The Frenchman (Crime Royalty Romance Book 1)

by Young, Lesley

  Chloé was waiting for an answer. I guess she’d noticed Bastien getting back into his unmarked Renault. I tried not to read her directness as rude: a few days after I arrived here, Marie explained to me that the French are forthright (especially when you break one of their strict rules around decorum).

  “Uh, well, yeah. I mean, cops are okay.”

  “Mon Dieu.” This was the second time she’d said this at me.

  Her brand of frankness was starting to rub me the wrong way.

  “For your information, they know how to have a good time,” I said, feeling the need to defend them, well, Marie anyway. “Plus they’re the good guys. You know, fighting the good fight?”

  Her face had hardened. Those eyes pierced the silence. “Impossible.” She uttered this with no small amount of disdain. “Tell me something, do you shit kittens, too?”

  My mouth popped open. Now. Hang on. That was mean.

  “Let me tell you something, before you get upset.” She flashed on my hands, clutching my purse. I was already upset, for the record. “The police are not ze good guys.” Her French accent grew thicker. “Zhey are ze worst and do you know why?” She didn’t wait for my answer. “Because zhey can abuse you, lie to you, steal from you and even kill you if zhey want, with total immunity.”

  She sniffed in a bunch of righteous air. I stared at her with a mix of awe and abhorrence. She’d made a point, I guess, one I’d never even thought about. But, it was theoretical and did not apply to most cops. I could never imagine Marie abusing her power.

  “Let’s go. I am thirsty,” she said suddenly, taking the keys out of the ignition. I didn’t budge. I wasn’t sure I wanted to be exposed to any more of her viewpoints on the world. Plus, I was worried about whether going out with a customer of the store had been a bad idea. She lined me up, rolled her eyes and muttered, the word unbelievable in French.

  That got my dander up.

  “I think I’ll take a pass on that drink,” I said, huffily, reaching for the door handle. I could take a cab home.

  “Nonsense. You are coming with me,” she ordered.

  And true enough, after she clambered out and headed to the café, dammit if I didn’t follow her in. I needed a drink. Plus, I reasoned with myself, she was the first local I’d met around my age. Beggars could not be choosers. The “shitting kittens” comments aside, I could hear my mother back in Austin say, “Everyone is entitled to their opinion.” Besides, aspects of Chloé reminded me of Jess, who I missed more than good ol’ American potato chips.

  We positioned ourselves at the bar, and she ordered us both wine. She winked at the bartender, who winked back. I was guessing Chloé was not a virgin. And why did my thoughts go there? Because—I was twenty-three years old and never been skinned! It had become a source of deep, unadulterated doubt for me in Europe where everyone was just so sophisticated. (I mentally scratched scrapbooking off my list of hobbies to share on my date with Louis.)

  The extreme contrast between Chloé and me just drove home how artless I truly felt. I thought of the women I had seen Louis with in photos, and another bubble of anxiety ballooned in my gut. How could I hold his interest over dinner?

  No. I checked myself. He was attracted to me. And I had lots of terrific qualities to be grateful for, or so I insisted to myself, sipping the wine. Maybe this Chloé—I wanted to describe her as debonair but wasn’t sure it applied to a woman—would rub off on me.

  “Are you with anyone?” she turned and asked bald-faced. I wondered if she could read minds, too.

  “Oh, well, um, not really.” She looked at me like I had just landed from outer space. I cleared my throat and dug deep for grace. “It’s complicated. A secret. But yes, hopefully.”

  She smiled a wicked, wonderfully conspiratorial smile. “Married, oui?”

  My appalled face only made her laugh. I was reminded of how Louis had seemed to like getting a rise out of me. Why was I so fun to tease?

  “I would never date a married man. Ever.”

  She watched me, taking a sip of her wine. “You don’t even know me,” she shrugged. “So why not tell me his name?” she goaded. “His first name? Your secret is safe with me,” she leaned in with her shoulder.

  My mother had made sure, as soon as I could walk, that I had a back bone. Time to show it.

  “So who are you seeing, then?” I asked. “Or should I say, fucking?” She inhaled, and reappraised me. “I mean, I assume you don’t date? You wouldn’t waste your time, would you?”

