The Frenchman (Crime Royalty Romance Book 1)

by Young, Lesley

  Unexpectedly, the man smiled, and we completed the pleasant transaction. I thought he might be too old for the woman, but then again, her age was difficult to pinpoint. She was serenely beautiful, with porcelain skin and silky long black hair. I guessed she was Filipino.

  I sipped my wine taster and smiled at Chloé, too. She raised her eyebrows conspiratorially. It was not lost on me that she was trying to impress me and I was touched. That settled it: I intended to put more effort into getting to know her after tonight. I would find out what was behind her tough exterior.

  Even Marie had seemed to like Chloé when we swung by the police station just before the class. Marie had texted just as I let Chloé into the apartment, asking if I could bring her a change of clothes. Perfect, I thought. Introducing my mom to one of the new people in my life would give me a chance to make up for the lies. Marie had believed my “walked into a pallet” story after freaking out over my slightly dark eye. I’d hidden the fingerprints on my neck with a scarf. As for my sleeping in so late and wandering around the apartment lovelorn (reliving moments from last night, ahem) she didn’t say a word.

  The chef’s giant knife cracked the raw chicken leg and my stomach growled. I’m a vegetarian because I don’t understand my need to kill and eat one of God’s creatures, not because I don’t think they are delicious. For a long time, I believed that if I couldn’t support this need of mine by hunting and killing an animal myself, I didn’t deserve to eat it. But the hypocrite in me had finally won out. I should be ashamed.

  Chloé laughed at one of the chef’s jokes. I think she was having a good time, even though she’d admitted just before we walked in that cooking was one of the last things she wanted to learn in this life. It could be hard to relate to the extremely privileged. I suspect that Chloé’s wealth was the first thing about my new friend that Marie had noticed with that appraising cop eye of hers.

  Marie had stepped out from behind her desk to greet us, after a young cop from the front escorted us to her—extremely messy—office. I could tell right away Marie was intrigued by Chloé’s attitude, as well as delighted I had brought a new friend by. Chloé presented a muted version of her brand of “hard ass” in a black dress, brown leather boots, belt, and purse. And while her posture was stiff, I thought it had more to do with the spontaneous drop-in than with her mood. The minute I had asked Chloé if she would mind stopping by the police station before the dinner event, she had tensed up and acted weird.

  “You’re not going to share your opinion of cops with my mother, are you?” I had teased her, half-worried. She glared at me, and then smiled sweetly. “Non, non. C’est ta mère. I will have good behavior.”

  The sizzle of the chicken in butter made me jittery with anticipation. I would have said eating meat for the first time in seven years was going to be better than sex, but I knew otherwise. Nothing could ever come close to that. I sighed contentedly, and Chloé raised an eyebrow at me. In the car, on the way to the station, I had told her I was officially dating someone, but that it was still secret.

  I’d wanted to tell someone. Maybe Chloé read the energy oozing off of me, still, from last night’s incredible, passionate lovemaking, because she said, “C’est l’amour,” eyeing me from the driver’s seat.

  “Oh no! It’s much too soon for that,” I replied, staring straight ahead, wearing that stupid dumb-ass grin on my face. (Honestly.) I expected her to goad me on, or to ask me questions, but she was oddly respectful. “Is he a good man?” she ventured, distant, keeping her eyes on the GPS, which told us we had arrived at our second destination, the chef’s home. I think she’d meant, is he Fleur’s definition of a good man?—given how I had defended cops to her during our first encounter.

  My heart swelled. “He is a great man,” I answered without pause. “Maybe the greatest.”

  She raised her eyebrows, puckered her mouth down, and nodded her head.

  Well, Louis was the greatest man I knew so far. And I was getting to know him better, even if he and I seemed only to speak a sensual language. From his experience and actions, I knew him to be deeply passionate and steadfast. True, he was also prideful, forceful, and his emotions were mysteriously turbulent. But that side of him only seemed to be on exhibit after I’d make a naive or stupid assumption about his life. And yet, I had caught the way his disdain, for want of a better term, would turn into a small smile, maybe of acceptance? It was confusing to say the least. I rubbed my arms, feeling wonderful inside just knowing he might be thinking about me, too, in this very moment.

