The Frenchman (Crime Royalty Romance Book 1) (12 page)

What is your favorite color?

It had to be him.
Boom, boom, boom
. My heart! I tried to think up something flirty quickly.

Red and black.
(His club team’s colors.)

I liked that there was a pause.

Bien
. Favorite color, please.

My pulse was erratic. I couldn’t concentrate. Answer him.

Purple. Why?

I am returning late. Please get in car outside building at eight p.m. Thursday.

Oh my God! The date was happening. In one week. I panicked over my response. Should I add that I’m looking forward to it? No. Too stuffy. How about,
can’t wait
? No. Too eager. Ah-ha. I typed:

Okay. I am smiling.

Not a second later:

In bed?

My stomach flipped. Dirty texting? Wow. Was I ready for that?

I knew the pause was too long. He would read into it.

Goodnight, Fleur.

Shoot. I had missed my window. I am a pro at flirting, just apparently not with him.

Goodnight, Louis.

I put my phone on my nightstand, pumped up on elation.

I jumped at the ping and grabbed my phone.

I dream of you.

My heart melting at the romantic words. I liked the charming Louis.
Très bien
.

I bit my lip, and texted:

Me, too.

I put my phone on the nightstand again and waited for three epic minutes before my body finally relaxed.

He had followed through, I realized, lying there.

Funny, the sense of relief I experienced scared me to the bone. I couldn’t believe how hung up I’d been over one man’s desire for me. If I had never heard from him again, I couldn’t imagine the disappointment I would have had to endure, on an innate, cellular level. I hardly knew Louis Messette, but my body and all its internal mechanisms seemed to be magnetically attracted to him with some kind of mysterious force.

I rolled over, curling up. For years now, I wondered what it would be like to fall in love. I’d picture myself waking up in the arms of a great man, smiling, making love, making plans for the day, trusting each other entirely, undoubtedly, always. It was an abstract idea. And it wasn’t about having a particular man, per se, so much as the connection. A pure, unbreakable connection.

Of course, I didn’t know if Louis was the man yet, but . . .

Fleur! Wow. It wasn’t like me to be so fantastical.

It was one date. And it was 11:06 p.m. I had a long day tomorrow with work, the French tutor, and Sophie’s arrival.

Reality really is a drag.

I tossed and turned, counted sheep, listened to music, and ended up diddling myself
twice
. Both times, just as I climaxed I pictured Louis’s face as he stared at me in the mirror of his bar. I imagined him behind me, filling me up with his huge, hard cock, ramming me violently, relentlessly, in the dark with people everywhere, pinning me with those eyes.

And I still wasn’t remotely satisfied.

So much for making sweet gentle love with my one true love. It was no good. I was this particular man’s dirty virgin whore.

I was hoofing it down a street in
la vieille ville
. Even in my haste, I admired the centuries-old district. I made a mental note to spend more time strolling around. I’d only been once before with Jess and then on my own to visit a government building to check on the difference between getting a work permit or a long-stay visa (it’s complicated).

Checking my cell phone app for directions while trying to scan buildings for the numbers 653 was no easy task in three-inch wedges on cobblestone streets.

I’d received a last-minute text from the tutor service: they’d had to substitute Chérie d’Alfort. They didn’t say with whom, only that I needed to be at 653 rue Leclerc half an hour earlier. Since I didn’t dare ask to leave work early, that meant I would be ten minutes late—the amount of time I needed to walk the distance.

One wrong turn later, and I was twelve minutes late. Up six flights of stairs, sweat breaking out under my blouse—this Texan no longer took air conditioning for granted (the temperature was high for this time of year in Toulon)—I reached what appeared to be a lobby entrance fifteen minutes late.

It was a restaurant, or some kind of café. What an odd location, I remarked to myself—not going to get a lot of foot traffic. The sign read
La Petite Palourde
(Little Clam). I stepped up to the wood and glass façade and tried the door. Locked. Damn. I tried to catch my breath while peering through the mottled glass, but it was a blur. I knocked very quietly, and after a moment I could just make out a figure moving within.

Had I reached the right address? I checked. Yes. I knocked again, but the figure disappeared from view.