  Oh.

  Her face fell. No, it plummeted.

  Remorse clutched my heart. I had hit a nerve. She was unhappy over a man, that much I could tell. “Please, that was wrong of me,” I said quietly in English. My temper, when aggravated to a certain point, always gets the best of me.

  “It was only that you were pushing me too hard, Chloé. I made a promise to this man I’m dating, to not tell anyone anything about him, and I intend to keep it.” I felt weird using the word “dating” since we hadn’t even been on one yet. But I didn’t want to be any more mysterious than I had been.

  My companion sucked on her cigarette deeply, staring straight ahead. When she turned those sherry-red gems on me, I braced myself. Smoke came out of her nostrils. “I insult you, and bzz,” she made the motion of a fly with her finger and thumb pinched together around my head, “still, you are determined to be kind.”

  After she’d delivered her angry words, she shook her head and glanced back at me. The new, baffled expression worked like a windshield wiper. Contempt-free, I could see into her, just for a moment, and the picture was clear: this girl was tough as nails, and hollow with loneliness.

  “Why would I be anything else?” I asked, quietly.

  She snorted out of her nose. Realizing my sincerity, perhaps, she checked herself.

  During the rest of the evening’s stilted conversation, her edges were only butter-knife sharp—better than serrated, I told myself. When she dropped me outside Marie’s apartment (in one piece), we exchanged numbers. I was beyond surprised, and funnily enough, pleased, that she’d asked for mine.

  Just before I pulled the door handle, she said quickly, “I know someone who is married to a great, how do you say—early?—chef. Maybe . . .” She peered at me, twisting her mouth sideways. “I will ask about good cooking classes for you.” I had told her about my blog and trouble finding the right class.

  “Oh, thanks, that would be great,” I said, with sincere enthusiasm.

  “Parfait,” she said. I got out and she shouted through her rolled down window, “I will text you.”

  I smiled and headed in. I think she’d meant up-and-coming chef when she’d said “early chef,” but I didn’t care who it was as long as it provided a great experience. I thought living in France would help me improve my food blog, but the trouble was that “an American cooking in France” had kinda already been done, and done well. No way could I improve on Julia Child. I needed a new angle, and just maybe a cooking class would inspire me.

  I went to bed early that night, after staying out of Marie’s way. She had been intensely quiet, and I was already worried enough about the pending visit of my new grandmother.

  Marie barely commented after tasting my famous barbecue peanuts. What was she so worried about? Did she think maybe Sophie wouldn’t like me?

  I told myself not to go there.

  Instead, I texted Jess a short message about my day and mentioned meeting Chloé. I hadn’t expected to make a friend so quickly. Marie had cautioned me weeks ago that the French don’t open up readily, but when they do, you are well rewarded. I wasn’t sure what I’d come to learn about Chloé, but I was willing.

  Jess texted back that she was happy for me, and that she’d made one hundred dollars in commissions. Then I read Mom’s email, which she’d sent from her newspaper desk earlier that day. She’d been working on an assignment about a rash of robberies, and she’d finally started online dating. It was like her to bury the good stuff. I
want details, Mom. Tell me about good and bad dates! I wrote. I hoped she would find someone—I’d always thought she had so much love to give a good man. Without me there, maybe she was finally living for herself.

  After I turned out the light, I heard the ping of another text. Thinking it was Jess, I debated ignoring it, but curiosity kills me, so I sat up, turned on the light, and my heart did a swan dive—it was from a blocked number.

  What is your favorite color?

  It had to be him. Boom, boom, boom. My heart! I tried to think up something flirty quickly.

  Red and black. (His club team’s colors.)

  I liked that there was a pause.

  Bien. Favorite color, please.

  My pulse was erratic. I couldn’t concentrate. Answer him.

  Purple. Why?

  I am returning late. Please get in car outside building at eight p.m. Thursday.

  Oh my God! The date was happening. In one week. I panicked over my response. Should I add that I’m looking forward to it? No. Too stuffy. How about, can’t wait? No. Too eager. Ah-ha. I typed:

  Okay. I am smiling.

