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  “But I have to be with Mr. Bowen! One of my friends was on tour with him last year and loved him. That’s the only reason I signed up.”

  That was the whole point of the situation in which Whitney had purposely placed herself.

  “Everyone wants to be with Mr. Bowen because he’s such a popular French teacher. But you signed up too late. His students were already organizing for the trip last fall. Fortunately, Mr. Smith has room. He’s a fine French teacher, too. Don’t worry,” she said when Whitney made a long face. “You’ll all be on the same bus together.”

  “Oh. Okay,” Whitney sighed out loud dramatically, hoping her reaction was that of a typical teen. Inwardly, she felt instant relief at the news.

  “Everyone is meeting in the room at the far end of the hall. Here’s your name tag. Put it on so you’ll be recognized.”

  “Thanks.”

  Whitney took the tag and pinned it to the vest she wore over her short-sleeved blouse. Wearing sneakers, white socks and thigh-length cutoffs, her outfit resembled those of every teenage girl lined up in the hall of the library.

  With her hair falling to her shoulders, the top portion caught near the crown with a clip, her hairdo blended with all the other hairdos which were more or less the same. Minus any makeup and blessed with her mother’s young skin, Whitney prayed she looked the eighteen years she was purporting to be. Only her passport would betray her, and she wasn’t letting it out of her possession for any reason.

  She’d deliberately waited until this last meeting to show up, wanting to keep as low a profile as possible.

  Everyone at the Sharp and Rowe law firm would be shocked to see their newest attorney, who had just passed the Utah bar, passing herself off as a teenager. But no one could know she was on a mission to expose the man responsible for getting Christine pregnant.

  Of course it was possible her plan wouldn’t work. But better she use the vacation time coming to her since studying for the bar to try and track down the culprit, than stay at home brooding over her sister’s pain.

  It wasn’t fair that a man got off scot-free in a situation like this. It happened all the time, all over the world, but that didn’t make it right. If she could carry out this tricky scheme for her sister’s sake and discover his identity, it was possible the father might suffer an attack of conscience and help pay child support. If nothing else, Whitney felt it would have been well worth the subterfuge for that much satisfaction.

  Her family believed she was taking off to Mexico with a couple of friends she’d met while going to law school. If she couldn’t find Greg’s biological father, Whitney didn’t want to tell her family what she’d done. But if she was successful, that would be a different story.

  Therefore, instead of sending the occasional postcard home which would give away a European location, she intended to make a couple of phone calls to the family so they wouldn’t become suspicious or worry. Christine had promised to go by Whitney’s apartment every day to check the mail and water the plants.

  John Warren, a fellow attorney who’d been one of her study partners through college and had passed the bar at the same time as she had, was the only person who knew her plans.

  When he heard what had happened to Christine and listened to Whitney’s idea to catch the teacher responsible, John applauded her plan, but he didn’t buy the teacher theory. Rather he tended to believe that the tour guide or the driver had been the one to charm her sister into bed.

  To Whitney’s surprise, she discovered that John didn’t like or trust European men. Apparently he’d had a cousin who’d gone to Europe on a music tour and had gotten involved with some Austrian tour guide in Vienna who had only been playing around. It ruined her life for a long time.

  Happy to help Whitney even the score, he volunteered to subpoena STI’s records on some pretext to obtain the names of the tour guide and bus driver on Christine’s tour.

  Armed with the necessary information, Whitney had been able to request a tour that included the same teacher, driver and tour guide who’d been on Christine’s trip. It was leaving June fifth.

  That day was almost here, Whitney mused as she stepped inside the doors of one of the library meeting rooms. At a glance it seemed forty or so students were standing in separate lines before tables placed around the room.

  Pennants in different colors with teachers’ names had been mounted alphabetically on the walls above each table: Ms. Ashton, Mr. LeCheminant, Mrs. Donetti, Mr. Hart, Mr. Grimshaw, Mr. Smith, Mr. Bowen and Mr. Sorenson.

