Broken French: A widowed, billionaire, single dad romance

by Natasha Boyd

  I made myself step back farther as the little girl pointed at me.

  But then the world slowed down. In the time it took for his eyes to trek slowly upward, from my feet to my face, I lived eons. I had moments where I wondered if I should step forward and introduce myself and moments where I wished I’d evaporate back onto the train before we locked eyes. Before I could decide to introduce myself, his eyes locked with mine, and the world snapped back into real time.

  I felt the attraction like a punch in my solar plexus.

  A tiny breath huffed out of me.

  Shit.

  There was nothing soft about him. His blue eyes darkened and his jaw tensed. His features were hard and angular, but slightly imperfect, in a way that took them from pretty and perfect to dangerously sexy. He was elegant with a sharp and jagged edge that made him lethal. In a flash, the look in his eyes—whatever it had been when he first looked at me—was gone. In fact, his whole mood seemed to travel at light-speed from desperate relief at his daughter’s safety, to annoyance, to whatever it was he’d thought when he looked at me, and then to some kind of cold control that swept over him. All in a matter of seconds. It was actually impressive.

  My throat closed as I tried to swallow under his scrutiny. I wondered what he was a billionaire of. I could imagine peons and minions quaking and quailing under this stare.

  I dragged my gaze from him to his daughter who stared at me curiously. “H-hello,” I stammered.

  Her father watched me from his crouched position. He must have thighs of steel to crouch that long.

  I stepped forward, holding out my hand, and looked her father square in the eye.

  “Nice to meet you, I’m Josie Marin.”

  Monsieur Pascale unfolded his body with the lithe grace of a panther until he stood, towering over me. He took my hand in a brief perfunctory shake, dropping it as quickly as it began.

  His eyes assessed me coolly. “Xavier Pascale,” he announced. “This is my daughter, Dauphine.” His accent was like a drizzle of rich chocolate sauce that made me want to lick my lips.

  I glanced down at Dauphine and held out my hand. “Nice to meet you.”

  She shook it. “Vous parlez Francais?”

  Shaking my head, I adopted what I hoped was an apologetic look. “Not very well, no.” I understood she was asking me if I spoke French, but beyond anything more than these basic questions I knew I’d be clueless. At least until my high school French clicked back into place, and even then, I knew I’d be woefully inadequate.

  She smiled. “Bon.”

  Good?

  She fired something in rapid French up to her father, and then walked away. I expected her father to go immediately after her again based on the scare he’d just had, but Xavier Pascale didn’t move. And he didn’t strike me as someone who simply followed without good reason.

  Dauphine walked up to a man hovering ten feet away from us. He was about my age with dark blond hair, wearing light colored but official looking pants and blazer, and an earpiece. He reached for Dauphine’s hand. In his other, he held a sign dangling by his side that had my name written on it. I must not have seen him. He shot me a warm and welcoming smile.

  I nervously returned it.

  The man in front of me hadn’t moved when I looked back at him. He studied me with a startling intensity. Nothing about it was warm and inviting. In fact, it was more like an arctic breeze. I guess this was the interview, then. In the train station. I hoped he’d buy my fare home, otherwise I was shit out of luck. But that was becoming the theme of my life.

  “You are not what I expected,” he said, his voice deep and accented, articulating each word.

  You either, buddy. I frowned. “In what way?”

  His gaze swept over me, and he muttered something in French I didn’t understand.

  My arms instinctively crossed over my chest, and I bristled.

  Seemingly coming to his senses he shook his head. “Désolé. I’m … sorry. Merci … uh. Thank you for coming with much on short …”

  “On short notice?”

  “Short notice.” He nodded, though he didn’t seem very thankful. More annoyed and perturbed by my presence. “I apologize. My English is normally better. I studied for a time in Britain after all.”

  “Of course,” I said. “My French is normally worse.”

  He frowned.