  When I joined reality, I scolded myself for not paying closer attention. I needed to actually write about it later.

  The chef got to work on the beef, browning it in a giant copper pot. Saliva pooled in my mouth. Everyone laughed at another joke that I’d missed while I was anticipating the meat. Wow. I needed to put my feet back on the ground.

  The man from the interesting couple asked about the correct way to make duck confit as the chef chopped the delectable fatty duck breast for the cassoulet. I was hopping to ask my next question, after he told us how he kept adding to the same duck fat he had kept in the back of his fridge for years: where in the hell do you buy duck fat? I was going to start my own batch tomorrow. My God, I was a traitor. Just like that.

  Things settled down while the chef prepared other ingredients. In America, this group would be mingling, whereas in France, people are suspicious of strangers. So it was surprising when the couple who had smiled at me rose up out of their chairs and asked for permission to chat with the couple beside them.

  Chloé was busy reading a text on her phone. I went back to the one thing that was eating at me (besides a vicious need for animal protein). Had I done the right thing not telling Marie about the Sylvie incident?

  I still couldn’t believe how it had played out that morning. At first, I’d ignored Sylvie’s repeated calls, figuring she wanted to ensure I didn’t tell Marie. I’d still been undecided about what to do even after I’d fibbed. When I finally read one of Sylvie’s texts, my eyes popped out of my head and I called her back to confirm the story. Between joyful sobs, it became clear that yes, indeed, all debts owed by her husband had been cleared. She would no longer have to conceal illegal shipments. Apparently, the man who was responsible for all of this had stopped by to deliver the news himself in the morning, apologizing, setting her free.

  I smiled on the outside, but frowned inside.

  Sylvie was so over the moon she’d overlooked a major point: why would this bad man erase all the debt overnight? I mean I was glad she didn’t ask me, because then I would have had to tell her something to cover for Louis.

  Clearly, he and his family had pulled some pretty long strings to change this woman’s life. It was beyond sweet; it was compassionate and kind, especially knowing how mad he was at her for putting me in danger.

  I didn’t even want to think on what had become of the man who had hurt me.

  I wasn’t sure he deserved a second thought.

  Then why was I giving it to him?

  I shifted in my seat and sipped my wine. The chef chopped an onion meticulously, and I eavesdropped on Chloé chatting away with the couple closest to her. They were discussing restaurants in Switzerland. Like I said, hard to relate to the privileged.

  Back to my original problem: I hated keeping secrets from Marie. First Louis, and then the terrible Sylvie incident. I tugged my hair around both my shoulders, unnecessarily, since the fingerprint bruises had faded. The puffiness in my cheek was gone. All that remained was a black line under my eye which I had covered up with makeup (mostly). Even Chloé hadn’t noticed my injury until Marie examined it in her office.

  “Oh, ma belle, it is looking better I think,” she’d said. I’d inspected her office, keen to avoid making eye contact (because of my lie). It was hard to properly notice anything from the mess. Stacks of boxes and loose files were everywhere. On her bare walls hung one plaque.

  “Marie what’s up with your off
ice?”

  “Ah,” she looked around despairingly. “Only time to catch criminals. Not to file paperwork.”

  Stepping over a pile, I looked closely at the plaque.

  “What does ‘semper fidelis’ mean?” I asked, remembering that was what Louis’s brothers had whispered to him when he’d said, “Everything will be fine, just remember: semper fidelis.” I’d forgotten to look it up online . . . and there it was, right there, on a plaque in my mom’s office.

  “Um, ‘always loyal’ or ‘always faithful,’ I think. It is a common law enforcement theme.”

  “Always loyal,” corrected Chloé.

  We both gaped at her. She shrugged. “I was taught Latin in boarding school.”

  “Hm,” I’d responded. Apparently wealthy shipping magnate families used the term, too. What had Georges meant by that then? That they were sticking by Louis in helping me out?

