The Frenchman (Crime Royalty Romance Book 1) (20 page)

“Get what?”

“Why people do crazy things for—” I stopped myself. I almost said love, but I’d meant sex. I had, really. “Sex,” I said. He kissed my head. “I mean if it is like this all the time I can’t believe I’ve been missing out—”

“It is not like this, ever,” he said, sharply.

Oh.

“We are special.”

“Oh. Well I guess I’ll have to take your word for it.”

“
Yes, you will
,” he added, staring at me possessively.

I smiled to myself, tucking up under his arm . . . but with regret filling me. It was late. I’d lost myself in his body for a long time. What a tragedy I couldn’t stay much longer.

Back at Marie’s, I had left my purse on the counter and closed my bedroom door, so that if she did come home, she would think I was asleep. I wanted to get back, worried she might look in. How would I explain that? It was bad enough I had kept Louis secret, but to scare her that way—she might think I’d been abducted. That was stupid.

Anxious, I explained to this to him while I slipped from his embrace and began to dress. I half hoped he might say we should stop lying to her, but all he said was that it was okay for me to leave because he should have been asleep long ago. He had practice early today.

I pulled up my leggings, trying not to feel shy. I’d never dressed in front of a man before. Somehow, it felt more intimate than undressing: an everyday ritual with no sex appeal. He watched me from the bed.

“An entire nation of rugby fans would write you very nasty emails if they knew the effect you are having on my performance.”

I smiled, putting on my bra. “I’m sorry,” I offered, insincerely, thinking how lovely it was only to have to go down a few floors to fall into bed.

He threw a pillow at me. “You do not care at all.”

I shrugged playfully, the way he always does, indifferent. His gaze heated. “Come to me tomorrow night.”

He lay before me naked and hauntingly handsome. Him a famous sculptor’s muse, truly, and me a lowly patron of the arts. My heart burst with gratitude that he was mine. In secret, it seemed.

“I can’t.” I told him about Chloé, and how this would-be new friend had found a neat cooking demonstration held in a chef’s home, and how I was hoping it might help kick-start a new angle for my food blog. He frowned. “I would invite you but I hardly know this girl,” I added. “I’m not even sure I like her yet, but I want to find out.” I straightened out my hair after pulling on my sweater. Worry about Marie was eating at me.

After a long pause, he placed his hands behind his head and turned to me. “I am gone next week to Paris to prepare for the final match.”

My heart plummeted. I wasn’t surprised, just disappointed. He’d told me this was the busiest time of year because of the rugby championship, followed by the Summer Internationals. “Tomorrow night is the only night we have until I return in seven days.”

He’d said this like it was a fact but it had created an unpleasant conflict in me. That was his style. Make a statement. Wait for a response.

“Well, I can’t cancel, Louis. Chloé went to a lot of trouble and it was expensive.” She’d paid my way. Canceling would have been beyond impolite and, while she practically defined
rude
, I was better than that, or so my mother had tried to raise me. Sure, I would have preferred to be with Louis, but I was looking forward to the event too.

He clenched his jaw. I got the feeling he wasn’t used to hearing no.

“Come to me when you are done then. I must see you again before I go.” He grabbed his semi-hard cock and gently massaged it. My heart flipped. “Or else I may need to have you again, now.”

He rolled his eyes over to me, and gave me that look of his.

“You are so bossy,” I chided him, struggling to swallow. “What about your precious sleep? I don’t want to ruin your game.” I leaned over to kiss him sensually goodbye.

“It is not a
game
,” he hissed. I rolled my eyes. On my way out, I heard him say, “And it is too late for that.”

It finally happened. I found myself in a situation where I had no choice but to eat meat. I glanced over at Chloé, who was sitting on a barstool beside me. I didn’t know whether to punch her in the shoulder or kiss her cheek. Come to think: that was pretty much always the way I felt about this newfound friend of mine.

She shrugged at me when the chef announced the menu: modern variations of
cassoulet
,
beef bourguignon
, and
coq au vin
.
Three
animal proteins. My mouth popped open and my heart momentarily stopped—and I caught the sly smile that crossed Chloé’s lips. Bless her devious heart, I thought, recalling how I had mentioned to her (the day we met) that I was in a battle with my inner carnivore.

This “accident” meant I had a new angle for my food blog. Since I’d been coerced into eating meat (coward that I was), I would blog to my heart’s content under the theme: A
Végétarienne
Discovers Meat in France. That could work, cheesy double entendre aside.

Six of us were crowded around the chef’s large kitchen island in his own personal kitchen: Chloé and I, and two other couples, both much older.

The cooking demonstration proceeded, and as the up-and-coming chef explained the importance of buying fresh, local vegetables, I felt extremely fortunate. Chloé really was kind to bring me here; I could never have afforded it myself.

I caught one of the couples, the more interesting of the two, watching me from the other end of the island. I’d already smiled when I realized my
faux pas
: the French do not smile for no reason, or blandly, and certainly not to strangers. They save smiles for loved ones and people they know.

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 office?”

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

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