Fury scorched my insides. I’d never felt so helpless in my life—and it sickened me, and bewildered me, how that’s exactly what turned my attacker on. I never wanted to be in that situation again. I would take a self-defense class.
Maybe I would also wise up and quit looking at the world through rainbow sunglasses, I fumed. I mean, I’d just stood there, stared at him with disbelief like I didn’t know there were really bad people in the universe.
I’d bathed, taken another ibuprofen, and, unable to rest without thinking about it, watched TV. I couldn’t tell you what show was on. Around nine thirty p.m. I dressed in a matching lavender lingerie set, slipped on gray leggings and a snug, fitted long-sleeved tunic sweater in white. I left my hair down, maybe so I could use it to hide my cheek and neck from Louis. I put his necklace on, and it glimmered beautifully against the white.
Determined to be equally as sparkly, I made my way upstairs. And there I stood, hesitating outside his door, trying to gather myself. I was not going to let what had happened ruin my night. Why shouldn’t I have this?
Finally, I raised my hand to knock on the door and . . . hit thin air. Louis had opened the door and was staring at me with concern.
“Uh” was my expression.
Casual looked good on Louis. He was wearing a snug shirt and jeans. Barefoot. A smile spread on my face, and I winced from the pain.
“You are early, why?” he demanded, his eyes narrowed on me.
Uh, I was on time.
“Were you watching me through the peep hole?”
“My man heard the elevator.”
He grabbed my hand to bring me to him and I flinched—my palms were bruised badly from taking the brunt of my forward fall. I stepped inside on my own. He closed the door behind me.
Anxiety had gone super nova: nerves were shooting around wildly. Maybe I was more traumatized than I realized.
“Salut,” I said facetiously, hoping to cover my weirdness. “And I’m on time, not late.”
His two bodyguards appeared in the hall. “Ma petite Fleur, no one in France arrives at the time requested. You should arrive at least fifteen minutes late always.”
“Oh.” I watched his guards step outside with chairs and take positions in the foyer.
I raised my eyebrows at Louis after he closed the door. His thick brows remained tightly knotted, even as his arm slid around my body, his hand on my butt, pulling me close into him. I bent back so he could curl down and kiss me.
His lips met mine in the same way as before, imprinting them, firmly, with meaning. He released them and pressed his forehead on mine, his other hand gripping around the back of my neck. His taste, still in my mouth, minty. Mm. His warm breath was very soothing on my face. I was loving his overly romantic greetings.
He unfurled me from his embrace and directed me into the suite. The entire penthouse was dimly lit. Nearing the living room, I was surprised to see candles on the few pieces of furniture that dotted the space. Anticipation whirred inside. I was also relieved because he would not be able to see my face properly.
What on earth was I going to tell Marie tomorrow? Because she wouldn’t miss the bruise, that’s for sure. That I had walked into a wall? Would she buy it? Frustration surged in me. Here I was in Louis’s penthouse. Our second night together. This was part two. I was supposed to get all the pleasure in the universe. Not worry about lies and violence.
Determined to focus on Louis, and enjoy myself, I held my ground as he stepped up close. Uh-oh. He was watching me. My heart skipped a beat and I tried to recover by smiling up at him.
He did not smile back.
What was he saying now with those eyes? He was trying to get into my soul again. I panicked.
“What is wrong?” he asked sharply.
“Nothing,” I answered. I shook my head, staring up as guilty as sin.
That’s not how you lie, I could hear Jess in my ear.
His eyes narrowed and scanned me. I shifted nervously. He closed the gap between us, and grew even more concerned when I stepped back. He grabbed my chin, before I could stop him, and tilted my head up and to the side. I grasped his thick forearm—alarmed.
His eyes focused on my right eye and cheek and narrowed. “What happened to your face?”
“Oh that,” I said nervously. “I tripped and fell into a pallet where I work. You know, a big box in the back room. I work for an up-and-coming clothing designer called Sylvie, I think I mentioned her last night, she gets lots of shipments . . .” I blathered on, hoping he would drop it. I hated lying. It burned my insides, and I was dizzy. When I was done, I smiled as naturally as I could. No way was I going to fill him in on my drama. But . . .
