The Frenchman (Crime Royalty Romance Book 1) (27 page)

And sooner or later, the simple truth is that they would have had her through Louis’s hold on me. That’s what I saw in Georges’s eyes the first time we met, when he found out who I was, who my mother was, and how smitten I was with his brother.

Sooner or later they would have threatened her through me, if, and whenever, to get whatever they needed: drop a case, drop charges, conceal the truth. Who knows how far they would have gone. And there would have been nothing Louis could do about it, not even if he’d wanted to.

That was the trap he laid, and led me to. That trap he seemed to adore seeing me in. The way he watched me, the way he made love to me . . . I could see none of it clearly anymore. It was tainted.

That I had let him do that to me, to Marie, was the unforgivable part. And I had just enough pride to pull myself up out of that bed, days later, just enough dignity left in me, to at least try to search for a way to carry on. By sheer luck (and I did see it that way), I’d been set free before any real damage had been done between Marie and I. We were patching up the wounds.

As for the Louis Island I found myself marooned on, I was bereft, hollow, used. Until a startling thought arrived, one day, glancing at a pair of diamond studs on my jewelry tree.

The necklace Louis had given me
.

What were the odds that a gushing silly American girl, who loves
things
, wouldn’t have rushed to show her mother her new diamond necklace, the one her lover had given her the morning after he fucked her?

Had Louis wanted Marie to see it then? Had he wanted to give me an out? Had he wanted this all to end much sooner . . .?

• • •

“So, you think, I mean, he was using you? Oh, Fleur! I am so sorry,” whispered Jess into the phone. I bit my lip, refusing to shed another tear. More days had passed since the day the port’s crime linchpin, as Marie called Georges Messette, was arrested. Maybe . . . two weeks?

I had managed to fake my way through routine so far. Get out of bed. Eat. Sell clothes. Eat. Go back to bed. I was like a Red Hot Chili Peppers song, wandering around foreign streets heartsick with poignant, vague nostalgia—feeling like road kill.

“I’m thinking of coming home.” I said, finally voicing the thought that had grown from a bean into a stalk. Staying in Toulon was like going bankrupt, losing your best friend, being hermetically sealed into a bar, and then forbidden to crack one bottle. Drying out sucked.

“Yes, you should. You can get a job at the Cove. Lisa’s going to quit any day. Wait, Marie didn’t ask you to leave, did she?”

“No.”

I cleared my throat.

“No, Marie wants me to stay. She cut back her hours. We actually spend a lot more time together. It’s nice. But . . .”

“But what?”

“I feel like a chore.”

“What? Why?”

“Marie’s assigned me a protection detail.” I discovered this last week, when I returned to work.

“Whoa. Does your mom know?”

“No. Marie and I decided not to worry her, so don’t say anything.”

“Whoa,” she said again.

I pursed my lips.

“Oh come on, Fleur, you have to admit, it’s kind of cool. Having police escort you everywhere.”

“No, it’s not.” I suspected Jess was trying to drag me out of the muck I was doggie-paddling in. And God love her, she knew me well, but she didn’t understand why I was hurting. And how could she? She’d been betrayed by her boyfriend in high school. I had always thought that was the worst thing a man could do. Then one tried to use me to betray my own mother.

No, I wasn’t ready to leave my puddle of self-pity. I was safe, encased in this mud. Or, at least, certainly safer than admitting how scared I was.

Because at night, when I couldn’t sleep, twisted up in the sheets, scared, I thanked the stars for those cops who accompanied me everywhere, who stood outside Marie’s door day and night.

Recently, I’d let myself think back on a few memories with a clear head. And there was one thing Louis had said to me countless times, as he’d infected my life, that ran on repeat, louder and louder in my head.

“This is not a game, Fleur.”

He’d meant it, every time he’d said it.

“This is not a game, Fleur.”

And if we hadn’t been a game, then who was to say it was over?

“Fleur?” called Marie. I was lying on my stomach on my bed flipping through a French food magazine. Reading recipes used to make me feel replete. But nothing seemed to work to release me from my peculiar suspended state.

“In here,” I shouted to the headboard, wondering if I should try to bread and deep-fry brie. Naw, too soft a cheese. Well, maybe not if I froze it first.

“For someone who reads so many food magazines you are very skinny.” My heart skipped and I flipped over.

Chloé Bijou. She was standing in my bedroom doorway, taking in the disarray. My face was hot since I was normally an extremely tidy person. Clothes were scattered everywhere. Magazines were stacked up in tiny piles.

“Look who stopped by the police station,” said Marie, appearing sheepish behind the towering Chloé.

“Oh my God. Did she call you?” I asked Chloé, rolling my eyes, sitting up on the edge of my bed.