  “I was joking. I haven’t tried my rusty high school French yet. And I may not have as much experience as most, but if you give me the rules, I’m good at following them.”

  I gave in to a smile I couldn’t seem to hold in.

  His brows instantly knitted together as if in offense.

  No smiling, then. Got it.

  “Well,” I said, trying to stay bright. “It’s nice to meet you and Dauphine. Please let me know if there are any activities you would like me to do with her while she is in my care. School work, reading, mathematics,” I listed. He didn’t appear to be listening to my words even though he still studied me. “Though all that would have to be in English,” I pressed on. “Or we could just have fun,” I added when I still got no response.

  He inhaled sharply through his nose, and his eyes snapped away from me and to his watch. “On y va,” he growled and turned and strode away. “Let’s go.”

  Okay then. No joking either.

  He snapped a finger at the other man who seemed to understand what a snap of fingers meant because he darted forward to grab my suitcase. Dauphine marched behind her father, arms folded and her head high.

  It seemed I’d gotten off on the wrong foot with all of them. And worse, I wondered how I was going to get over my gut deep attraction to my new boss. Although, I guessed if he continued being a dismissive asshole, it might not be that hard. I clutched my water bottle and followed them outside.

  Chapter Seven

  Evan, our driver, introduced himself to me then loaded my bag into the trunk of a dark late model Mercedes. “Sorry we were late. Were you waiting long?” he asked in a British accent. A sense of relief at knowing there was a true English speaker to help me find my footing here was a massive relief.

  “No, I’d just gotten off the train.”

  “This really all you have?” He motioned to my bag with a smile, revealing cute dimples.

  I shrugged, pinching my t-shirt away from my body to let air in against my skin. “It’s hot here, I figured I didn’t need jeans and sweaters.”

  “Evan,” Monsieur Pascale reprimanded loudly from the passenger door that was still open, one long denim-clad leg idling on the asphalt.

  Evan hurriedly closed the trunk and went to open the back door for me on the other side of the car. “Normally quite a friendly chap,” he whispered to me, his eyes rolling. “Must have accidentally sat on a carrot.”

  I snorted a laugh at the ridiculous assessment as the door opened but quickly swallowed it and climbed in. The door closed and Evan got in the driver’s seat in front of me.

  My boss drew his leg in the passenger side and slammed his door closed. His shoulders seemed rigid beneath his linen blazer, and the cool and roomy interior of the car suddenly felt stifling like his presence took up four seats. The white of his starched collar glowed against the tanned skin of his neck. I might even say he was flushed, but what did I know? It was probably the heat. We rode in silence from the train station.

  Dauphine sat in the back seat with me, her arms still folded. She watched me curiously, but as soon as I met her eyes she lifted her chin and looked away, pretending to be uninterested, only for her eyes to wander back seconds later. If only I knew how to get along with kids, I could open conversation. What had Tabitha and Meredith been thinking convincing me to take this job?

  I looked at the rearview mirror to share a look with Evan but based on my angle was instantly snared in a set of ice blue eyes belonging to my new boss. Flustered, I looked away

  The car purred through the unfamiliar streets. I tried to focus on the town outside the windows.
<
br />   This was a mistake.

  This was a mistake.

  This was a huge mistake.

  Scratch that.

  I’d make the best of the fact I’d always wanted to come to the South of France. I closed my eyes and imagined visiting small little villages and strolling weekly markets. I’d sit, sipping a café on a small and charming town square shooing off little sparrows hopping around on the cobblestones, waiting for the crumbs of my croissant. Perhaps I’d be listening to the church bells to tell the time and then walk over to the churchyard and read the tombstones, imagining times long past.

  I wouldn’t let a grumpy boss ruin France for me. Besides, Tabitha had called him grumpy, sure, but she’d also called him sad. Grieving. I’d try to give him the benefit of the doubt.

  I opened my eyes, feeling calmer, and tried to watch the city go by, but soon it was just highway and buildings that had seen better days. The ocean was nowhere to be seen.