  The teachers hadn’t come in yet.

  Whitney was probably the last student to arrive and took her place behind a couple of boys talking animatedly about how much spending money they were taking with them.

  On their tags she saw that the one named Jeff from Ephriam High was her height, five feet nine. The other named Roger from Dixie High was maybe an inch taller with a more robust build. Both had dark brown hair and they were cute.

  As soon as they saw her, they stopped talking and just stared.

  “Hi, guys.”

  “Hi!” they said in unison, their faces breaking into huge smiles. “Are you one of Mr. Smith’s students?”

  “No. I had planned to go with Mr. Bowen’s group, but I signed up too late, so they put me with Mr. Smith.”

  “The same thing happened to us.” They spoke in unison again and the three of them laughed congenially.

  “Where’s Union High?”

  “Up in Park Valley. Box Elder County.”

  “How many years of French have you taken, Whitney?” Jeff asked.

  “Two.” Junior high seemed an awfully long time ago. “How about you?”

  “Six years for me.”

  “Me, too,” Roger chimed in.

  “Wow. You guys must be good.”

  “Of course.” Jeff grinned.

  Roger said, “My French teacher goes over to France every summer, but she doesn’t want to take kids around, so she called STI and they assigned me to Mr. Smith who teaches in St. George.”

  “We thought we were the only ones going with him. Looks like we thought wrong.” They grinned as if they’d just won the lottery.

  Had she ever been this young and immature?

  “I was afraid there would only be girls on the tour,” Whitney murmured, deciding she’d better start doing her share of flirting. That’s what teenage girls did all the time. Shamekssly. “I’m glad I was wrong.”

  “This is already turning out to be a great trip and we haven’t even left yet,” Roger enthused.

  “Since the three of us will have rooms by each other and eat meals together, we can help you out with your French in case you have any problems.”

  “Thanks, Jeff. I might have to take you up on that.” She smiled into his eyes.

  “No problem.”

  “Have you guys met Mr. Smith yet?”

  “Yeah. He’s awesome.”

  “I like him a lot better than my own teacher,” Roger stated.

  “I’m glad you said that because my teacher in Park Valley was an old battle-ax.”

  “Battle-ax?” Jeff laughed

  Uh-oh. Whitney realized that wasn’t a word today’s teenager used. “That’s what my dad called her when he had her for French.”

  Before her father had died of a stroke and her mother had married Christine’s father, Whitney adored listening to her dad’s amusing tales about his school days. She would always miss him.

  “Your French teacher used to teach your dad?” Roger demanded incredulously.

  That part was a lie, but Whitney nodded without any compunction. The guys thought it was hilarious and both of them laughed. While she waited for them to calm down, the teachers filed in the room toward the tables, carrying stacks of manila-colored packets.

  There were eight adults, but Whitney saw only one person—a man with dark blond, fairly short-cropped hair and a bronzed complexion who had to be at least six feet three inches of hard muscle.

  He wa
s dressed in a silky-looking gray suit with a charcoal-colored shirt open at the neck, very sophisticated and cosmopolitan. Sporting an expensive-looking gold watch, he didn’t look like any teacher she’d ever had.

  Strong and fit, he moved with unconscious male grace, like someone who was used to being in the out-of-doors rather than a schoolroom. Probably closer to forty than thirty, his bone structure was reminiscent of western European ancestry.

  The square jaw with its hint of five o’clock shadow and his straight nose kept him from being handsome in the accepted sense, yet his features made him much more interesting. He exuded confidence and an unconscious masculine appeal that called to everything feminine in her.

  Whitney couldn’t remember the last time a man had made this kind of an impact on her. No woman young or old could remain immune to such unquestioned masculinity.

  If he affects you this way, can you imagine how devastating his sex appeal had been to Christine? A seventeen-going-on-eighteen-year-old girl alone in Europe on the verge of womanhood?

