his search, he found other boys alone on the streets and offered them shelter. Rue de la Roquette was in a ramshackle, impoverished section of the city—they all accepted.
After two full weeks with no sign of Jean-Philippe, and living in a rented room surrounded by his cousin Gus’s filth, Rafael longed for Egypt and wondered if it had all been a ruse. Perhaps Clay orchestrated the whole thing.
The moment of truth approached. Soon, church bells would toll midday.
Every muscle in his body ready, Rafael watched the entrance of number twelve from the rooftop. His shadow stood out clearly on the street below, yet people shuffled along, oblivious. They were so engrossed in themselves they lost sight of the humanity surrounding them.
A shout drew Rafael’s attention to a carriage, an elaborate monstrosity conspicuous in its contrast with the neighborhood. He amended his earlier thought—people engrossed in themselves lost sight of life unless it slapped them on the face with a coupe d’Orsay.
The silly vehicle rolled down the street. Heads turned. Rafael grew tense. When the coupe stopped outside number twelve, he rose to his full height, the hair on the back of his neck rigid. It could be no coincidence. But why would Jean-Philippe arrive like an emperor to his coronation?
While Rafael watched, the coachman dismounted and dashed though the entryway into the derelict courtyard. A ray of afternoon sun angled in, illuminating the dust the man’s feet kicked up. His head swiveled left then right before he strode to the first apartment and rapped on the door.
It opened a fraction before slamming shut. Shaking his head, the man moved to the next door. Even from the rooftop, Rafael could see the coachman’s mounting frustration as his knocks went unanswered. At the fourth door, the elderly man who greeted the driver shook his head at whatever he asked, then leaned up against the doorframe, arms crossed at his chest, watching as the coachman moved on.
On the street, a small crowd gathered around the carriage, and several bystanders slipped into the courtyard, including a couple of questionable characters. Before Rafael could consider them, a woman emerged from the carriage, drawing his attention and that of the onlookers. It wasn’t the hint of hair so blond it appeared white beneath the black coif or the delicate angle of her jaw that drew notice. It was the way she moved. The woman floated forward like Titania, Queen of the Fairies.
Someone in the crowd whistled. The woman spun at the sound, or perhaps at a rude grab, before stumbling into the center of the courtyard. The siphon of dust the driver kicked up did not compare to the billowing waves now swirling around her drab skirts.
The coachman rushed down the stairs to her side.
“There’s nothing to see here.” The words and the panic in the man’s voice traveled to Rafael on the roof.
A few people turned and left. Out on the street, the curious sized up the horses and carriage. The coachman had no idea he was at risk of losing his livelihood as he and the woman together knocked on yet another door. It opened a fraction before slamming shut. They continued this fruitless exercise.
Where the hell was his nephew?
More spectators dispersed, bored or too busy to stay and gawk. When the duo reached the final apartment on the first floor, an old woman stepped out with a child in tow. The boy pushed away the tangle of loose curls that had fallen in front of his eyes.
Rafael lurched forward.
Jean-Philippe.
The woman from the carriage and her coachman rushed down the stairs as a giant tree of a man stepped through the entrance and surveyed the scene with his arms across his chest. The last few curious onlookers fled past him, while a second man sauntered toward Jean-Philippe. Sunlight glinted off the knife blade in his fist. The old woman pushed Jean-Philippe behind her skirts as the man approached.
Merde.
Rafael grabbed a coiled rope, which he’d secured to a chimneystack earlier in the day. With it, he could repel down to the ground in seconds. Blood surged through his veins as he anticipated the coming fight. His nerves had been stretched tight during the last few weeks as his search for Jean-Philippe had left him empty-handed. He’d enjoy thrashing someone.
The coachman put himself between the thug and the old woman, shielding Jean-Philippe and waving both hands before him. “Stop!”
The man jerked his head sideways, indicating the coachman should step aside. “Don’t throw yourself into the wolf’s mouth.”
Before he repelled down, Rafael turned his back to the scene and yanked the rope, removing any slack. It gave like the tail end of a mooring hitch before coming apart completely. The force of his pull and the sudden break sent him two steps back to the precipice, where a gust of wind caught his cape and lifted it like a pennant.
He heard some shout, “Le Faucon!” before he gained his balance.
With a roar of frustration, he threw the rope down. Then, he surveyed the building’s façade for ledges and cornices he could use as hand and footholds. Adequate. He let himself over the edge and shinnied down. From below, echoing off the building, he heard the thwack and thud of bone against flesh. He glanced down.