  A throat cleared from the passenger seat. Mr. Pascale’s shoulders seemed to go down as if he was forcing them to relax. I glanced up and caught his gaze again. God, his eyes were really quite arresting.

  “Was your flight pleasant?” he asked, breaking the silence, and then cleared his throat again. He must hate uncomfortable silences as much as I did.

  “Uh, yes. Thank you.”

  “And the train?” he asked.

  I frowned. “It was fine. Thank you.” Silence stretched. “I appreciate you coming to pick me up,” I added.

  “It was on the way.”

  “On the way?”

  “To my yacht.”

  I thought Tabs had said we were going to their home first. Clearly, we were headed straight to the boat. “Um. I thought we were going to your home first.” God, I thought I’d have a day to at least get my nerve up to get on a boat. Great.

  “The plans changed,” he said.

  There was another long silence, and I was suddenly swamped with a sense of homesickness.

  My eyes stung, and I gritted my teeth. I was damned if this frozen ice prince would make me cry on my first day. Tiredness and jet lag, that’s all it was. Plus, I hadn’t really processed the fact my career had just evaporated.

  So we all sat quietly. Uncomfortably.

  Dauphine pulled out a tablet, and my blinks became longer. The car ride was smooth and lulling. The air was cool. The stress of the last few days caught up with me, and despite my nap in the train, I closed my eyes.

  The motion of the car woke me. After an hour or so, we’d left the highway and meandered down toward the coast. Again, the arresting sight of the Mediterranean Sea caused me to temporarily hold my breath when I saw it. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes. What a view to wake up to.

  “Do you have a boyfriend?” Dauphine asked from beside me.

  Turning to her with surprise, I saw nothing but a new curiosity on her face. “No,” I whispered and shook my head.

  She frowned. “Why not?”

  “Uh—”

  Blue eyes flashed across the rearview mirror. My boss was listening. If there was any chance my new boss had seen my initial reaction to him, it might be a good thing to casually mention I was off the market. Oh, how I wished I could say yes. Maybe I should make one up? Lying about having a boyfriend was just a boundary. Women did it all the time. I had girlfriends who’d put a ring on their wedding finger for girls night out so as not to be harassed in some of the clubs we liked to go to. I called a frantic emergency meeting in my head. Use a real ex? That cheating stockbroker I dated a year ago? Who else?

  Crap. The moment had passed.

  “But have you had a boyfriend?”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  Dauphine clapped. “He’s American?”

  I nodded.

  “What does he do, this American boyfriend? Is he a movie star?”

  A laugh burst out of me. Did all foreigners only think of movie stars when they thought of America? “No. He was a financial journalist.” Okay, so that was the ex, ex-boyfriend’s job. A stockbroker who wrote opinion editorials. Who’d dumped me when he realized I was never going to talk about my stepfather.

  “What is this, Finansh …?” she tried to pronounce with a frown.

  “Financial journalist. I’m afraid you might think it’s quite boring.”

  “What is the word boring?”

  “Pénible,” Monsieur Pascale offered from the front seat, clueing me to the fact he was, indeed, paying attention. He was holding the phone to his ear as he flipped through some papers on his lap. But it clearly didn’t take his attention off what I was sharing with his daughter.

  “Ahh,” said Dauphine, nodding gravely. “Continuez.”

  I swallowed a smile. “He writes about the stock market for the newspaper. Do you know what the stock market is?”

  Dauphine bristled. “Yes. Of course. Papa talks about that too and makes me so … boring.” Her eyes rolled slightly.

  I chuckled and also heard a soft snort from the front seat.

  “Bored,” I corrected with a smile. “You are bored, not boring.”

  She scowled, and then seemed to get it, and let out a small giggle.

  “But your English is very good,” I assured her.

  “Papa says I am only allowed to watch TV and YouTube in English.” She gave a dramatic sigh. “So yes, it is quite good. Better than the girls at my school,” she added without a hint of arrogance.