  Not a second later:

  In bed?

  My stomach flipped. Dirty texting? Wow. Was I ready for that?

  I knew the pause was too long. He would read into it.

  Goodnight, Fleur.

  Shoot. I had missed my window. I am a pro at flirting, just apparently not with him.

  Goodnight, Louis.

  I put my phone on my nightstand, pumped up on elation.

  I jumped at the ping and grabbed my phone.

  I dream of you.

  My heart melting at the romantic words. I liked the charming Louis. Très bien.

  I bit my lip, and texted:

  Me, too.

  I put my phone on the nightstand again and waited for three epic minutes before my body finally relaxed.

  He had followed through, I realized, lying there.

  Funny, the sense of relief I experienced scared me to the bone. I couldn’t believe how hung up I’d been over one man’s desire for me. If I had never heard from him again, I couldn’t imagine the disappointment I would have had to endure, on an innate, cellular level. I hardly knew Louis Messette, but my body and all its internal mechanisms seemed to be magnetically attracted to him with some kind of mysterious force.

  I rolled over, curling up. For years now, I wondered what it would be like to fall in love. I’d picture myself waking up in the arms of a great man, smiling, making love, making plans for the day, trusting each other entirely, undoubtedly, always. It was an abstract idea. And it wasn’t about having a particular man, per se, so much as the connection. A pure, unbreakable connection.

  Of course, I didn’t know if Louis was the man yet, but . . .

  Fleur! Wow. It wasn’t like me to be so fantastical.

  It was one date. And it was 11:06 p.m. I had a long day tomorrow with work, the French tutor, and Sophie’s arrival.

  Reality really is a drag.

  I tossed and turned, counted sheep, listened to music, and ended up diddling myself twice. Both times, just as I climaxed I pictured Louis’s face as he stared at me in the mirror of his bar. I imagined him behind me, filling me up with his huge, hard cock, ramming me violently, relentlessly, in the dark with people everywhere, pinning me with those eyes.

  And I still wasn’t remotely satisfied.

  So much for making sweet gentle love with my one true love. It was no good. I was this particular man’s dirty virgin whore.

  Chapter 9

  I was hoofing it down a street in la vieille ville. Even in my haste, I admired the centuries-old district. I made a mental note to spend more time strolling around. I’d only been once before with Jess and then on my own to visit a government building to check on the difference between getting a work permit or a long-stay visa (it’s complicated).

  Checking my cell phone app for directions while trying to scan buildings for the numbers 653 was no easy task in three-inch wedges on cobblestone streets.

  I’d received a last-minute text from the tutor service: they’d had to substitute Chérie d’Alfort. They didn’t say with whom, only that I needed to be at 653 rue Leclerc half an hour earlier. Since I didn’t dare ask to leave work early, that meant I would be ten minutes late—the amount of time I needed to walk the distance.

  One wrong turn later, and I was twelve minutes late. Up six flights of stairs, sweat breaking out under my blouse—this Texan no longer took air conditioning for granted (the temperature was high for this time of year in Toulon)—I reached what appeared to be a lobby entrance fifteen minutes late.

  It was a restaurant, or some kind of café. What an odd location, I remarked to myself—not going to get a lot of foot traffic. The sign read La Petite Palourde (Little Clam). I stepped up to the wood and glass façade and tried the door. Locked. Damn. I tried to catch my breath while peering through the mottled glass, but it was a blur. I knocked very quietly, and after a moment I could just make out a figure moving within.

  Had I reached the right address? I checked. Yes. I knocked again, but the figure disappeared from view.

  I texted my contact to make sure he or she meant 653. Movement caught my eye and my heart skipped a beat—a man, on the lower landing of the stairwell. I hadn’t heard any footsteps. It was like he appeared from nowhere. Worse, he was not the kind of man you want to run into on an empty stairwell.

  I don’t like to judge people on looks alone, but instinct screamed: “Creepy!” His heavily jowled face was coated with three days’ scruff. And he wore a long black leather coat, the kind only ruffians wear, although, this was Europe. I identified what was off: he wasn’t surprised to see me. In fact, he avoided looking at me at all, almost deliberately, or so it seemed.