The old woman who’d emerged with Jean-Philippe lay on the ground in a circle of blood. Around her body, the coachman and the man who told him not to get involved engaged in a game of cat-and-mouse. The other woman looked ready to jump into the fray. Thankfully, Jean-Philippe tugged at her dress, alerting her to the second man approaching them.
After a quick calculation, Rafael sprang off the side of the building, his cape flying behind him. The impact traveled up his thighs as the front of his foot hit the earth before he curled and rolled onto his shoulder. The courtyard and all those in it vanished beneath the dust.
He sprang up and saw the man who had been stalking Jean-Philippe charge him. Rafael dodged beneath the man’s fist. Although they were similar in height, the man had the build of a professional pugilist.
“You are dead, Faucon.” Rivulets of sweat trailed down the man’s face and dripped from his crooked nose.
Rafael did not waste any breath speaking. He blocked the first punch with his forearm. The force traveled down the length of him. Rafael danced away from the man’s next several swings. He caught sight of the coachman delivering a left hook that sent his attacker sprawling.
“Let’s go,” the driver shouted to the woman and Jean-Philippe.
They couldn’t leave.
A blow sent Rafael stumbling back until he came up against a wall. The air left him as his gut absorbed the second punch. When his attacker stepped back for his next blow, Rafael used the wall, kicking off it and delivering a heel to the man’s head. The man went down.
Across the courtyard, the coachman walked toward Jean-Philippe, unaware the man he’d felled had risen and come up behind him. The woman, noticing the danger, reached her arm out in warning.
“Look out!”
The coachman turned as the attacker thrust the knife forward. For several seconds, Francis stared at where it protruded from his chest, a dark stain blossoming against the gray of his jacket. His expression perplexed, he fell to his knees.
Before toppling over he mouthed, “Run.”
Rafael leapt at the killer, knocking the bloody knife from his grasp. In this fight, he had the advantage, and he took it, delivering three consecutive blows to the man’s face that left him unconscious in a matter of seconds.
The dust hadn’t settled when he felt a sharp pain in his upper back. He spun on his heel, finding his first opponent smirking at him, a swelling lump above his eye. The expression did not last long. Despite the pain radiating across his shoulder, Rafael spun and delivered a high kick to the man’s head, knocking him to the ground.
He reached behind him and yanked out the blade as the boy and woman fled the courtyard. Tending to the wound could wait. Out on the street, the carriage was gone. They dodged people on the sidewalk before they slipped into another courtyard. If not for a line of laundry the boy tugged down, Rafael would have caught them before they disappeared into an apartment.
Fabric fluttered over Rafael, muting his curses. He swiped at the drawers and shirts blocking his vision. Their fleeing steps helped Rafael track their progress through the warren of small apartments. After that, he used the shouts of surprised occupants, the barking of dogs, and the whisper of air currents as his guide.
When they slipped out a window and jumped across to another building, his brows slammed together. If they didn’t kill themselves, he would kill them.
“Jean-Philippe. Stop!”
Heedless of his command, they ran on—up two more flights of stairs, down a long hallway, and under a broken rail.
Whenever he could, the boy tossed obstacles at him. A wooden cane moved like a javelin down the stairs, as if held by an invisible knight. Dozens of crab apples clicked and clacked against the walls and floor, creating a hazard for his feet that could send him toppling down the stairs.
Hot, fat, tipped-over tile sent Rafael slipping and skidding into someone’s kitchen. His antics had an audience. A woman standing at a small coal stove scowled darkly. As he flailed his arms for balance, his black cape fluttered around him.
With one hand clutching her throat and the other white-knuckled around the handle of a cast iron pan, she said, “Leave them alone, Falcon!”
He ducked her first swing and fled into the hallway before dashing into another apartment. In his haste to catch Jean-Philippe, he forgot the rumors circulating about the Falcon. The myth of the raptor had grown beyond reality. Some labeled him an aberration, a monster who used young boys for his carnal pleasure. Others believed the Falcon ate small children or brought them to his lair and fed them to his young.
With a flick at the clasp of his cloak, Rafael ignored the pain in his shoulder as he pulled the cape off and styled it into a sash across his chest. Using a woman’s angry cries as a guide to his nephew’s whereabouts, he slipped out a window and climbed up the next floor, assisted by crevices in the decaying brick façade. Years spent practicing climbing up rock faces as a youth served him this day. At an open window, he slipped inside. Slowing his breathing, Rafael paused to listen. Another level up on the rooftop, a woman screamed.
