I waited.
He shrugged. As if I was asking him what color tie he wanted to wear.
I gasped. The floor opened up beneath me, and, as I fell, I knew it then. He was the keeper—the keeper of our connection. And he’d decided to punish me, without explanation, to prove a point that he refused to explain.
I recalled thinking once that he was a rotten man. What had happened to that idea? It was suddenly clear and present again.
I rushed into my dress, zipping it up on the way to the door. I stumbled because tragedy lay before me.
Was I going to leave?
My heart was up in my throat, and tears ran down my cheeks.
Why was he so mean?
I didn’t understand!
I was steps from his door. Yes. I was running home. To my mother. Like the child he clearly thought I was. The lump in my throat ached, as with one last gasp of disbelief, I pulled on the handle, desperate for him to stop me and desperate to get away, but . . . the door wouldn’t budge.
I tugged again.
Oh.
His hand was above me, holding it closed. The tattoo glared down at me. He’d moved—fast. To stop me.
He didn’t want me to leave after all.
I didn’t know whether to be relieved or terrified or angry.
I felt, only, numb.
When he stepped into me, my body moved of its own volition as close to the door as possible.
Seems he’d gotten what he was so desperate to have. I was scared of him.
He buried his face in my hair, and my chest burned. Tears of hurt streamed down my face. What had just happened? My heart was pumping so fast it was going to burst and spray black everywhere, and I didn’t even know why!
“Fleur,” he whispered.
No. I shook my head, but his body had drawn close and followed mine as I tried to shift away against the door.
“Fleur,” he whispered.
I paused. We stood there, barely touching, me trapped in a standstill of . . . hope. So much hope. Pure hope. It was a field of azure bluebonnets on a Texas highway promising to bud every spring without tending or mercy. I didn’t know what he wanted from me, not by the way he had said my name, or in general, anymore, and I didn’t care, not as long as he wanted me.
Slowly, gently, he pulled me into him, and I let him.
I let him.
And . . . time began again.
He shifted us to the bed. I didn’t resist. God help me, I was his to do with as he pleased. I knew it then in my bones. All along when he’d said it was not just a game. Now, now I understood with the infinity of a horizon. I knew forevermore that no matter what happened to us, even if I had walked out that door and never seen him again, I would be moored on his volatile, perilous island eternally.
How had that happened? How had I got myself there blindfolded?
He lay me down beside him, my back tucked into his naked chest, his regular even breaths warming on my head. Mine were so shallow I was dizzy. I was utterly grateful he didn’t make me look at him or say anything. His scent was strong on his pillow, and slowly, inch by inch, I let my body relax in his hold. I was back to being Fleur, a physical entity, not one half of some incorporeal pair. I could breathe. And relief rushed at me. Whatever had happened, it had now passed. He stroked my hair, saying “Sh, sh,” and “Pardonne-moi.” I wanted to ask him what he was sorry for, when realization dawned.
Maybe he’d needed to show me what was at stake between us.
And now I knew.
Now I knew.
I just didn’t know why he had needed to show me.
And . . . and I was too exhausted to care, too relieved to even ask. Too weak to ask.
He held me close, safe, and I focused on that until . . .
. . . I awoke, wincing from the daylight streaming into my eyes, a beeping noise nudging my brain into reality. I inhaled and glanced over, experiencing a mini earthquake behind me as Louis’s muscles seized and released in a full-body stretch.
His alarm clock. He turned it off.
Had I fallen asleep here? Groggy, I was just recalling the events last night, how easily it could have ended up another way, as he rolled over on top of me, pressing his body, naked, I noticed, down on mine. I groaned at the weight.
“Bonjour, ma Fleur,” he said, kissing me ardently all over my face like Pepé Le Handsome. I protested, in mild discomfort, and winced because I probably had terrible breath, my hair was all messy, and I was absolutely bewildered to find myself here. I had fallen asleep?