  I melted, thinking how sweet and wonderful it was to have such a close and loving family. This was particularly heart-touching to me because I had always pined for a bunch of siblings who looked out for each other.

  Okay, wait a minute. Fleur! I could hear Jess or my mom say. Hello? Now was a good time to lift off those rainbow glasses. How on earth did packing a gun and having a slew of bodyguards fit into this rosy picture I had been painting?

  Well . . . I took a big gulp of wine and thought about the articles I had read about the family, how they were deeply involved with businesses in Toulon—all connected with the port. And I knew there was crime in the ports. That’s why Marie was always working so late. And Louis had said wealth attracts problems.

  I frowned. The fluffy cloud I like to live on was shrinking, thinning, disappearing. I was going to have to find the right time to probe deeper (ahem) with Louis. Find out more about the troubles his family seemed to face. And I was going to have to tell him I didn’t want us to be a secret anymore.

  “Bonjour,” said the man with the Filipino partner, interrupting my brooding. The couple had made their way over to me and Chloé. Or rather, his partner was chatting with the other three. He introduced himself as Michel Gatineau.

  “Fleur LaSalle.” I left off the Smithers. It seemed to confuse people and demanded an explanation I wasn’t in the mood to provide, not with a perfect stranger. Perhaps the French reserve was rubbing off on me.

  “If it is not too direct, may I ask you, do you enjoy to cook?” His French accent was heavy. He was absorbing me with his eyes but not in a lustful way. I thought he might be one of those rare kinds of people you meet who give you proper, sustained, unblinking eye contact.

  “Certainly. Yes, but I prefer to write about food. I write a food blog,” I added, in French, focusing on my accent.

  I thought I was improving, but he cringed. I saw it even as he tried to hide it. Smarting, we chatted some more about food, in English. He was a restaurateur, and mentioned that he was here to check out the chef.

  The chef peeked over nervously. He was being tested. How stressful.

  But this Michel Gatineau seemed more interested, for the moment, in chatting with me. He apologized for his English, but it was clearly better than my French. I found myself admiring a certain magnetism he put off. Leaning back, I laughed at one of his remarks. He asked me why I was in Toulon, and, suddenly feeling very open-hearted about the world, I explained how I had come to spend time with my biological mother, a police inspector.

  His face literally lit up. “Ah! A police inspector! C’est extraordinaire! What is it like for her? There is much crime in Toulon, non?” It was a nice change to encounter someone who thought my mom’s job was cool. I told him how busy she was, and no, I conceded that I knew no details of any of her cases. “Oh wait, remember that murder that happened a few weeks ago? The Casolaro case, did you read about it in the newspaper? She busted the guy who did it,” I boasted.

  “Santé, to one of the good guys,” he said, clinking my glass in cheers. We drank and he said, “There are not many truly good people in the world.”

  His somberness grabbed my attention. “What do you mean?” The chef had asked us to be seated again.

  “It is hard to measure goodness, non,” he said, “since it is can only be weighed against bad.”

  Hm. “That is probably very true,” I agreed.

  He watched me for a second longer, and winked, like he knew something I didn’t.

  “D’accord!” he exclaimed suddenly, turning to his beautiful companion. “Allons cuisiner, ma petite palourde.” He took her arm and they went back to their seats. I was lost in a brand new world of gourm-ecstasy for the rest of the affair.

  Chapter 16

  I’d barely managed to contain my malnourished inner carnivore at the event—I’d sampled rather than gorged, as I didn’t want to be bloated for Louis. But it had been extremely difficult to show restraint when we were served dish after dish.

  I told Chloé this as she dropped me out front of my apartment building. The saliva was still pooling in my mouth just thinking about how the beef (which had been tenderized via sous vide earlier in the day) felt between my teeth. “I am sorry if I ruined you.”

  “No, no, thank you. Honestly, it was a life-changer and I got lots of material for my blog, though I may lose all of my followers.”

  “I will follow,” she said, shyly. I smiled.