  Whitney’s instincts had been right all along. Christine’s French teacher, Mr. Bowen, was the father of her baby! Greg’s fine baby hair was the same dark blond color.

  The guys were talking again, but she couldn’t hear what they were saying because a comment her sister had made at lunch that day came back to haunt her.

  He’s so good-looking, and we grew close on the trip. When he finally told me he loved me, I—I couldn’t help myself.

  In an effort to get a grip on her emotions, Whitney leaned over and retied her shoelaces. She didn’t need to go on the tour for answers. The man she’d been damning to hell since learning that the liar had taken advantage of Christine, had already entered the room, looking larger than life.

  “Hey, Whitney?” There was a tap on her shoulder.

  “Yes, Jeff?” Expelling the breath she’d been holding, she slowly stood up and turned around to see what he wanted. Looking past the smooth faces of the two teens, she received her second shock of the evening.

  A pair of light gray eyes dotted with translucent green flecks held her gaze, trapping her as surely as if she’d been physically caught in a vise of some kind.

  Christine had spent three years in a French class looking into those eyes? No wonder she’d never stood a chance.

  For a lightning moment the world spun out of control. Sometimes in her dreams Whitney felt herself falling. That was the sensation she was experiencing now.

  “Bonsoir, Whitney. Je m’appelle Monsieur Smith C’est un grand plaisir.” His deep male voice spoke in flawless French. She felt its resonance to her bones.

  CHAPTER TWO

  MONSIEUR SMITH?

  Whitney shook her head in confusion, feeling out of breath. “Wait a minute. You’re not Mr. Bowen?” Her voice had a definite squeaking quality to it.

  The crinkles around his startlingly beautiful eyes deepened as he broke into an apologetic smile that made her insides melt. “Not the last time I looked. I’m sorry. Every student wants to be with him. I hope you won’t mind putting up with me.”

  She blinked, trying to make sense out of everything. She’d been so positive he was Mr. Bowen!

  With the greatest effort of will, she broke eye contact with him and shifted her gaze to another male teacher standing at the next table.

  According to the pennant, he was Mr. Bowen. But how could he be?

  The slender man with dark eyes and hard cheekbones, probably late forties, had a pale, tired-looking face and darkish hair receding at the forehead and temples. He stood a little under six feet tall. His off-white shirt and dark trousers had no particular style.

  To Whitney he epitomized the typical burnt-out teacher who was slowly being worn down by stress. She couldn’t imagine why he would want to herd a bunch of kids around Europe when he already did it at home nine months out of the year.

  However, there was no accounting for taste. According to Christine, Mr. Bowen was dynamite in the classroom and everyone adored him, but under no circumstances could Whitney imagine him setting any girl’s heart on fire. Not like...

  As if a lodestone were pulling her inexorably toward its magnetic field, Whitney’s gaze swerved back to the man whose mere presence had quickened her pulse.

  Christine had never mentioned anything about a Mr. Smith being on her tour. But naturally, she wouldn’t have. Not when she’d wanted to keep the nature of her relationship with him a secret from everyone.

  A flood of heat swept through Whitney’s body because the man in question had caught her practically devouring him with her eyes. It certainly wasn’t the kind of stare a female student should be giving her male teacher no matter how attractive he was. Christine had probably given him the same stare!

  On the other hand, he was the teacher! He had no business sending any young female student that frank, unmistakable look of male appreciation. His eyes had literally illuminated as they’d traveled over her.

  If that was the way he’d looked at Christine the first time she’d ever seen him, it was no mystery why her poor sister had thought herself in love.

  The man made you feel like Helen of Troy!

  Putting two and two together, Whitney had the strongest suspicion she was looking at the father of Christine’s baby. It all fit . . . the looks, the charisma. His charm...

  Was he the culprit?

  If so, the cad could have any female he wanted, young or old, and he knew it! His conquests must be legion.

