The Frenchman (Crime Royalty Romance Book 1) (11 page)

“Do you not need my size?” she asked, quietly.

A few tiny black dots were scattered inside her vivid irises. Her heavy eyeliner jarred. A pungent odor of cigarette smoke mixed with a fresh fig scent clung to her. “No.” When she eyed me skeptically, I added, “Trust me.”

She dropped her eyebrows while motioning with her hands as if to say, “Well we shall see, won’t we.” I let that roll off of me—I knew what I was doing when it came to clothes—and grabbed a third option for good measure.

I led her to the change room, noticing that Anne was back behind the counter. My customer stepped behind the heavy velvet drape, and I told her in French to call for Fleur if she needed anything. I was determined to see this through. I checked with Anne nervously, whose face said it all: “She’s all yours.” Just then, the door dinged, Anne and I looked over, and my nerves sent a lightning bolt straight to my toes.

Bastien. I hadn’t seen him for almost a week, not since our date. He was wearing jeans, a black T-shirt, and a blazer. His badge and his gun holster flashed as he tucked something into his back pocket.

“
Salut, Fleur
,” he said quietly.

Anne sat on her stool wide-eyed, apparently planning on tuning in on the pending conversation.

“
Bonjour
,” I offered, chilly. His smile didn’t falter. I asked, “
Qu’est-ce que vous faites ici
? (What are you doing here?)”

“
Ton français est meilleur
. (Your French is better.)”

I glanced at the dressing room curtain, hoping the girl would come out so I could get rid of him diplomatically. He couldn’t linger if I was with a customer.

“
Je suis occupée avec une cliente
. (I am busy with a customer.)”

“
Tu n’as pas répondu à mes appels
. (You haven’t returned my calls.)”

I pursed my lips. It was like we were having two different conversations. My cheeks flushed and I looked to Anne for help. She was chewing on a nut (she kept a stash under the counter), eyes glued on Bastien. I had planned to surprise her tomorrow with a homemade southern BBQ flavored version. Now I would make them extra spicy.

I glanced back at Bastien’s face and took in his clenched jaw. His eyes weren’t precocious anymore.

Yes, I had been ignoring him since our date. It was Louis’s condition. But more importantly, I felt with some certainty that Bastien had used me that night he took me to Noir.

Awkward silence ensued.

“I want to talk about the other night,” he said in English. “I want to take you for a drink after work.” He checked out the clock, no doubt knowing full well that it was close to six thirty p.m.

“No, no thank you,” I said, shifting awkwardly.

Bastien peered at the cleavage that heaved up as I crossed my arms around me. I quickly uncrossed them.

“Fleur, you misunderstand. I am here to explain. You are confused about why I took you to Noir the other night.”

“No, I’m not confused. And, anyway, I have plans.”

The dressing room curtain remained closed. What was taking her so long?

“Fleur,
s’il te plaît
, I do not want Marie, who is my good friend, to think I have upset her daughter.”

I huffed. “You have not, Bastien. I’m just not interested.” I glanced at Anne—oh God, this was terrible. What if Sylvie comes in here? “Look, we’re fine. You don’t need to explain anything. I am working right now. And, I don’t need to speak with you about anything. Ever,” I added, for good measure. I paused, heart flipping at the determined set to his jaw. He wasn’t listening.

“And, I told you, I have plans—”

“With who?” he barked.

My stomach somersaulted. Why was he making this difficult?

The shrill of the metal curtain rings being torn back captured our attention.

“With me!” proclaimed the customer, in all her towering emerald-green-and-smoky-gray-ombré glory. (The dress looked stunning.) She was eyeing Bastien with angry pluck. “She has plans with me. So, fuck off,” she snarled, getting a gasp out of both Anne and me.

Holy girl crush, I thought, eyeing Chloé Bijou. I mean, with a name like that . . . The tan Italian leather of her sleek white Porsche hugged my body as she took a very sharp corner, barely slowing down. And the way she’d dealt with Bastien, I was beyond impressed.

After stopping at a red, she gawked at me again. Hm. I wasn’t sure the admiration was mutual.

“Don’t worry, I am an excellent driver,” she said, droll, turning her excited eyes back to the road.

Hey, I wasn’t going to say a word, even if she did get me killed after rescuing me from Bastien
and
giving me my first commission. My hands clasped tight together as we narrowly missed a van reversing from an alley onto the port’s strip.

Bastien, perhaps not knowing how to respond to Chloé’s rudeness, stared us both down and left the shop. Then she bought the dress.
And
she insisted on taking me out to a café to keep up the pretense. I was surprised she knew the English word
pretense
, but she told me she went to boarding school in England. Most
Sylvie
customers were wealthy, so it wasn’t surprising.

I filled her in on my background, how I was learning French, and why I was here in the first place—I told her about Marie.

“Is that why you would go with a policeman?” she asked. She’d parked her car with a sudden stop, halfway up the pavement (the norm) in front of one of Toulon’s nicest cafés in the hippest area of town. The wide boulevard was lined with busy cafés, and the outdoor tables were overflowing with Toulon locals sipping coffee, smoking, people-watching. The eateries and bars were crowded continuously during open hours, and, unlike a Starbucks in America, not full of students or new moms. It begged the question—does anyone work in France? Not that I was judging.

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.