  I suggested we meet for a drink in the week, so I could thank her, and she agreed. I hurried into the lobby, planning to scoot to my place to freshen up quickly before heading up to Louis’s. Marie was not supposed to return home from work tonight (I’d checked on her plans earlier), so, alone in the apartment, I touched up my makeup, and decided not to change. I was wearing a simple deep-red dress with a V-neck and three-quarter length sleeves.

  I closed my bedroom door, left my purse on the counter, taking only my keys, and then . . . changed my mind. I took my purse with me. I couldn’t chance Marie checking in on me and calling in the entire squad at my apparent kidnapping. I would text her that I’d gone out dancing with Chloé.

  I locked the apartment door, heard the elevator doors open and turned around to see Marie walking down the hall—her eyebrows raised. Shit.

  “Fleur!” she said, taking in my outfit, confusion slowly appearing on her face. We met up halfway.

  “But where are you going? I thought you would be arriving home from your dinner? How was it?”

  “It was great.” My stomach was swaying side to side.

  “Good,” she said, her smile slipping.

  Damn.

  “Uh, Chloé wanted to hit a club.” Marie frowned. “Only, I needed to pop back for a . . .” I looked at her, my cheeks red from guilt.

  “Oh!” she exclaimed. “Je comprends,” she patted my hand.

  She’d thought I was embarrassed to say I got my period.

  A moment of delight that I’d gotten away with my lie startled me. Enough was enough. I couldn’t lie anymore. “Actually, I’ve been meaning to tell you, I met someone.”

  Her eyebrows raised, and a small smile formed on her lips.

  “Oui?”

  “So, uh, remember Jess’s last night here in Toulon, the bistro where we ate dinner?”

  “Oui.”

  My heart was racing. I recalled how she’d called Louis a scumbag outside the elevator. Right about here, actually.

  “Well I met a guy that night.”

  “So, this is why you act so different!”

  Had I been acting different? God she was observant.

  “Well, who is he?”

  “A rugby player, and the only reason I didn’t tell you before now is because he asked me to keep it private. He is famous and doesn’t want exposure.”

  Her body had stiffened as I spoke, and I could see her wheels spinning. No way was she going to be happy about this news. I just knew it. Marie was no longer a mystery to me: she cared about very few things, but the things that mattered to her were life and death. She could be extremely dramatic. Did I really want to
deal with this now, tonight, here in the hallway?

  I cleared my throat. “His name is . . . Alain Dubon,” I blurted out quickly, remembering the blond I sat beside the first night I was here.

  No!

  “Chloé and I are meeting him and his friend, at Noir.”

  Double no! I had just lied twice. What was wrong with me?

  Marie was still for a moment or two, and exclaimed, as though someone had breathed life back into her, “Oh, ma belle! I am happy for you! It is serious, non? I can tell.” She hugged me to her. (Shit, she could read me well.)

  Now what in the hell would I do if, no, when, the time came to finally introduce the two of them? Jesus. I’d dug myself into a deep hole. I was shame blotted with self-contempt smeared with disgust.

  Should have said “Louis Messette.” So simple. Say it!

  “Oh well I won’t keep you. Bring him by, please.” My stomach plummeted. Oh dear Lord. That was not a request.

  “He is going to Paris tomorrow. Final Aviva match,” I blurted.

  She cupped my face. “When he returns, then. Have fun, Fleur. I won’t wait up for you. I am sleeping for a long while and will pray I am not called tonight.”

  “Thanks. Yes, I will pray for you, too,” I added, slinking down the hall and stepping onto the same elevator she had just arrived on.

  Why had I lied like that? I pressed the lobby button, lest she watch which floor I was headed to. (As if—she didn’t think I was a liar; she thought I was an angel.) I soaked in remorse all the way down and all the way back up. Yes, I was a coward. Because the truth is, Marie’s special brand of vehemence, from what I’d seen of it, intimidated me. And, mostly, I didn’t want to disappoint her.

  I tried to push aside the negative—so what, I’d lied about his name; at least she had partial truth now. Yes, dammit, that was something. She knew he was a rugby player. There were dozens of them at the bistro that night. I remember how she’d rushed out. Thank God she had not picked up on anything when we were all stuffed into the elevator together weeks ago.