  She wondered just how many unsuspecting teenage girls had become involved with him after hearing about his marital problems and his poor little four-year-old daughter.

  How many girls had become pregnant as a result of carrying out his phony little errands and trying to comfort him in his agony?

  Oh, Mr. Smith, the way you were looking at me just now tells me you’re the man I’m searching for.

  You play a very dangerous game, but for once you’ve met someone who knows the score. Before I’m through with you, you’re going to be extremely sorry you picked me for your next victim.

  As soon as Gerard realized he’d been staring at this feminine addition to his tour group, he recognized his mistake and shifted his gaze to the boys who were obviously enthralled by her presence.

  He hoped to heaven he was wrong, but it seemed Ms. Lawrence was as aware of him as he was of her. That was all he needed.

  How was he supposed to do a job when he had to get through the next ten days chaperoning a high school girl whose French lilac-colored eyes beckoned, whose womanly figure reminded him of a modern-day Aphrodite?

  She wasn’t wearing anything different than the other teenagers in the room. In fact she’d done absolutely nothing to draw attention to herself. But while she had leaned over to tie her shoes, he hadn’t been able to keep his eyes off the mold of her fully curved body, or her long, shapely legs.

  The truth was, in the past he’d never been attracted to tall women. He’d liked them short, dark and petite. His late wife had only stood as high as his heart.

  This girl-woman, he cursed under his breath, had to be at least five-eight, five-nine. Most blondes, even ash-blondes like her, usually had fine skin coloring that required a certain amount of makeup so they wouldn’t look washed out.

  She didn’t seem to be wearing any makeup because with that flawless young skin, she didn’t need to. The faint flush which had appeared while he’d been drinking his fill of her only added natural color to her classic features. He’d never seen a female with such perfectly shaped eyebrows or lips.

  Ms. Lawrence was more woman than he’d met in years. How could she only be eighteen?

  It was common knowledge that girls her age often matured faster than boys. But somehow he hadn’t expected a teenager in his group to make him think thoughts he had no business thinking by simply looking at her.

  The first order of business was to get himself under control. Since Annabelle had spurned him, he hadn’t actively pursued another relationship. That
’s what was wrong with him. If he could be this easily distracted by a girl who was young enough to be his daughter, then he’d been without a woman too long.

  Maybe he’d better concentrate on returning Fran Ashton’s interest since they were going to be on the same tour bus. Except that the vivacious thirty-year-old French teacher from Rosemont High had come on too strong to him at the last meeting, letting him know she was single and available. He was afraid the attraction was all on her part.

  Nothing about this assignment was going the way he had planned it, and the tour hadn’t even started yet.

  “If you’ve recovered from your disappointment, Whitney, we’ll go into the auditorium and watch a film which will explain about the items in your packets.”

  Once more their gazes met, but dark lashes partially concealed the expression in hers. “I’m sorry, Mr. Smith. I didn’t mean to be rude.”

  “No apology necessary. You and the guys can call me Hank. I don’t like standing on formality.”

  She’d averted her eyes, obviously still upset that she couldn’t be in Mr. Bowen’s group. Apparently Gerard’s target was so popular with his students, even kids from around the state had heard of him.

  Normally her show of disappointment wouldn’t have fazed him. But there was nothing normal about this situation, certainly not this awareness of her or the fact that one of the teachers was suspected of passing information to a foreign government.

  Much as Gerard wished Whitney Lawrence had been assigned to any other teacher than himself, he had to admit he was glad she didn’t make up part of Donald Bowen’s group.

  The man who came off acting like he was every student’s best friend, was wanted by Interpol and considered dangerous. When Gerard got the goods on him, Donald Bowen would spend the rest of his life in prison. The popular French teacher with the perfect cover to camouflage his double life was about to take his last trip to Europe.

  “We’ll hurry inside and save seats,” Jeff volunteered. “Come on, Whitney.”