*****
Francis had been stabbed—murdered. Lillian’s vision narrowed, and cold drenched her limbs as if she had plunged though an icy lake in winter. Pip helped her evade the Falcon, but Francis lay dead because of her. Dead. He had warned her of the danger in the bidonvilles, and she had dismissed his warning. Pain doubled her over.
A child’s hand grabbed at the locket around her neck. Pip. She must bring him to the hospital. She took a step forward and stumbled to her knees. Wide eyes watched her, shifting between her face and the locket. Lillian fumbled with the clasp, the tremors in her hands making it difficult for her to open it.
She said, “Your mother sent me.”
The boy eased away. His gaze sharpened and darted to something behind her. The next instant, he bolted like a jackrabbit at the snap of a twig. Lillian called to him, the words turning into a scream when someone grabbed her from behind and hauled her into the air.
She saw blue sky and a bird gliding above, felt the heat of the sun on her skin and the clamp of bone and sinew holding her prisoner. The stench of her captor—a combination of spirits and poor hygiene—choked her. Like a hundred needles, his beard pricked her cheek, and spittle wet her ear when he spoke.
“Looks like I caught a pretty birdie!”
Lillian squirmed to escape his grip. The futile attempt earned her a snicker before he grabbed her between the legs. She bucked, trying in vain to free herself. The drunk clasped her tighter, pressing her against his body with one hand while the other slipped beneath the neck of her gown and captured her breast. Bile rose in her throat.
He twisted her around as he tore the bodice of her dress. Lillian spat in his face. Spittle slid down his cheek. He swiped at it, the leer that had twisted his mouth vanishing. She didn’t see the fist that struck her, only the ground as it rushed up to meet her face. The blow split the world so it no longer fit together. Two of him towered over her.
He yanked her up by her hair with one hand and unfastened his breeches with the other. When she tried to kick at him, he lifted her higher, until her feet dangled well off the ground. Heedless of the tearing of her hair, Lillian swung a fist at his face. Pain shot up her arm at the contact. With a snarl, he dropped her to her feet.
She scrambled back, looking for an escape route. He feinted in one direction. She bolted the other way—straight into him. Clamping an arm around her, he ground his mouth into hers. His teeth scrapped hers. She shoved his face away and pulled at his groping hands. He let her go with another cuff to the jaw. Stars danced in her vision.
Arms raised, she swayed before him. He laughed.
A scream tore from her throat as she leapt at the monster, her fists pummeling his chest. She heard another loud guffaw before he struck her, a solid hit to the jaw that jerked her sideways before everything went black.
Part romance, part mystery; this story follows Rafael Dumont, a broody aeronautics engineer and heir to a crumbling marquisate and Lillian Price an American daughter of a prominent doctor in Paris. Both are outsiders to French society and both have dark secrets and guilt over the past. The search for Rafael's young orphaned nephew and an assault in the slums of Paris bring these two together as they try to unravel the mystery that is endangering the small boy.
I really enjoyed the character development of both Lillian and Rafael. Neither were particularly likable at the beginning of this story but rather both are flawed and somewhat selfish. Rafael ran away from his familial responsibilities and the ghosts of the past to study flight in Egypt. He can't wait to find his nephew and pass him off to another relative so he can return to Cairo and continue his research. He seems callous and too focused on his work and his own dreams. Lillian is also somewhat selfish, she seems to be trying to repent for a past wrong by helping her father at the hospital that he runs. However, she is still impetuous and naive about the dangers in the real world. Her attempts to do good seem to just be a way to make herself feel better, rather than to genuinely help others.
Both main characters get a big reality check when they are assaulted by thugs in the slums of Paris. Both characters are somewhat suspicious of each other and have to come to terms with their own demons in order to come together.
I found this character development realistic and beautifully crafted. It didn't happen over night which made it more believable and interesting. The romance is a slow burn but very satisfying in the end. The mystery elements of the story added depth to the plot and kept my interest engaged. The reader is told early on who the villains are but the main characters are kept in the dark. I sometimes don't enjoy a story if I know more than the main characters because I find it just makes me want to yell "stop trusting that guy, can't you tell he's shifty?!" In this case however, that frustration was broken up by the romance elements and character development which helped temper it without disrupting the overall flow of the story. Just when I was getting too annoyed with the characters inability to see the bad guys standing right in front of them, the story would pivot and I could focus on something else.
If you are looking for a well written romance with a touch of steam and a fast paced plot, Lovely Lillian is the book for you.