Coup: A BWWM Romance (The French Connection Book 2)

by Brooklyn Knight

  “Almost ten years,” she added.

  “Laila and I were in Roussillon a few months ago. The last thing she told me was that she hadn’t seen you all since her father died.”

  “It’s true,” Yasmine said. “She used to come every summer, but when her father died she stopped and we haven’t seen or heard from her in almost ten years. But even though we didn’t see each other very much, we were always like sisters. We’re very close in age. I’m two years older than Laila and we had a lot in common. I’m very glad that you have come, monsieur.” Yasmine’s eyes shined.

  “Me too.”

  We smiled at each other.

  “Avez-vous faim?” she suddenly asked.

  “I haven’t eaten, but I’m fine,” I said. “I would never impose upon you and your family. I really just came here to – ”

  “Nonsense,” Yasmine insisted. “You’ve traveled a long way and you are now a guest at our home.”

  Alex piped up. “My sister is right,” he agreed. “You will stay and have dinner with our family.”

  Ignoring my quivering nerves, I followed Yasmine and Alex into the small cottage. The door opened and the sound of jovial music – pianos, drums, and guitars – filled the atmosphere. The smell of rich and spicy food being prepared wafted up my nostrils. My stomach rumbled and suddenly I was glad that Yasmine had been so persistent. I was famished.

  The house was full of people, including the two little boys and the girls I’d seen when I’d first arrived. An army of women were in a small kitchen hovered over simmering pots and pans, laughing and moving their hips to the mesmerizing beat.

  An ambiance enveloped me.

  I couldn’t put my finger on it.

  Despite Papa’s menacing glare, there was an immediate sense of inclusion, a warmth. I took in my foreign surroundings and tried to place ma belle fille within it. These people looked like her. The resemblance was everywhere, in the shape of their eyes and their noses, and the color of their skin.

  Yasmine took my hand, dragging me deeper into the small quarters.

  “Yasmine, I’m fine, really.” I said it in French, to make sure she understood, but she ignored me.

  “We have a special guest everyone,” she announced.

  This stubbornness is clearly a gene...

  In a millisecond, all eyes were on me.

  “This is Laila’s friend,” Alex said with a smile.

  “Her boyfriend...” Yasmine added. The brightness of her eyes could have easily competed with the setting sun.

  An older woman stared and approached me.

  I stiffened, and Papa grunted.

  “Laila?” she questioned. “I had no idea...”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” I said humbly. I hesitated for a second before placing a respectful kiss on her cheek.

  The woman blushed and smiled. “I had no idea...”

  “None of us did,” Papa said.

  “Which is why I’m here,” I said before Yasmine could defend me. “I know it’s been a while since you’ve seen ma belle fille, but I wanted to come and meet you all for myself.”

  Papa’s breath hitched. His eyes narrowed. “Laila’s father used to call her that,” he recalled.

  “Yes, monsieur, I know.”

  We stared at each other before Papa pulled his eyes away and looked at the woman grudgingly. “Hadiya, fix this man a plate,” he ordered. He turned his eyes back on me before getting up from his seat and exiting the room.

  Hadiya prepared an earthenware dish and offered it to me. Delectable delicacies spilled over the sides of the plate: tender beef in a rich, thick gravy, smothered over a bed of couscous, and a variety of fresh, colorful vegetables. To say that it was far removed from French cuisine would have been a gross understatement, and my curiosity about the cultural implications of the dish was sky-high, but I was too hungry to think about it just then. I ate as the immense merriment, bombarding me from every angle, forced me to forget all about my worry. I felt like I was at home. A different kind of home, but home nonetheless.

  The only thing missing was ma belle fille.

  After I’d eaten, the urge to lay back and buff my stomach like a glutton was overwhelming. I stretched my legs out and tried to conceal an inappropriate belch.

  Yasmine and Alex released a laugh and I looked over, surprised to see them pointing at me and snickering.