Geez he was all rain clouds. He released me, and I stepped back.
I tried smiling again but it was no good. It slid from my face.
I’m not known for a being a good liar, but staring at him, I couldn’t even try to pretend. He knew it, too. The look on his face was killing me.
Coming here was a mistake. I knew if I didn’t leave I was going to cry, and it was way too soon for that. I moved to dart left. When he grabbed my hand, I hissed and curled away.
Something dawned, because he moved so fast I barely realized what was happening. His eyes flashed wide—on my neck. Connecting the dots, or rather in this case, fingerprint bruises, fury, the likes of which I have never seen before, lit up his face. A nation at arms.
“Who did this to you?” He shook my arm, gripping it hard, not realizing he was hurting me all over again. My eyes were wide, from shock, maybe that he was so upset, maybe that it had happened at all.
“What happened? Tell me. This instant.” He backed me up until the sofa bumped my legs. I crumpled into it, ashen.
“Tout de suite! Tell me now, please.” He had lowered his voice, but I preferred the yelling to the menace in his calm voice. He sat rigid on the edge of the sofa near me.
He was upset because he cared. Right? Something cracked in me, right there in that moment. I didn’t cry mind you, I just looked down at my hands, and relayed the events as they occurred, not leaving out anything, including how the men reacted to his necklace, his energy crackled over me, and the truth about Sylvie and the shipments.
When I was done, I felt lighter, but, glancing at his tormented face, a pungent feeling entered the mix. Guilt, for involving him.
Why was he just sitting there staring at me?
He snapped up off the sofa as if he were a gymnast, snatched his phone off the coffee table, and within seconds, snarled a bunch of guttural noises into the phone. I didn’t recognize a word. Was that a different dialect? Alarmed, I jumped up, and followed him into the dining room area and then the kitchen, grabbing at his arm.
“No, Louis, you can’t call the police. I just told you!” I shouted. He spun around, and covered the phone. “It is not the police. Go sit down, I will return in a moment,” he ordered, continuing his vicious phone conversation, which, a few rushed replies later, he promptly ended.
He pursed his lips and—
Whoa!
I spun around agog. He’d just whipped the phone at the kitchen wall behind me. It was wedged into the drywall like a bullet!
He was already apologizing, and pulled me into him firm but gentle, saying he was sorry.
What was he sorry for? I mean, being upset for me was kind of sweet. But a little bit much. Maybe it was a cultural thing. I had no idea Frenchmen could be so protective.
I pulled away. My head was spinning, my heart flipping out.
“Who did you call?” I asked, prioritizing my questions.
But he ignored me. In the kitchen light, I observed as his face hardened again. He was examining my bruises.
His face twisted in anger all over again.
“Louis!” I demanded. He snapped to attention, as though he had been somewhere else. “Why are you acting like this? I don’t understand,” I added. My voice broke, and my nose tingled.
No way I was going to cry. Ge
t a hold of yourself!
Now he saw me. “Fleur,” he said, full of sympathy and tenderness, picking me up with an arm under my legs, carrying me back to the living room. I let him, even though I felt tense and weird in such an embrace.
“Ils n’avaient pas le droit. Ils vont payer.” Was he talking about the culprits? I didn’t catch every word, but I think he’d said they had no right and they would pay. I mean I get he was upset, but this was over the top. Easy there, chief, I wanted to suggest. I had survived. I wasn’t maimed for life. I would sort out what to do, eventually.
But he sat us down, me in his lap, and held me tight to him, saying “sh, sh, sh” though I wasn’t making any noise. And it was, actually, a tremendous relief. I was more shaken up than I wanted to admit. So I buried my head fully in the dark warmth of his neck, since that was what he seemed to want. I stayed like that for some time, exhausted, overwhelmed, and enjoying the comfort he seemed to want me to take from him.
Our most meaningful moments seemed to be silent. I sighed deeply.
