The Frenchman (Crime Royalty Romance Book 1)

by Young, Lesley

  “Leave him. Join me,” he ordered, finally, and I sucked in a bunch of stale club air. Who did he think he was?

  But dammit if excitement didn’t instantly balloon in my chest as a bunch of thoughts sprang to mind. He is into me. Isn’t he? He had been watching me. Dancing with Bastien maybe. Changed his mind? Is he jealous? Maybe he’s just competitive. After all, he was an athlete and a dick. There was no getting around that.

  He was watching my reflection think it over. His arms slid around my waist and he pressed himself into my body. I gasped, and my eyelids flapped wider than ever.

  Is that . . .? I asked him in the mirror silently. His sly smile answered me.

  Yes, that was his stiff cock prodding my back.

  He squeezed himself hard into me, and my knees nearly buckled as I clasped the bar.

  His gaze pinned mine in the mirror.

  The feeling of powerlessness I experienced . . . how could it be so intoxicating? I was at his mercy in that moment. He leaned over me fully, shadowing my entire body. Pushing my hair to one side he whispered, “Does he make you feel like I do?” His warm lips touched my neck, and his tongue licked my sensitive skin. He left a wet mark, and the memory of the sensation of his expert tongue between my other lips rushed at me. It was too late. With my half-lidded eyes and soft moan, I’d answered him.

  No. No one makes me feel like you, Louis.

  I was starting to wonder if anyone ever could.

  I closed my eyes tightly for a moment. “Have a drink with me, Fleur,” he said. When I opened my lids, he was a mask of determination. I really, really wanted to say yes. And he knew it. Somehow he knew.

  Probably because he had this effect on women all of the time. It’s his superpower. Making women lusty, wet, confused, desperate for his cock. Marvel could do a whole naughty series about him. They could call him The Kneeler. Because I would’ve dropped down before him and begged.

  He shifted slightly against me, and—breathe, Fleur—I swear an earthquake could have brought the walls down around me and I would still have been focused on how there were just two thin layers of material between me and his big gun, pressed into my lower back. His eyes met mine again. I knew that’s how he would stare at me when he entered me and eventually pulled the trigger.

  Fleur!

  I shook my head.

  Enough was enough.

  He was unpredictable.

  Hot. Cold. Cold. On fire!

  He was too unpredictable and rude and threatening to my perfect, simple, orderly world. I couldn’t control myself around him, never mind control him.

  Plus, I’d been raised better than that: I would not ditch a date. I was wimpy, with a side of righteous and a dash of class. Just as I nudged my elbows back, and I will admit, regretfully, another body push in beside us.

  “Fleur,” said Bastien, emphatic. I pushed back against the dark force behind me, and then asked him to move, silently, panicked in the mirror.

  After a quick glance at me, and a menacing look at Bastien’s reflection, Louis stepped back.

  I turned around quickly. Brows raised, I looked at Bastien, concerned he would make something of the large man from the elevator groping me.

  But he wasn’t paying attention to me at all. Bastien, quite a bit shorter, was staring up at Louis, not the least bit intimidated. In fact, Bastien was wearing a smile. A distinctly smug smile. A shock blasted through me: They do know each other.

  Louis’s expression: vague, distant, simmering, unhappy.

  My eyes were drawn by two other men in blazers who had somehow made their way behind Louis. They stood, poised like watchful guard dogs. Were they his friends? A third moved in behind Bastien. Blood drained from my face. No. No, they were not nearly as nicely dressed as Louis. One of them was much older. They kept checking out Louis, like they were waiting for instructions. He remained stony, staring down a smiling Bastien.

  Sensing something was very wrong, and that I was caught up in it somehow, I stepped forward and grabbed Bastien’s arm.

  “I want to leave.”

  I was scared. I didn’t know why. But I was. Even others around us must have sensed the change in energy because they had dispersed somewhat.

  “Bastien,” I pleaded. He noticed me, finally, and his expression softened. “Oui. On y va.”

