It was perfect. A single white rose, just out of bud. Tied with a pink silk ribbon. Her fingers caressed the silk bow as she read the card.

"J, We'll always have Paris. D

PS. I love you"

She smiled, recalling the mad dash, the light in his eyes, the laughter in his voice, "have you got your passport."

"Well that's what you said, bring passport and self."

"So I did."

"This is completely crazy..."

"So? It feels nice to be a little crazy once in a while." The warm spark in his beautiful brown eyes convinced her, it was mad, but it was fun to be a little mad sometimes.

He bought the tickets, paying an obscene amount.

"First Class?" Apparently she was a lady who should always ride first class. He grabbed her hand, and they ran to the carriage. He bought dinner and they settled down to enjoy the ride and each other's company.

As they drew into the station, he dug in his pocket and pulled out his passport, "two secs...hold onto this for me." She picked it up, wonder if his photo's as bad as mine. She opened it, his expression solemn, he stared back at her from the page, she looked at the details. I never realised he had a middle name... oh my. She giggled. Feeling ever so slightly light headed. Caught up in the sheer heart stopping delightful romance of it all, right, wrong, rational, crazy, who cared... they were two people captured by the irresistible whirl of excitement that comes with new love.

He'd booked a hotel, on the train, and she listened to his perfectly phrased French, spoken with a strong accent that she couldn't quite place, but that came as no real surprise as she didn't know regional French accents that well. She just knew enough to know that it wasn't Parisian. She knew a little about his past, that his mother was French, which explained his affinity with the language, until then she hadn't seen the slightest evidence of it. He had a lot of secrets.

His familiarity with the French Metro system came as no surprise, and he led her confidently through the complicated system to their hotel. Their room was on the fourth floor, she was tired. She walked to the lift. It was small, barely room for both of them, thank goodness we haven't got baggage. He wasn't with her, and she turned around. He was standing at the foot of the stairs. "Four floors? No way." she held out her hand, "come on." Reluctantly, or so it seemed to her, he walked into the lift.

It was small and old. And very slow. He held her hand. By the time they reached the fourth floor, his palm was sweating and the death grip of his fingers, entwined with hers, was threatening to force the blood out of her hand entirely. His eyes were screwed shut, and he looked about to either faint or be sick.

She stroked the back of his neck. "I never realised. Sorry."

"Don't be. It's so stupid. Just don't tell the guys." He grinned at her, and she smiled ruefully. "Tough guy cop wants to hang on to his reputation."

"Well... you know how it is."

Suddenly serious, she looked up into his face. "You know no one would actually think any the worse of you because you're claustrophobic. It's something you have no control over."

They reached the room, and he paused, unlocked it, and in one swift move he scooped her up in his arms.

"Put me down, you idiot." She tried to protest, the laughter in his eyes was infectious. He stepped through the door and deposited her on the bed.

"Your wish is my command." Her arms went up round his neck and she pulled him down to her.