“It will be alright,” he said. The way he’d said it, false, destroyed the safety I’d hid in. Plus, I did still have to help Sylvie. Maybe I could convince Marie to give my boss a third chance? I pulled back enough to take in Louis’s hardened face, but I was distracted by his two bodyguards approaching. They took in my bruises as Louis spoke to them in that strange dialect again.
“Louis! You are not telling them, are you?” I couldn’t believe it. I tried to scramble out of his lap, but it was impossible.
“Let me go,” I snapped at him, and he did. I stood up, staring at him accusingly. He watched me from the sofa like a lion about to show me his teeth.
What was going on? My mouth popped open as more men entered the room, four, five, six! They examined me with hard, unimpressed stares, and I stepped back, yanking my sleeves down, glaring at Louis.
“Who are they?”
I was beyond upset.
“I trusted you!”
Since Louis was getting ready to go primal, I dashed backward—in time—escaping his reach, and made it around the ottoman, intending to make my escape around the back route.
I halted in my tracks.
Georges Messette. He was standing up ahead and, barely glancing at me, proceeded to remove his jacket. Underneath was a tan leather gun holster, and a shiny black gun tucked in its side.
My heart was racing a mile a minute. I felt distinctly the way I had only a few hours earlier. Trapped. Helpless. I spun around and oh! There was Louis, standing, arms crossed, blocking the other way out of the living room.
“You will tell my family everything.”
Two more men, beefy but not as tall, stood behind Louis. One was definitely another brother with similar dark hair and green-brown eyes. The other was fairer, almost blond, and had gray eyes. They wore expensive pants and dress shirts.
He’d called his family? WTF? Why would he do that? This was crazy. First of all, this was not how I’d planned to meet them. And second, why? Why would he call his family? I tried to control my heart, and my mind, both of which were in total agreement this was all wholly unacceptable.
I was being examined carefully by the two men behind Louis. They were less intimidating than Georges, but still extremely unnerving. Our mutual assessment was a mixture of suspicion and curiosity.
“My brothers, Henri and Philippe,” said Louis.
I was truly flabbergasted.
“Why are they here?” I asked him quietly, meaningfully, embarrassed. Maybe, maybe this wasn’t about me. I took a deep breath to calm myself.
“They are here to . . . help.”
“Help?”
“Oui. Come,” he stepped closer and motioned for me to sit on one of his sectionals. The port’s lights were visible in the window behind him and his family and their bodyguards. The moonlight just made the water’s horizon visible.
“S’il te plaît.” He tacked this on. He was losing his patience. I glanced back at Georges, who I think was actually trying to appear friendly. I spotted his gun. He gave me a half-smile.
Louis had moved into the sofa area. The other brothers had already sat down on chairs across from the ottoman. Henri lit a cigarette, holding an ashtray that a bodyguard produced for him, before quickly stepping back away. “Fleur,” admonished Louis, embarrassed.
But he was embarrassing me. Was this really necessary? This was private.
Reluctant, frustrated, I stepped over and sat down. Georges followed.
“Tell them everything,” said Louis, sitting beside me, hand on my leg.
They were waiting, watching.
How on earth could they help? Louis’s cheeks turned red, and, unable to bear the awkwardness any longer, I tried to recount it all in a condensed version, in English (it was all I was capable of in that moment), but it came out in fits and starts. Louis kept prompting me with events I would have rather left out, like how I just stood there, stupid, and how the man had choked me. My hands were sweaty and my face on fire.
When I finished, the brothers all spoke quietly, in the dialect I heard Louis speak on the phone. I stole glances at them. There were hints of lines around their eyes, and they were attractive each in their own ways. But all of them gave off the same kind of explode-at-any-time energy that Louis had.
The Messettes were time bombs. All of them.
I thought about how, when I told them who my mom was, a detective, and why I didn’t want to involve her right away—for Sylvie’s sake—there was no reaction at all. Almost as if they already knew about her. I suppose Louis could have told them about me and my mom: Marie was the reason why I was in Toulon, after all. And he hadn’t introduced them to me tonight, but rather, me to them. So I figured it was safe to assume he’d told them about me.