  Placing an arm around me, he nudged me forward, but Louis wouldn’t step out of the way. I paused. Louis glared down at me, his thick dark brows sewn up in the middle, the rest of his face clenched in a scowl. A shiver ran down my spine. I twisted my body sideways and squeezed past, hoping Bastien would do the same. Instead, he released my hand.

  Louis stepped forward. My heart stopped. All I could do was watch Bastien’s face, impassive, as Louis said something to him. It was just a few words, and Louis stepped around Bastien and left.

  I watched my Frenchman, along with his massive shoulders and nasty entourage, head off into the crowd.

  I was stunned. Bastien escorted me down the exit stairs without a word. His car arrived via the valet within minutes. Relief began to set in. The gulps of cool, fresh sea air I took before getting into his car also helped.

  And in my relieved state, I could see how the coincidences were piling up. An ugly weed took root in my mind.

  “What was that all about?” I asked, without any politeness, as we got underway.

  Bastien examined me briefly before focusing his eyes back on the dark, narrow street.

  “I have a . . . history, with that man. How do you know him?” he added, bringing the car to a gentle stop before turning it onto a main street.

  My stomach dropped. “I don’t,” I answered truthfully (know him, that is). I didn’t need Bastien telling Marie about Louis humping me in a bar.

  He kept staring at me. “I am police. Also, I am very smart.” He tapped his head, staring at me.

  I was officially panicked. I could not let the truth, the whole truth, get back to Marie. So I blurted out that I’d met Louis at the bistro across the street the night my friend Jess left, and that we joined them for a drink. And then, we all went our separate ways.

  Bastien’s hard stare was very disconcerting.

  “How do you know him? What’s Marie’s problem with him anyway?” I fired back, trying to deflect away from my fib.

  “Have you heard of the Messettes . . . of Toulon?” he finally answered. Shadows were covering his face. I shifted as flashes of my online stalking confronted me.

  “No. Yes. Well, only that they are very rich.”

  He nodded. “Stay away from them, all of them.”

  My mouth popped open. I was shocked by his vehemence. It was as pervasive as Marie’s. “You don’t listen to me,” added Bastien, probably noting my pursed lips. “He treats women the worst. Very bad.” My heart dropped because I assumed by he, Bastien meant Louis. And this was not what I wanted to hear.

  So these warnings were all about his alleged gigolo lifestyle.

  “You stay away from him like Marie tell you. Okay?” He added this much softer.

  Numb, I nodded, because I wasn’t going to argue with this man I barely knew. It was all too weird and frankly, seemed awfully melodramatic.

  Surely Marie hadn’t told him I was a virgin? Good Lord no. Of course not. The two of them were just being overly protective. Resentment flared in me, momentarily, before I reminded myself that Marie was only worried about me because she cared.

  Halfway into the quiet ride home, I let my body relax. And my mind, like the truant teenager it was, wandered right back to the moment Louis pressed himself into me against the bar. I clasped my forehead in embarrassed panic for experiencing a pang of lust while sitting next to Bastien.

  And then I remembered, exclaiming, “Oh no, we never paid for our drinks!”

  Bastien snorted. “Don’t worry. Messette will take care of them.” Bastien’s bitter tone tweaked a memory, and a symbol I had spotted on the coaster under my water glass popped into my mind. It was the same black, r
azor-sharp variation of the fleur-de-lis I’d seen in the photos of the Messette yacht and tattooed on his forearm.

  My heart skipped as a terrible idea occurred to me. “Do the Messettes own Noir?” I met Bastien’s surprised glance, and my stomach squished. We pulled up in front of Marie’s building.

  “You are smart girl.” I didn’t like Bastien at all in that moment.

  “Why would you take us to a bar he owned if you want me to stay away from him?” Yeah, I can make deductions, too, I wanted to add. I was the daughter of a police inspector after all.

  A corner of his mouth lifted up.

  Whoa. Discovery: Don’t ask a question you think you know the answer to, and don’t like. I grabbed my clutch, the door handle, and let myself out.

  “Fleur!” he called after me, but I rushed to the door, letting myself in before he had time to reach me. He loitered for a minute or two outside of the locked lobby. I didn’t want to give him a chance to explain away the events, which I needed to sort out for myself.

