Vincent unlatched the oars and rowed west, toward the glimmering lights of the Musée d’Orsay. “Take a blanket,” he said, gesturing to a pile of throws and furry coverlets spread across the bottom of the boat. He had thought of everything.
“How—how did you get this boat? Is this even legal?” I stammered.
Vincent nodded. “As legal as any of Jean-Baptiste’s dealings. But to answer your question, yes, the boat is registered with the city of Paris. We won’t be getting pulled over by any river cops.” He laughed under his breath and then said, “So when do you want your presents?”
“Are you kidding, Vincent? I don’t need any more presents. This is the most incredible present anyone’s ever given me. A boat ride on the Seine? In an amazing silk ball gown? I’ve got to be dreaming!” I watched the lights shimmering in the Tuileries Gardens as we made our way past a monumental Greek-columned edifice looming over the left bank. Enormous statues of gods and goddesses flanked the building. I felt like tonight, with Vincent by my side, I belonged right up there in their midst.
“Open your presents,” he urged with a sexy smile. “They’re under the blankets.” He took his heavy coat off and continued rowing. I fished under the covers and retrieved two packages wrapped in silver paper.
“Open the big one first,” Vincent replied smoothly. He wasn’t even winded by the rowing.
Gingerly I opened it and saw, nestled within layers of tissue, a tiny handbag made of an Asian-patterned silk matching my own dress, attached on each side to a long, waist-length chain. The clasp was made of two metal flowers enameled in red and silver, matching those on the fabric. “Oh my God, Vincent, it’s gorgeous,” I breathed, running my fingers over it.
“Open it,” he said. The sparkle in his eye told me he was enjoying this as much as I was. Maybe more.
I carefully pushed the two flowers apart to pop the bag open and pulled out a small pile of tickets. Holding them up to the light cast by the streetlamps at the river’s edge, I saw the Opéra Garnier’s logo.
I looked at Vincent questioningly, and he said, “You told me you liked dance. They’re season tickets to the Opéra Garnier, where all the ballets and contemporary dance events are held. I reserved a private box that’s ours for the season. That’s what the dress is for, but since the first ballet is still a couple of weeks away, I didn’t want you to have to wait to wear it.”
I didn’t know what to say. My eyes filled with tears.
Vincent stopped rowing. “What, Kate? Are you upset? You said you wanted to go on some normal human dates, so I thought this was a good idea.”
Finally finding my tongue, I said, “There’s nothing normal about season tickets and a private box at the Opéra Garnier. Or ordering a custom-made dress for me to wear to it. No, Vincent,” I shook my head. “‘Normal’ would not be the word.”
His features softened as he realized that I wasn’t upset—just overwhelmed. “So what would the word be? Abnormal?”
“Exceptional. Extraordinary. The polar opposite of normal.”
“Well, darling Kate, as I once explained to you, I am asking you to trade a normal life for something extraordinary. So I want to make it up to you in an extraordinary way.”
“You’re doing a good job,” I breathed.
“You’ve got another one left,” he said, nodding at the remaining box.
I opened the paper and drew out a hinged jewelry box—the size that would fit a bracelet or necklace. I glanced up at him, alarmed. “Vincent, it’s way too early for something like this,” I said uncomfortably.
“I would hope I know you a bit by now,” he said, obviously enjoying my discomfort. “You think I’d scare you off by giving you jewelry so soon? Trust me, it’s not what you think.”
I opened the box slowly. Inside was a card. In tiny, ancient-looking script was written: For Kate Beaumont Mercier, fencing lessons given by my own person, Gaspard Louis-Marie Tabard. Number of lessons specified by V. Delacroix: as many as you can handle.
“Oh, Vincent!” I cried, lunging forward to hug him, almost capsizing the boat in the process. “This is perfect.” I sat back down and shook my head at him in amazement, as he laughed and righted the boat. “You’re perfect,” I sighed, and he gave me one of his dreamy smiles that just about knocked me over the edge of the boat into the water.
“That gift is more a thank-you for saving me from floating around as a disembodied ghost for the rest of eternity,” he explained.
“But you’re the one who did all the work,” I protested.
“We couldn’t have done it together if you hadn’t had such a strong will. Now you’ll have the skills to go with it. I’m hoping you won’t ever have to use them in a real-life situation, but since you’ve agreed to share at least a little part of my life”—he flashed me a cautious smile—“I would feel better if you were equipped to handle anything that might come your way.”
The tears I had been holding back began to course down my cheeks. “Kate! You’re not supposed to cry,” he said, locking the oars into their rings. He slipped forward off his bench to sit on the floor of the boat in front of me.
We floated under the Alexandre III Bridge, the most beautiful bridge in Paris, with stone garlands draped across its arch and bronze-and-glass lamps gleaming across the top. But I could barely see its opulent beauty as it engulfed and then released us from its shelter on the other side. Because the boy sitting in front of me was all I could focus on. I closed my eyes for fear of being swept away by my emotions.
He wanted to be with me. Enough to change his life for me. Enough to launch upon an unknown, uncharted future. For me.