I texted my contact to make sure he or she meant 653. Movement caught my eye and my heart skipped a beat—a man, on the lower landing of the stairwell. I hadn’t heard any footsteps. It was like he appeared from nowhere. Worse, he was not the kind of man you want to run into on an empty stairwell.

I don’t like to judge people on looks alone, but instinct screamed: “Creepy!” His heavily jowled face was coated with three days’ scruff. And he wore a long black leather coat, the kind only ruffians wear, although, this
was
Europe. I identified what was off: he wasn’t surprised to see me. In fact, he avoided looking at me at all, almost deliberately, or so it seemed.

I pretended to be texting as he carried on past me and up the next flight. I breathed easier, listening as his footsteps disappeared up the stairs.

My crazy imagination.

I knocked on the door of the restaurant one more time, frustrated. No answer. I had missed my tutoring session, or so it appeared. I blew hair out of my face, hesitated, and then decided to leave. What a bust.

Back out on the pavement, I was grateful for the fresh air. A few cars zipped past. Rush hour.

I should get back to help Marie with any last-minute preparations before Sophie’s arrival. I texted her to let her know I was heading back to the apartment early rather than meeting her at the train station later.

My phone pinged. I frowned. The tutor service texted to say that the backup tutor had also canceled at the last minute. They apologized profusely and suggested next Monday with the original tutor. I agreed, and was told a new meeting place would be determined later. To be honest, I wasn’t going to hold my breath. Clearly I was going to have to find a more reliable tutor.

Louis, perhaps? I smiled to myself, inwardly blushing at the thought of the kinds of words he might teach me, and headed back to Marie’s on foot, keeping my eyes peeled for a vacant taxi (unlikely). Walking was still foreign to this American.

The hike back was uphill, and while I appreciated the exercise, it was ruining my blouse. Even the pretty European views, which unfolded as I graduated hills in
la haute ville
(the upper, newer town), north of the port, weren’t relaxing me. Marie really does live in the best district. Built into the hills, one can see the port end-to-end. Blue sea meets sky: a fantastical illusion of freedom. Only, I was weighed down, with pavement underfoot and responsibilities that awaited ahead. I wanted to help Marie, and to impress my new grandmother.

At Marie’s, twenty minutes later, the last thing I expected was the homey aroma of buttery pastry. I hung up my purse and followed my nose. Stepping into the kitchen, I greeted Marie with feigned mock surprise—she was cooking (a “terrible activity”; her words). She laughed, barely, and I took in her tired eyes, my heart sympathetic. Sleep was in order. But instead of saying anything, I turned on the oven light and raved and raved over the
tarte aux fruits
.

When I glanced back over, she was watching me with a half-smile on her face.

“
Mon Dieu
, I am so anxious. I apologize,
ma belle
! I have been a nightmare.
Oui, oui
, I know. But you don’t understand! My mother is very . . . irritating.” She stared at me, waiting for my response to this declaration.

I laughed. “Oh is that all? You had me really worried, Marie.”

“She just—” She held out her hands, fingers bent in claws stiffly, growling in frustration.

“Look, Marie, don’t take this the wrong way, but all mothers are irritating.”

Her eyes were so wide it made me laugh. “Except you! In fact, I would like it if you were a bit more irritating.” I hoped she understood what I meant, that I wouldn’t mind if she were more involved with my life.

“I know!” She shook her head. “The job. It takes all that I am. I thought because you were older, you would understand.”

I did. Marie’s passion for policing was entirely pure. She’d finally mentioned the LaSalle family came from money, specifically a great uncle’s vineyard. She didn’t
need
to work.

“I do. And I am very happy with the time we spend together,” I added.

She stepped up to me and caressed my cheek. “By the end of this weekend, you will be glad for the space I afford you.” I agreed with her, knowing it was what she wanted.

But . . . holy cow was she right. Sophie LaSalle was the most taxing woman I had ever met in my life, and that’s saying something since it takes a lot to phase me. Part of the problem was that she never stopped talking. And since she doesn’t speak a word of English, it was non-stop, rushed, dramatic French, most of which landed on Marie.