  I straightened my posture as my cheeks burned. “I apologize,” I said joining them with a chuckle. “I’ve been to France a million times and have never eaten anything remotely close to what I’ve eaten tonight.”

  “Did you like it?” Yasmine asked eagerly.

  “Like it?” I burped again, but this time, my chest burned.

  She laughed, slapping her thigh.

  “I loved it,” I said. “Merci.”

  “When our parents came over, they brought their African cuisine with them,” Alex educated me. “It’s a lot more flavorful than traditional French cuisine.”

  “I agree,” I said and then I leaned forward. Now we were getting to the good stuff. “Where is Papa from? Laila said she was only five when her father brought her to America.”

  “Our parents migrated from Morocco,” he responded. “Our parents were young when they got married, and they came to France to make a better life for themselves. They brought my aunt, Laila’s mother, with them.”

  “Yes,” Yasmine agreed, trying her hand at English. “They came in 1968 and we’ve been here ever since.”

  “It wasn’t 1968.” Papa’s imposing presence descended upon us. “It was 1966,” he clarified. His voice boomed, and he stood over us, staring down.

  We each looked into his formidable face, but after a second his taut features relaxed and he cleared his throat. “If you’re going to tell mine and my sister’s story to this touriste, you should make sure to get it correct.”

  Papa pulled up a chair and sat in front of us. He peered at me, as if he were trying to read through the lines of a story I’d been telling, but I was an open book, and the only story I had was one of a love lost. I stared back at him, trying to understand him, just the same. He was a leader, just like me. He was also angry; and so was I. I had travelled miles to meet these people, and now I wanted to hear something from this man.

  Papa moistened his mouth and his expression pinched. “My sister and I were born in Morocco,” he started his story. “We were twins and we were very close.”

  “Did you have any other siblings?” I asked.

  He shook his head negative. “We were going to have a sibling – I think it would have been a boy, but my mother died giving birth to him.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” I frowned.

  “Yes, it was devastating. My father lived a life of misery from the moment of her death. He kept himself alive until my sister and I were eighteen years old. And then he ended his misery.”

  A chilly silence made my flesh prickle.

  Papa shrugged as if he’d told this story a million times and the effects were no longer potent. “That is when I told my sister we were going to leave Morocco and head to France, and she had always trusted me more than she had ever trusted Father, so she didn’t ask questions. Besides, it was what everyone was doing back then. The French economy was far more stable than the Moroccan. There were hundreds of stories of Africans migrating to France to build better lives. Sister and I had just finished high school, and with no parents, there was no prospect of tertiary education. The only option we had was to find work.”

  He sighed as if he were becoming weary. “So Sister and I took everything we had, which wasn’t much – in fact, everything we had fit into one suitcase – and we headed for France. That was when Sister met Louis.”

  “Laila’s father?”

  “Yes.” A weak smile sat on his lips. “He loved my sister dearly, but even the love he had for her couldn’t chase away her demons. Those sad, sad feelings she had wouldn’t leave her alone. I guess my father passed them onto her be
fore he died.” Papa shook his head, as if trying to rid his mind of turbulent memories erupting to the surface. His face twisted in anguish, and now I understood his reaction to my presence.

  I paused. “Was Laila’s father... a white man?” I asked, trying to put more pieces of the puzzle together.

  Papa’s mouth pinched. “Yes, he was.” He inhaled. The breath was ragged. “He was devastated,” Papa admitted, “but when he made the decision to move to America and took my niece with him, the only piece that remained of my sister, I didn’t think I would ever forgive him.”

  I swallowed, trying to reduce the thickness in my throat.

  A shadow fell over Papa’s face.

  “You must miss Laila terribly,” I considered in a whisper.

  Papa’s mouth bunched. “I do,” he admitted. “I haven’t seen her since her father died.” He paused. “And I was angry to see you and hear you say that you are now her friend. And I was angry that you are a white man.” Shame made Papa’s shoulders curl forward. “I am sorry, monsieur. I can see that you are a good man. I can see that you love ma belle fille very much, and I was unfair because I did not give you a chance.”