I love him. I had been keeping those three words stuffed deep inside me, for my own protection. But I was done with self-preservation and my heart was open. I had feared that love would make me vulnerable. Instead I felt empowered.
“Kate, are you okay?” He brushed the tears off my face.
Carefully pulling the dress up to my knees, I eased myself down to sit in front of him. He took my ankles in his hands and wrapped my legs around his hips until I was sitting snugly between his legs, our faces inches away from each other.
As he took me in his arms, I lay my head on his shoulder and closed my eyes. I let the knowledge that I loved him mount until it suffused me with a heat that set the entire surface of my skin aflame.
Our boat bobbed around a corner of the quay, and I opened my eyes to see the Eiffel Tower, just downriver from us, decked in a million tiny lights and sparkling like a Christmas tree. Its reflection on the surface of the water glimmered like a universe of tiny crystals. “Oh, Vincent, look!” I exclaimed.
He smiled and nodded, not needing to turn since he saw the reflection in my eyes. “Your last present,” he said. “That’s what we came to see. Happy birthday, Kate. Mon ange.” And in a whisper so light I wasn’t sure I hadn’t imagined it, he breathed, “My love.”
Though I was sitting in a boat on the Seine, floating in the middle of a million points of light, holding the first boy I had ever loved, I couldn’t help but think about our chances.
Luck, normalcy, fate . . . none of those seemed to be on our side. Our very being together went against all the odds. All I knew was that something good had begun. A flame had been lit. And the whole universe was watching to see if it would be blown out.
All I could do was hold my breath. And wait.
Acknowledgments
THERE ARE SO MANY PEOPLE WHO HELPED ME get here. I would like to thank just a few.
For the enthusiasm, trust, and know-how that turned my story into a book, I am profoundly grateful to my editors Tara Weikum and Catherine Onder. They patiently guided Die for Me into its finished form, and I am truly lucky to have worked with both of them.
I owe an enormous debt of gratitude to my superhuman agent, Stacey Glick, who stirred up an interest for Die for Me that surpassed my every hope. Thanks, Stacey, for believing in me from the very beginning. Thank you to Miriam Goderich for not clic
king “delete” when she found my query letter in her inbox. And to Lauren E. Abramo for selling a slew of foreign rights long before the book was even published. Dystel & Goderich rocks!
My friends Mags Harnett and Nathalie Cousin listened to my initial idea and used superhuman self-control not to show their true feelings when I said I wanted to write a zombie love story. Thank you both.
Infinite love and gratefulness to Saint Laurent of the Bleeding Ears, aka my enormously supportive husband, who let me read the very first draft to him every day over lunch and tried to hide his disappointment that the bad guys didn’t show up in speedboats at the end. Thank you for having faith in me, mon amour.
Also up for canonization: my friend Claudia Depkin, who went above and beyond what I would have ever dared ask, enthusiastically volunteering to read draft after draft of the manuscript. Her daily comments were invaluable and her unflagging encouragement helped me persevere.
Thank you to those friends who let me hide out in their vacant homes for precious writing time: Nicolas Mercier and Paul Krieger for their beach apartment in Trouville and castle in Saintes; Cassi Bryn Michalik for her rooftops-view apartment in Paris; Guy for his home in the Loire; and my father-in-law, Jean-Pierre, and Christiane for their home-five-minutes-away-from-home.
Remerciements to my friend Mags Harnett for the several read-throughs and invaluable comments. Also to my sister Gretchen Scoleri, my friends Kim Lennert, James Kidd, and Sandrine Hosti, and my cousin Diana Canfield for their thoughts on the manuscript. My veteran-writer cousin-in-law Matthew Randazzo V, was of immense help with fellow-author counsel on getting published. His advice and long-distance hand-holding was much appreciated. And much thanks to my childhood friend Lou Anders, editor of Pyr Books, for his enthusiasm and for looking over my “revenant rules” to verify that my monsters made sense.
Thanks to Terry Jones for legal advice. Bill Braine for brainstorming. “Olivia” for making her opinion known and for being the book’s first true fan. Melissa Randazzo for leading my own personal cheering section. And my mother-in-law, Jeannine, for being so certain that one day I would be published.
And finally, but not least importantly, thank you to the faithful readers of Chitlins And Camembert. Your constant support and enthusiasm about my writing gave me confidence that I had stories worth telling.
About the Author
AMY PLUM spent her childhood in Birmingham, Alabama, her twenties in Chicago and Paris, and several more years in London and New York. Fed up with moving, she has settled down in the Loire Valley with her handsome French husband, two mostly delightful toddlers, and big red dog Ella. DIE FOR ME is her first novel. Visit her online at www.amyplumbooks.com.
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Credits
Jacket design by mecob.org
Jacket illustration by Johanna Basford
Jacket photographs:
© Monalyn Gracia/Corbis (figure)
© Olya Smith/Getty Images (background)
Copyright
Die for Me
Copyright © 2011 by Amy Plum
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.
ISBN 978-0-06-200401-7
EPub Edition © 2011 ISBN: 9780062077004
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11 12 13 14 15 CG/RRDB 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
First Edition
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Amy Plum, Die for Me
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