I watched the fairer one, Henri, roll up his sleeves like Louis does, and I spotted a black tattoo, the same one Louis had on the inside of his arm. Henri saw me eyeing it and then his eyes flashed on my boobs, when I remembered the necklace Louis gave me was there. Like Louis, Henri seemed to communicate something with his eyes. I still did not speak their silent language.
I took a sip of the fine cognac one of the bodyguards had put in front of me. My hands shook. I would have preferred a beer like they gave the brothers. Then again, the burn in my throat was a welcome sensation.
Out snarled a sudden loud stream of invective speech from Louis and I jumped in my seat. Bomb’s gone off!
By the intonations, he may have been making demands. He did say Sylvie several times. His brothers listened respectfully during the short outburst, nodding in a few spots. Louis’s face was red and he wouldn’t meet my eyes, just placed a warm hand on top of mine.
“Fleur,” said Georges, and my body tensed. He was smiling that forced smile of his. “What did the men look like?”
“Why?” I squeaked. “I mean, I already said, I’m not sure it’s a good idea to involve the police. Sylvie, my boss, she’s trapped. And my mom, I am not sure she would understand or forgive Sylvie.” I whispered this part. “I don’t understand how you can help,” I added, hoping for some clarity. “I mean, I don’t want to get you involved with something criminal.”
Henri snorted, openly. I glared at him with angry confusion—was every Messette going to scoff at me?—and his face dropped. He stared up at Louis standing behind me, saying something silently.
Enough was enough.
“I mean, in case it’s not clear, those men were bad.” I told this to Henri, who was staring at me with new, revelatory regard, and a slack jaw. Was he dumb? “I just said, they work for some gang in the port who Sylvie owes money to. I don’t think any of you should be getting involved. It’s dangerous. And I am really sorry I told you anything now. I don’t know why you made me, either,” I added to Louis, crossing my arms over my chest, huffily.
“Fleur,” said Georges, and I was even more confused by his genuine smile. Was he laughing? Henri had gotten up, in order to hide a smirk, I was c
ertain. The brother called Philippe was grinning openly, ear to ear, at Louis. Henri headed over to the kitchen on the other side of the penthouse. Why did everyone find me so amusing? What did they know that I didn’t?
“Fleur,” said Georges again, calling back my attention. “We own the ports. Most of them.”
Okay.
I stared at him, unable to understand how that would make a difference. “And that means we . . .” Louis hissed at his brother, and the pause was long and hearty “. . . we have weight to, how do you say, throw around. Perhaps these men, perhaps they work for us. So please, tell us, what did they look like?”
I brooded in my chair. Louis squeezed my shoulder. “Fleur, tell him.”
Henri returned, a half-finished beer in his hand.
What did I have to lose? Either they could do something or they couldn’t. They sure seemed to think they could.
“You won’t involve the police?”
“Never. I give you my word,” Georges said, smiling at me.
Glancing at him one last time, I described the man who assaulted me and his partner. The other men in the apartment, the watch dogs, had gathered closer and were listening as both Henri and Philippe translated my English into their unusual dialect.
I couldn’t give them much to go on. Dark-haired. Droopy-eyed. Skinny. Tall. Smelly. Ugly. I couldn’t remember what the other one even looked like. It was like I had blanked.
There was a flurry of chatter.
“Is that all? Is there anything else?” asked Philippe. I shivered. Like Georges, without the smile, there was something dark in his eyes.
“Well, I know the license plate of their van.”
“Très bien!” said Henri, smacking his hands together, smiling at me proudly. This pleased everyone greatly. They all pulled out their phones, waiting.
“Well . . .” I hedged. “What are you going to do to them?” I asked quietly.
Henri and Philippe turned to Georges.
“Be-because there might be reprisals for Sylvie, and I wouldn’t want them to assault anyone else,” I whispered the last part (sincerely concerned for other unsuspecting, stupid American shop girls). The tension in the room crackled.
The Frenchman (Crime Royalty Romance Book 1) Page 14