  I paused. “Laila’s father was white,” I recalled.

  “Yes,” Papa confirmed.

  I inhaled and nodded. “I accept your apology, Papa, but after hearing your story, it all makes sense to me. I fully understand now.”

  Papa tilted his head to the side. “Do you really?” he asked me. It was a rhetorical question. Papa already knew the answer.

  And so did Yasmine.

  Papa’s expression turned serious and he leaned forward. “Tell me, monsieur, what have you come here looking for?”

  I swallowed as the weight of his question almost crushed me into dust. My eyes fluttered. “I’m looking for answers,” I admitted in an abashed whisper. A tattered breath caught in the back of my throat. “I love Laila... so much... but I’m afraid.” I paused, selecting my words. “I’m afraid because I don’t think I know how to love her properly.”

  Yasmine’s eyes quivered, and Papa and Alex shared a glance.

  I waited for someone to say something. I needed words of assurance, or even words of confirmation. I needed someone to say something – anything – that would give me direction. I’d told Laila that our relationship was over, but that was a lie. There was no way I could move on from loving and wanting her, but if the obstacles were too great, and if Papa, Yasmine, and Alex confirmed that fear, I’d be forced to find a way. I’d be forced to accept that Michael Sawyer was right. And if he was right about that, then maybe he was right about everything else.

  I inhaled and tried to erect my folding shoulders.

  The silence persisted.

  Suddenly, Yasmine touched my arm and I got the immediate sense that she had answers. “There’s only one way to love a woman, monsieur,” she said. “And that’s with your whole heart. Whatever you didn’t understand before you came to Roussillon, I have a feeling you understand now.” Her English was broken, but not broken enough to keep the powerful impact of her words from slamming into my throbbing heart.

  I stared at Yasmine, my entire body trembling with a confusing mix of bewilderment and complete clarity.

  I nodded my wobbly head, and Yasmine took my hand into hers, squeezing hope into it.

  Suddenly, she jumped off the couch and pulled me up with her. “Let’s dance!” she cried.

  My cheeks burned at the thought. “Yasmine, I don’t think I can. Maybe I’ll just sit here and watch while – ”

  “Nonsense,” Papa interrupted. “You have eaten my food, so now you must dance.”

  The back of my neck pricked, and I rubbed it, trying to take the sensation away, but I could tell there was no way I’d get out of it.

  The music was going strong, and I watched as Yasmine twirled her hips and moved her body in a way that I had never seen.

  Papa laughed and stood to join us.

  Soon, everyone else in the house had piled into the small sitting room.

  Alex pushed a coffee table to the side and the place turned into a bumping disco.

  Yasmine swirled and twirled as laughter drew from deep within me.

  “Oh my god...” I muttered, sure that my face was the color of the Roussillon hills.

  Papa grimaced. “What are you doing?” he demanded.

  I tried to move my hips like Yasmine, but somehow it didn’t feel right. “I’m... dancing.” It was both a statement and a question.

  “Not like that, boy!” Papa grunted. “Like this!” Papa moved to the center of the floor and everyone cheered, clapping their hands to the timing of the drums and the tambourine.

  “Heeeeyyyyy!” they all cried.

  Papa dragged me to the center. “Do like me,” he instructed. He took a step to the front and then a step to the back.

  I followed his footsteps, but when the dance moves suddenly became complicated, I tripped over the carpet. Or my feet.

  The room erupted with laughter.

  Papa steadied me as the drum beat intensified. “Like this!”

  Papa dipped low and so did I.

  He walked in a circle and I followed him.

  Before long, I had the entire choreography down, and Papa and I put on a show for the enthusiastic family. My chest puffed out and I took the liberty of adding a move of my own.

  “That is not Moroccan,” Papa warned me with a smile.

  “It’s Ameroccan,” I told him. “I’m a part of this family now, so we must blend cultures.”

  Alex hollered.