And yet, dammit, a smile broke free because he was tickling me—relentlessly.
Apparently, Louis was a morning person.
We were not compatible in that regard.
I kept squirming, and between angry complaints and muffled giggles I knew resistance was futile. He was determined to make me laugh, and briefly it struck me that maybe he was determined to make me forget.
That was easy to do.
Without warning, he pushed up my dress, moved my thong aside, and entered me. I gasped, and I stared into his suddenly very serious eyes—awestruck as ever—and was soon lost in him.
• • •
“Marie, cold or hot?”
I blew a loose strand of hair out of my face and waved a case folder in front of her. She quit obsessing with her computer for a moment, grabbed the folder and read it quickly. Her face was twisted in agony.
“Let me guess. Hot enough to stay out of the cold pile?”
She gave me a motherly look from her chair.
I reciprocated with a forced smile. “What’s the point of me helping you organize these if you never close any cases?”
“Warm, warm,” she muttered brushing my point aside.
I took in the disarray of her office. I never expected to find myself knee-deep in paperwork in a police inspector’s office. It began this week, while Louis was away, when I’d acted on a spontaneous cooking itch, which doesn’t happen very often. I love writing and reading about food and eating it—preparation and clean-up, not so much. That’s why I wanted to be a food editor, not a chef. Anyway, I made us dinner and walked it over to her office. On the second night of Fleur’s Home-Cooked Meal Delivery, I couldn’t help myself, bloody neat-freak that I am . . . I started rifling through random folders and offered to organize the total disaster. The weird thing was, I watched her, utterly intent on her computer, assuming my tidy personality trait had come from her DNA, why was this place such a disaster?
From what I could tell, many of the files were (unofficial) duplicates created by Marie on open and cold cases. I respected her hard work and all, but she was clearly obsessed.
The coq au vin I had tried to replicate from the chef soirée with Chloé last weekend sat congealing on her desk. For the first time since I’d moved to Toulon, and I was closing in on a month now, I wanted to complain. Marie was obstinate and headstrong and stubborn, at times.
A young police officer, the one who had escorted me in the other day, stuck his head in the door to say goodbye. I gathered he was assigned to assist her. He waited extra long for her to look up. She never did, just mumbled “À demain.” I shrugged at him apologetically but he ignored me. Yesterday, walking in with her from the apartment, I caught the skittish glances other police officers and admin staff gave her, I just wasn’t sure what they meant.
I moved onto the next box, and found—yeow!—crime scene photos.
I slammed the lid back down. If I had ever wondered if I should become a cop, there was my answer. The only blood-red I ever wanted to see was inside of a lipstick tube, merci beaucoup.
“Marie!” I barked, startling her. “What do you say we go for a drink?” She froze, staring at me as if she had only just realized I was there.
“Not now, ma belle, tomorrow, okay?” She fixed her attention back on her laptop.
I wandered over and leaned over her chair, peering at her screen. It was an Excel file full of names.
Okay, let’s try a d
ifferent route. Engage the subject on a topic she cares about.
“What’s that?”
She glanced up at me, and rubbed her neck. I assumed she would brush me off, in which case I planned to call Chloé. I needed to complain. I missed Louis. My French classes and tutoring were sucking the soul out of me. And Marie was . . . well, Marie.
“It’s the hierarchy of the gangs who run the port,” said Marie. My mouth popped open.
“Oh really? Cool,” I added, staring as she clicked through the file.
“Whoa. There are so many. How do you know all of them?”
“I don’t. I have spent the last twenty years, all of my career here, building this file and it is not finished.”
“But how did you identify them all?” I asked, sitting on the edge of her desk. The vault was opening.
“Well, some I found from leads on other cases. I made deals in other cases, for information. Others are guesses.” She frowned, leaning back, crossing her legs, and spotted the coq au vin.
“Oh, ma belle, I am sorry,” she exclaimed, grabbing the plastic container and finally digging in. “Mm, this is wonderful.” I couldn’t tell if she was sincere or not.