  Once safely in the elevator, I went back over the encounter. I bit the remaining lip gloss off of my lips. Why would Bastien take me to the nightclub, which he seemed to frequent, owned by someone he thought was bad? And then, openly witnessing Louis come on to me, warn me off him?

  It was hard not to conclude he’d used me.

  Looking back on the elevator incident with the ménage à trois, Bastien had been watching me closely, and probably got a pretty clear read on me. I mean I was obviously riled up by Louis’s presence. More importantly, Louis stared him down. I swallowed, smoothing my hair and my dress, as the elevator doors opened and I stepped out. What if Bastien took me to Louis’s club to see if he could provoke Louis? And he had: Louis tried to get me to ditch Bastien. His smug smile popped into my mind.

  But . . . why? Why would Bastien do that?

  I stepped out of my heels, my feet whimpering thank you the rest of the way down the hall. What had Bastien really been after? I sensed somehow this wasn’t really about me. But what?

  The worst part was the truth that stood quietly on the sidelines waiting for acknowledgement: those two were clearly playing games, and I had been nothing but a pawn.

  Chapter 5

  “What? He humped you in the bar? Like a dog in heat?!” squealed Jess over the phone the next morning, delighted at the juicy news. Yesterday she’d sent me five texts about how bored she was back at work. She has to be the only person I know who misses school. She added, as if I’d been holding out, “Well, how big was it?”

  “Big.” I sipped my coffee, sitting on the kitchen bar stool. I’d already told her the Bastien date was a bust, no additional details required.

  “Of course it is!” I had to pull the phone away from my ear. “Did you see the size of that man? He’s a mutant.”

  I didn’t say anything. I was tingly all over at the idea of that big in me. Say what you will, Louis couldn’t have faked that arousal, no matter what kind of games were being played last night.

  I had to wonder, was horniness an ailment? Sex, or lack of it, had never been on my mind to the point of distraction before I met Louis. I should be more focused on my job, or finding someplace to volunteer at, or making plans to entice Marie to spend more time with me.

  Pretty much the only reassuring thing I could make out was that no one else had ever made me feel this way. That had to count for something.

  On the other hand, my stomach dropped, that meant this aloof, ill-mannered, formidable man was special.

  “Fleur? You still there?”

  “Mhm.”

  “Oh no. You’re not still into him are you? He’s most definitely not the Hymenator.” I rolled my eyes. My friends used this term frequently.

  “He seemed to make the grade before. You said he was ‘hawt.’”

  “That was before I found out he was some anti-virgin man-whore who spits out women like a wood chipper.”

  Dammit. I shouldn’t have told her about the bimbettes.

  “Come on, Fleur, what do you really know about him? Other than the fact he can barely keep it in his pants?”

  Hm. Good point. And yet. “He supports a local charity for disadvantaged children.”

  “Oh my God. Fleur.” Only Jess and my mother could say my name in a way that gave me pause. (I made a mental note to answer my mother’s last email. We’d been in touch every day, and it helped me miss her less.) “Of course. You googled him, right?” she accused.

  Dammit. She knew me so well.

  “You’ve probably also been listening to that Get It On playlist you made last fall, too, right?” she said, disgusted.

  I cringed. There’s a point when someone can know you too well.

  “I am officially telling you to stay away from him. What about that French class you’re taking? Anyone interesting there?”

  “It hasn’t started yet. Next week.”

  “Stay away from him. He’s a douche. He’ll hurt you. I mean it, Fleur.”

  Jess was always saying “I mean it” to me, so it was hard to take her seriously. That said, she was the third person to warn me off Louis Messette.

  I changed the subject and chatted about work. She was back at the Cove—the clothing store where we worked the past six summers. It was the same old story: the designer-owner was pressuring her to make more commissions. I told Jess how I wished I had that problem with Sylvie. “Be patient,” she advised, confident it would all work out, and I hoped she was right. She gave me the update on Tammy, she was dating a new guy, and we wrapped up the call. Thankfully, Jess didn’t bring up Louis again before saying goodbye. I didn’t want to defend my feelings. Hell, I couldn’t even make sense of them.