  Papa belted out in pleased laughter and when the music stopped he pulled me into an accepting embrace. “Yasmine was wrong, monsieur Dylan,” he claimed. The smile on his face touched his earlobes. “You didn’t understand before, but now...” he shook his finger at me. “Now, you do.” His eyes intensified. “You love ma belle fille,” he said, then he adjusted his sentence slightly. “Notre belle fille.”

  My shoulders crumbled. “Very much,” I admitted, trying to make my voice stop shaking. “I just want to be everything she needs.”

  Papa’s mouth bunched. “You are,” he said. Our eyes connected as an intense level of emotion was conveyed between us. He placed a firm hand on my nape and drew my face closer to his. His face was stern. “You stay with me for a few more days,” he instructed. “And when you go home, you wait for her to come back to you.”

  I tried to smile, but the muscles in my face were weak. “What if she doesn’t?” I whispered.

  “She will,” he asserted. “And when she does, she’ll know, without a shadow of a doubt, that you are the only man for her.”

  Thirty-Two

  Dylan

  ‘Entourage’

  One week later...

  I arrived home and pushed the door open. The house was dark and empty. There was no music or dancing. Ignacio hadn’t cooked, so neither were there any rich and inviting aromas wafting from the kitchen through the house. It was just me and the gaping void which had been created since Michael Sawyer entered my life.

  “Are you hungry, señor?” Ignacio asked picking my luggage up from the spot I’d dropped it onto the floor.

  “I’m not sure if I’ll have time to eat,” I answered. “I only have a few minutes to settle myself before I head into the office for my board meeting.”

  Ignacio frowned, but said nothing as he took my bags up the steps and disappeared into the house.

  My shoulders dropped as I stared around the quarters, which had now become so foreign to me. Over the past two weeks, all I’d done was think. I had tried to imagine this day and come up with a plan to outsmart Sawyer, but the more energy I poured into trying to find a solution, the feebler I became. There was no out. My assistant had emailed me the document which outlined Sawyer’s acquisition. He was going to buy a significant portion of Hamilton Associates’ outstanding shares, which would effectively make him the leading man of my company. Most of my funds were already tied up in Hamilton Assoc
iates, and what wasn’t wouldn’t be enough to counter. What was more, none of my business buddies were in a position to save the day. Their funds were diversified and many of them had already invested in Hamilton Associates.

  There was no savior.

  There was only the stark reality that Michael Sawyer had finally won.

  My cell phone rang, and I pulled it out of its holster, peering at the screen before I answered the call.

  “Dylan, it’s Max.” His tone was terse and anxious. “Where are you?”

  “I just walked into the house,” I informed him.

  “You’re just getting home from France?” He sounded appalled. “You’ve been gone for weeks.”

  “Two,” I clarified. “A sabbatical is normally for an extended period, Max. Wasn’t that what you and the boys suggested I take? I should have been gone longer.”

  “You couldn’t have been gone longer, you have to be at tonight’s meeting.” Max huffed. “I’m beginning to wonder if I’m more concerned about this thing than you are. There were things we needed to discuss, Dylan. We needed to game plan.”

  “Of course I’m concerned, but the fact is, there’s nothing to game plan,” I retorted sharply. “My hands are tied Max, and you know it. There are nine men around the table, and at least two of them rival me when it comes to shareholder status. If they vote against me, there’s nothing I can do.” I shrugged, as if he could see me. “They want Michael Sawyer at the helm of the ship, and unfortunately, no amount of game-planning will change that; but I can assure you, there’s no way in hell I’ll work under him. I’ve never tasted humble pie in my life, and there’s no way I’m allowing that asshole to serve me a slice.”

  “Dylan, what are we going to do?” Max asked. Fear colored his tone. “I never thought I’d see the day. No one has ever contested your leadership. It all seems to have come out of the blue. What does this mean?”

  I huffed, remembering the things Stefan’s mini-investigation had uncovered, and shook my head, battling feelings that apparently came with impending defeat. “It means I operationalize a Plan B,” I muttered.

  “Which is...?” Max pressed me.