“Why do you have this file?”
She finished chewing and swallowed.
“I do not understand.”
“I mean why are you identifying all these people? Is it for a case or something?” Still she stared at me. “Are you, I don’t know, targeting one gang leader, hoping to take him out? What’s all of this for?”
“Oh. I will arrest them all.”
I laughed, until I realized she was serious. “You plan to what? Stop all criminal activity in the port?”
“Oui.” She leaned forward to check her email. I stared at her as she typed a message in reply, my eyes glued open in disbelief.
Well okay then.
I eased myself off of her desk. “I’m, uh, going to head home. Mom said she would call tonight.”
“Okay. Tell her I say hello.” Marie’s face was glued to her screen.
“Mhm,” I muttered, gathering my coat and purse, closing the door behind me. Concern clouded my already cynical mood. I loved Marie. She was integral to me. And, that meant her complications were, too.
Family. I sighed deep, still far more grateful for having expanded mine than not. A headache was coming on and I decided today was one of those days where everything would be tinted gray no matter how hard I tried to give it a rosy hue.
I took the stairs instead of waiting for the creaky old elevator just to go down one floor. The station lights were dimmed to night time, and when I stepped out from the heavy door into the stairwell, a motion light flicked on. I pattered down the first set and started on the next when I froze, momentarily. Bastien Vauclin was just entering the landing below. He was reading a text on his phone and quickly tucked it away when he saw me. My gut squished.
“Fleur!” he said, eyeing my legs, which, to be fair, were in his sight line. I had on a short black skirt and a snug long-sleeved shirt.
“Bastien,” I muttered, continuing down the steps.
“How are you? What are you doing here? Are you seeing your mother?”
Oh brother. He was determined to chat me up.
“Oui, just on my way home.”
“I will take you.”
“Oh no, thank you, but I prefer to walk.”
“It is better I take you, it is on my way.”
“No, really,” I motioned with my hand, continuing to walk around him, but he blocked my way.
“Fleur, you are being very rude.”
My cheeks were pink. Yes, I was being rude. I hated it, as it was not in my nature. But I also did not want to be near Bastien, regardless of Louis’s request. Something about Bastien creeped me out.
“Fine. You can see me out, but I am walking home.”
He was breathing on me, and I pushed pass him, into the main floor area, where I knew there would be other cops lingering. A few of them nodded at him as we walked silently through the desk area and into the lobby. Outside the front doors, he helped me put on my coat. I tugged my hair out, refusing to make eye contact or conversation.
“I can see I make you uncomfortable.”
“You think?” Okay, that was harsh. I felt awful but I just couldn’t stop myself.
The night’s wind rushed off the port, twirling the ends of my hair around my face.
“I just would like an explanation as to why you not return phone calls and act rude.”
“You know why, Bastien,” I snapped. “You used me that night to upset . . . that man, who owned that bar.”
He eyed me speculatively. No way did I want him knowing I knew that man intimately now.
“And if this was true, why do you care?”
My stomach dropped. Dammit, he had an excellent point.
Frustrated, I retorted, “Because I don’t like being a pawn!”
His brows knit together in genuine confusion. “Oh that is good.” He clapped his hands together, tilted his head, and bowed to me, lifting an imaginary hat.
I stood there, mouth open. What did he mean by that?
What a weirdo.
I glanced around in case anyone was watching, rolled my eyes, and departed without a word.
I was glad he didn’t follow.
The walk home was over fifteen minutes and, thanks to a strong night wind, chilly. All the better to help me blow off Bastien’s odd-ball response. Why did he act like that, tipping his imaginary hat to me after my pawn remark, like he was calling into question whether I meant it?
He obviously wasn’t happy about being called out. Beyond that conclusion, I was baffled.