  I stared dejectedly at a French cereal box and wondered if I would ever be fluent. The newspaper Marie had deposited on the kitchen counter this morning caught my eye. I glanced at her bedroom door. She must have got home after six a.m.

  Wait. My eyes fell back to the paper, my brain on full alert. The photo underneath the headline “Le meurtrier arrêté!” was Marie’s headshot. There was another smaller headshot of a nasty-looking man. I grabbed the paper. My chest swelled as I read on, slowly. Marie’s task force had found the murderer of the drug dealer known as Casolaro. Apparently it had been a hit man from one of Toulon’s port crime gangs. Wow.

  I regarded the closed bedroom door again with awe.

  A superhero for a mother.

  She deserved her sleep.

  I was extra quiet as I got changed into my workout attire: Lululemon pants and a Texas Longhorns football tank top. I loved my university team’s white and orange colors. The logo, a pair of longhorns, arched over each breast, and a big number eleven for Jess’s favorite player was emblazoned on the front and back.

  Marie was such an inspiration, I thought, tying back my hair in a sloppy knot. After my workout, I decided I would investigate local volunteer activities. I laced on my runners, stamping down the rush of anticipation of a pending burn.

  I’m addicted to the stair climber. Not only is it the secret to a cellulite-free tush, nothing else makes me sweat quite like it. And I needed a deep, detoxing sweat.

  Well, technically, I needed to be laid. Since the one man who’d come close to being the mythical Hymenator was apparently off-limits—recalling his latest actions, his need, another rush of lustful anxiety wracked me—the stair climber it was.

  Who does that? Who has the couilles to just walk up to a woman and press his lust on her? A shiver ran down my spine: he was so much more than I could handle.

  I left a note for Marie, in case she got up, letting her know I was down in the gym. Before walking out the door I scrolled through playlists on my iPod. I needed a perky, chaste selection to stave off the cobbled, anxious confusion plaguing me.

  A strange rustling noise outside the door caught my attention. Glancing into the peep hole, I spotted the back of a man’s leather coat disappearing from view. I opened the door, and an envelope jettisoned down to my feet.
The man looked back at me, expressionless, before reaching the elevators. Anxiety surged in my gut. I recognized his dark, thick beard. One of Louis’s pit bulls from the club last night.

  I glanced back at the envelope on the ground.

  Fleur it said on the outside. I swallowed, bent down, picked it up and shut the door quickly, locking it, even though the man was clearly not coming back.

  I weighed the envelope in my hand. It was thicker and heavier than if it held just a piece of paper. The penmanship was abrupt.

  In a burst of curiosity, I flipped it over, pried my finger into the flap and ripped it open. Peering inside, my chest squeezed, and everything kind of sank.

  Euros. Lots of them.

  I pulled the wad of colorful notes out. They were wrapped in a smaller piece of paper. I unfolded it, barely breathing.

  Je suis désolé.

  Louis

  He was . . . sorry?

  I looked up, only to see myself in Marie’s foyer mirror. Appalled. Totally appalled, and, I watched my brows pinch severe, my green eyes flash dark, I was angry. Very, very angry.

  He was effectively, I gawked down at the handful of euros, buying his way out of humping me? This was the worst insult yet from him. I mean, that’s what this was, right? Or wait. Was he was paying me for letting him hump me? Or, my heart swooped dangerously low, maybe trying to buy his way into my bed?

  He thought so little of me? That I would what, run to him, and say, “It’s alright, but a full fuck would cost double”? I mean, my God, there was, I shuffled the wad of bills, three thousand euros or more here.

  Enough was enough. Blind, with shock—I mean how dare he send a friend to drop off money to buy me or buy me off, or whichever it was!—I had already reached the elevator, and pressed the penthouse button, cash in one hand, before I even questioned what I was doing.

  Nuh-uh. No way. Adrenaline was coursing through me. He’d insulted me enough. I’d had enough. I wasn’t going to let Louis believe for one second that I’d even thought about taking money from him. I needed to give it back to him right way. Who does that?! Who acts the way he does? Was it because I’m American? Well, he needed a lesson in manners.