  I noted she didn’t refer to them as friends. “What do you like to watch?” I asked as the car went around what felt like the seventeenth roundabout. My empty stomach tipped nauseously, and I reached for the overhead handle.

  “On TV I like Disney Channel.”

  I searched the recesses of my mind. “Zack and Cody?” I chanced.

  “Oui! I love them.” She looked at me with renewed interest.

  “Why is he not your boyfriend anymore?”

  Yikes. This girl. “Um—”

  “Did you love him? Your boyfriend?”

  “Dauphine,” her father snapped from the front.

  I sucked my lips between my teeth to avoid laughing.

  Dauphine folded her arms over her chest again but didn’t press me and we all lapsed into silence again. I caught her eyes, and making sure no one but her could see me, I mouthed, “No.”

  She gasped in delight and then snickered. And we both looked away innocently.

  Outside the window, the scenery became more enchanting with every moment. I’d never seen blue quite like the inky indigo of the bay in front of us, ringed with turquoise and sparkling in the sun. There were only a few boats anchored in the bay, but it was hard to imagine they were owned by individuals. They could double as an elite cruise ship enterprise. I hadn’t thought much about the vessel I would be staying on, beyond the fact I hated the isolation and claustrophobia of boats. Add to it the fear of falling overboard, or drifting in a large expanse of sea with no land in sight, and they just weren’t a vehicle I spent much precious mental bandwidth thinking about. But now my pulse began picking up its pace. I tried slow breathing exercises.

  Fifteen minutes later, the Mercedes slowed to a roll over cobblestone streets and came out between a small row of clothing boutiques on one side and what looked like the Hermes flagship store to my right.

  “What town is this?” I asked.

  “St. Tropez,” Evan responded.

  We glided slowly through throngs of holiday makers gawking at the yachts lined, stern-to, along the quay. They towered like hulking monoliths, glaringly white with gleaming metal and sparkling glass. It was an almost gross, but breathtaking, display of the mega wealthy trying to one up each other. If the port in St. Tropez was anything like the coveted berths in downtown Charleston, these spots alone would pay for the national debt of several small countries. Below almost every name was the word Valletta. I’d have to ask about that. To our right, cafes and restaurants had appropriated some of the street for their tables. Waiters in white shirts and aprons darted around
holding trays aloft. I sucked in a joyous breath. I was here.

  Dauphine was chattering away to Evan and her father in incomprehensible French. It seemed she was excited. We slowed to a stop in front of a gate arm, guarded by what I assumed was a policeman, complete with an AK-47 slung around his neck. I swallowed. The gate arm rose, and we surged forward down a long private quay with much larger boats than any we’d passed until we stopped next to a gangplank made of teak wood and steel.

  I ducked my head to look out the window and gulped at the sight.

  No one made a move to get out.

  Evan made a quick phone call.

  The boat wasn’t exactly like the others, rather it was a shining marine navy on the hull with several white layers stacked above. It wasn’t the biggest of the boats on the private quays, but my apartment in downtown Charleston could probably fit into the square footage of one level twice over. The name of the boat Sirena gleamed silver in the sun.

  My view of the yacht partially disappeared behind the torso of a strongly-built man with a bald head and dressed in a white uniform consisting of a short sleeve button down and slacks. The Mr. Clean lookalike wore a name badge that read Paco. He had an earpiece in his ear similar to Evan’s and approached us down the gangplank, looking left and right. Then he spoke to his wrist and approached the passenger side. As he opened Monsieur Pascale’s door, Evan opened the driver’s side door, got out, and immediately opened mine.

  I looked up at him.

  “Just nip onto the boat, I’ll grab your things.” He looked past me. “Dauphine slip out this side too please. Hurry.”

  My pulse rocketed at his all business manner, so different to the affable fellow who’d loaded my luggage.

  I clambered out and then took Dauphine’s hand and helped her out. She let go, pushed past me, and ran up the gangway.