I longed to climb into Louis’s arms and forget everything. Or to call Jess for a good laugh, but she would be working. In other words, I wanted a break from imperfect mothers, tiny fridges, rude people, unrefrigerated (UHT) milk, and foreign cities. Truth is, I was mildly homesick. As the weeks had sped past, phone calls, texts, and emails with my friends had thinned. I get it. We were leading separate lives. But on days like today, when I was lonely, it was burdensome.
Safely inside the apartment, I settled into Marie’s sofa in a pair of sweats, a plateful of brie and croissants in hand. I was feeling somewhat kind-spirited again. It was awfully sweet that Marie always made sure there was brie in the fridge for me, even if she forgot to come home at night.
I searched through the few channels for something American and was forced to settle on a terrible French police show. As if I didn’t have enough of that.
When Marie’s land line rang my heart leaped.
“Mom,” I exclaimed, love gushing from me at the familiar number on call display. Her deep-felt, hearty voice crossed epic distance and carried me home. We chatted for over an hour since she’d finally got an international calling plan, and it was wonderful to talk about home stuff and everything related to her life. I almost wanted to hop on a plane. She’d had a few dates but hadn’t met anyone she really liked. There were a few funny stories, and I admired that she had a good spirit about the duds. I told her I was dating someone. She asked about him, and, like a deflating balloon, I streamed out Louis-helium. His name. His profession. How handsome he was. His fame. She listened quietly.
I was surprised I’d told her, but I figured, across the ocean, what difference did it make? When I was done, she asked if Marie approved, and I sidestepped a direct answer by saying she hadn’t met him yet.
Then my mom did what she always does: got stern. “Are you having sex?” Not waiting for an answer, she continued, “No, I don’t want to know, just for God’s sake, Fleur, use protection.” Then she went on and on about the dangers of venereal disease. Honestly, it was pretty upsetting since I had not used protection with Louis and the things she was saying were disgusting. “MOM! I GOT IT!” I shouted, wanting to watch bad French TV badly. We wrapped up the call pleasantly enough, and I found myself sitting in the dark, TV on mute, fretting over genital warts.
> Jesus! What had I been thinking?
I had gained very little perspective on Louis in his absence. I had hoped space apart would bring enlightenment over, well, the intensity of my emotions for him. But tonight, reality squashed me down into a tiny ball. I thought about how cold and mean he had acted the last night I saw him; how funny and sweet he was the next morning. How seasick I was riding his turbulent emotions.
I heard my cell ping from my purse. Hoping it was Jess, thinking maybe I would tell her everything, finally, I rose up and fished around in my purse for it. Dammit, I missed the call.
My heart flip-flopped at the number. Louis. He had programmed his number into my phone before he left. Did he have ESP?
My phone rang again.
“Allô?” I answered quickly.
Silence.
Shoot, did I drop the call?
I wandered over to the balcony, opened the window and stepped out.
“Allô?” I asked again.
“What did he say to you?” growled a voice I barely recognized. Adrenaline burned in my gut.
“Louis?” I recognized his voice, but he was clearly very upset. What now?!
“Oui. What did he say to you?”
I could hear the clang of metal on metal. Was he calling from a gym in Paris? Blood had drained from my face. My heart was pounding, unwilling to accept the only explanation for his question that made sense. Bastien.
“Uh—”
“I know he spoke with you outside the station an hour ago. What did he say?”
“How— How could you know that?” I was freaked out. Sincerely.
“Because I do. What did he say? Fleur, I grow impatient. Please answer my question.”
“He wanted to know why I was being so rude to him. I ran into him when I was visiting my mom,” I added.
“I know,” he answered. “And? What did you say to him?”
My lips flattened out.
“Louis, I don’t like your tone of voice—”
“What did you say to him?”
That’s it.
“I said I didn’t want anything to do with him because I thought he had used me to get to you that night in Noir and I don’t like being anyone’s pawn. Why don’t you get a wire on me next time so you can stalk me properly?” I added, and hung up the phone.
The Frenchman (Crime Royalty Romance Book 1) Page 18