  I pretended to be texting as he carried on past me and up the next flight. I breathed easier, listening as his footsteps disappeared up the stairs.

  My crazy imagination.

  I knocked on the door of the restaurant one more time, frustrated. No answer. I had missed my tutoring session, or so it appeared. I blew hair out of my face, hesitated, and then decided to leave. What a bust.

  Back out on the pavement, I was grateful for the fresh air. A few cars zipped past. Rush hour.

  I should get back to help Marie with any last-minute preparations before Sophie’s arrival. I texted her to let her know I was heading back to the apartment early rather than meeting her at the train station later.

  My phone pinged. I frowned. The tutor service texted to say that the backup tutor had also canceled at the last minute. They apologized profusely and suggested next Monday with the original tutor. I agreed, and was told a new meeting place would be determined later. To be honest, I wasn’t going to hold my breath. Clearly I was going to have to find a more reliable tutor.

  Louis, perhaps? I smiled to myself, inwardly blushing at the thought of the kinds of words he might teach me, and headed back to Marie’s on foot, keeping my eyes peeled for a vacant taxi (unlikely). Walking was still foreign to this American.

  The hike back was uphill, and while I appreciated the exercise, it was ruining my blouse. Even the pretty European views, which unfolded as I graduated hills in la haute ville (the upper, newer town), north of the port, weren’t relaxing me. Marie really does live in the best district. Built into the hills, one can see the port end-to-end. Blue sea meets sky: a fantastical illusion of freedom. Only, I was weighed down, with pavement underfoot and responsibilities that awaited ahead. I wanted to help Marie, and to impress my new grandmother.

  At Marie’s, twenty minutes later, the last thing I expected was the homey aroma of buttery pastry. I hung up my purse and followed my nose. Stepping into the kitchen, I greeted Marie with feigned mock surprise—she was cooking (a “terrible activity”; her words). She laughed, barely, and I took in her tired eyes, my heart sympathetic. Sleep was in order. But instead of saying anything, I turned on the oven light and raved and raved over the tarte aux fruit
s.

  When I glanced back over, she was watching me with a half-smile on her face.

  “Mon Dieu, I am so anxious. I apologize, ma belle! I have been a nightmare. Oui, oui, I know. But you don’t understand! My mother is very . . . irritating.” She stared at me, waiting for my response to this declaration.

  I laughed. “Oh is that all? You had me really worried, Marie.”

  “She just—” She held out her hands, fingers bent in claws stiffly, growling in frustration.

  “Look, Marie, don’t take this the wrong way, but all mothers are irritating.”

  Her eyes were so wide it made me laugh. “Except you! In fact, I would like it if you were a bit more irritating.” I hoped she understood what I meant, that I wouldn’t mind if she were more involved with my life.

  “I know!” She shook her head. “The job. It takes all that I am. I thought because you were older, you would understand.”

  I did. Marie’s passion for policing was entirely pure. She’d finally mentioned the LaSalle family came from money, specifically a great uncle’s vineyard. She didn’t need to work.

  “I do. And I am very happy with the time we spend together,” I added.

  She stepped up to me and caressed my cheek. “By the end of this weekend, you will be glad for the space I afford you.” I agreed with her, knowing it was what she wanted.

  But . . . holy cow was she right. Sophie LaSalle was the most taxing woman I had ever met in my life, and that’s saying something since it takes a lot to phase me. Part of the problem was that she never stopped talking. And since she doesn’t speak a word of English, it was non-stop, rushed, dramatic French, most of which landed on Marie.

  In the beginning, I thought it was nerves, about meeting me. At the train station she barely glanced at me before starting in with Marie. Sophie’s silvery hair was in a perfect bob, and it was evident where Marie got her delicate features. From what I could decipher, grand-maman Sophie talked about daily minutia. The train ride. What she was served. How terrible her garden is in Bordeaux. And how she couldn’t hire decent help. On and on. By the time we arrived back at the apartment, Marie and I were sharing meaningful glances. Sweet mercy, by nine fifteen I was watching the clock, praying for bedtime.