In the beginning, I thought it was nerves, about meeting me. At the train station she barely glanced at me before starting in with Marie. Sophie’s silvery hair was in a perfect bob, and it was evident where Marie got her delicate features. From what I could decipher,
grand-maman
Sophie talked about daily minutia. The train ride. What she was served. How terrible her garden is in Bordeaux. And how she couldn’t hire decent help. On and on. By the time we arrived back at the apartment, Marie and I were sharing meaningful glances. Sweet mercy, by nine fifteen I was watching the clock, praying for bedtime.

It wasn’t nerves. The woman was lonely or self-absorbed, or both. What kind of person doesn’t ask you any questions?

Saturday didn’t play out any different.

Determined to break through, I began asking Sophie questions as we ran errands around town, hitting her favorite stores. I wanted to know about my uncle, Marie’s only brother, who was in the French military. What was my grandfather like, what kind of police officer was he, and so on. Well it opened a floodgate of new material for Sophie, and took the burden off of Marie, who at one point, leaving a bits-and-bobs store Sophie loves, lashed out at her mother for correcting my French. The two looked daggers at each other, and I intervened, explaining that I actually wanted to be corrected by Sophie.

I went to bed with a splitting headache but a much better grip on the hardest aspect of French enunciation: the closed-throat
r
. Also, I had a better sense of how Marie had grown up, in a rigid Catholic household with lots of “locked doors.” We had more in common than I realized.

It wasn’t until we saw Sophie off on Sunday night, and were back in the apartment, scarfing down brie (I had taken to spreading it on croissants—yes, it was a problem), that Marie finally relaxed. An American movie,
The Avengers
, played in the background. It was hard to believe how badly it had been dubbed. Tony Stark had no bite. No wonder the French think American cinema is terrible.

I watched Marie take a quick shot of whiskey and chase that with a gulp of white wine. Before she sat down, she made a big show of bringing her phone with her, eyeing me on the sofa beside her, and turning it off with great drama.

“Wow, now that’s impressive, Marie.” I played along. (I was forced to admit, that at times, Marie could be kind of a cornball.)

“No more. Not tonight. I am exhausted,” she said dramatically.

I stared at her profile. Even her hair, normally tied back tight, was loose and hung around her shoulders in soft golden waves. She let out a long moan and slumped down in the sofa.

“Do you want some time alone?” I ventured. “I could go read in my room?”

“
Mais non
,” she said, scolding me, gripping my hand in hers tightly and not letting go. And that’s when the tear trickled down her cheek. I sat upright and twisted so I could face her fully.

“Marie! What’s wrong?”

She groaned again and opened her bloodshot eyes, glancing at me briefly.

“I was so worried my mother would punish me, somehow, for keeping the truth from her.” She peered at me, worried. “I thought she would punish me in front of you.”

She sobbed momentarily, and then laughed. No, she was crying-laughing. “You know, I wish she had. Punished me,” she added.

“Marie,” I whispered, genuinely astonished. I had no idea she felt so guilty. “Why are you so hard on yourself?”

“Twenty-three years!” she exclaimed, staring at me, horrified. “How terrible it is! To keep a secret, such as you, for how long you live?”

She stole a nervous glance at me.

“
Non
,” she shook her head, angry at herself. “You are so forgiving. I don’t understand how you forgive.”

Her face pinched up in anguish.

I did the only thing I knew, the one thing that came naturally to me. I hugged her.

“I ended up in a happy home with my mom,” I reassured her after a moment. “Marie, I am grateful for my life just the way it is.”

“But you never had a father!” she said, touching on the one blight I never like to acknowledge.

“So what? It’s not like I cared for . . . I don’t know . . . camping trips or baseball.”

“
Non
, but you deserve to know . . . him,” she added softly.

My heart stopped.

Marie stared at me with love, and sympathy, and utter sadness.

Oh. Wait. Did that mean—

I wasn’t ready. I didn’t know why. Maybe because finding out about one half of who you are, or rather who you came from, is hard enough to absorb. I fit with Marie. I was part of her. I couldn’t imagine a future without her. But she was still only a familiar stranger. We had so much more yet to learn about one another. Plus, it was clear Marie was struggling to dovetail me into her life, and while I didn’t take it personally, because I loved her, maybe innately, bringing up my father now felt . . . overwhelming.