“No. I called her. You don’t return my texts. I worried.”

I glared at Marie. Then glanced back at Chloé, whose body language appeared uncomfortable.

“You told her!” I accused Marie. Honestly. I felt like I was fourteen years old. Marie threw up her hands. “I just said you had boyfriend problems, that is all. And that you need to forget.”

I peeked at Chloé. She appeared her usual fairly indifferent self, thank God. She was wearing jeans and that black leather jacket of hers. She’d dyed a chunk of burgundy hair light pink. It looked fantastic. It reminded me that whimsy still existed in the universe. It made me burn deep inside that I didn’t act on it anymore.

“Let’s go for a drink. And maybe, a hamburger,” Chloé said, frowning at me. I was wearing Lululemon pants and a tank top—and, stunned, I realized I had not showered since Friday. It was Sunday. I hated that someone I did not know very well was seeing the pathetic Fleur.

God, Marie knew me well.

“Um . . .”

Dammit. I didn’t want to go out. I was determined to feel sorry for myself for as long as possible.

Why? The protective detail. Their presence was a constant reminder of, “Hey, stupid dumb-ass here, right over here! Fell sucker to a hot man’s lies! We can’t let her do it again!”

“Does she know about my entourage?” I asked Marie. This had become a point of contention between us. Three weeks had passed. If Louis had planned to contact me, he would have by now.

Marie insisted that as long as Georges was in custody, I was at risk.

“The police outside your door?” asked Chloé, clueing in.

I nodded at her.

“Ze blond is
très beau
.” She half-smiled. “I don’t mind if they come. We can stay close. Maybe the bistro across the street?”

My heart dropped.

Not there
.

“Yes, that would be perfect, Fleur,” said Marie.

“It is too early for dinner,” I protested.

“No, it’s not. It’s four o’clock.”

“It’s daylight, Marie!”

“By the time you clean up it will be later. Chloé.
Un verre de vin
?”

She was determined to “get me back on my legs,” as she had started to put it recently.

I sighed and hauled ass to the bathroom.

I took an extra-hot shower and blow-dried my hair into waves. I couldn’t remember the last time I used the straightening iron. Examining my reflection, I didn’t recognize myself. Nothing had actually changed. I just felt like a stranger was looking back at me.

I’d finally decided to seize the world the way it was meant to be seized—with hope, fortitude, and courage—and
wham
—I’d lost the use of my limbs. I didn’t know where to begin again.

I put on a bit of makeup and dressed quickly in skinny jeans, a tank top, and a thin mauve cardigan.

So what would I talk to Chloé about? How could I possibly be lively and interesting? I slipped into my ankle boots and at the very last minute, went to my small jewelry box. I put on a pair of favorite silver earrings, the ones Tammy had gifted me, and I realized I needed to call her back. I hadn’t returned two voicemails of hers. (Jess had filled her in on events and she was no doubt worried about me.)

I exhaled. I could do this. I could . . . find myself.

When I came around the corner into the kitchen, I was actually smiling.

“Ready?”

Marie was delighted by the semi-revived Fleur, and her happiness fueled my newfound energy. I should have been trying harder sooner. I could have been making up for my betrayal this way.

On our way out, Chloé introduced herself to the two cops after Marie explained where we were going. She was being extremely charming, given how she felt about them. But maybe that was all an act before. Maybe her bad-ass attitude was a defense mechanism. I could relate to that.

One of the officers smiled at me, and I smiled back. Wow. Had I said one word to any of them as they escorted me to work these past few weeks? I smarted from the realization of how self-involved I’d been. Life was going on all around me. I needed to rejoin the world.

As we left the building, and the sun hit my face, I felt alive. Just barely. Chloé stepped up beside me.

“You will be alright,” she said. I drank in her other-worldly sherry eyes, and nodded. I suppose I would be. Eventually.

We cut across the street.

When we reached the bistro, I halted outside the door. I paused, nearly choking on the big fat lump in my throat.

Maybe I couldn’t go inside. I stepped back.

“What is wrong?” she asked me, grabbing my arm, holding me on the spot.

The concern in her eyes, in that moment, shocked the pants off of me. Oh God, was I that tragic?

I half-smiled and shook my head. “No, I am fine.”

She followed me in, and I braced for memories of the night I had met Louis almost two months ago. The dark room, the clang of silverware, the scent of fish in butter all combined to take me back, but only momentarily. I could block it out if I tried.

Chloé picked a table near the other end of the almost-empty restaurant. It was silly-early for dinner by France’s standards. She ordered a bottle of wine. But not nearly too early for booze, I decided. I asked for a double vodka and soda.

Chloé raised an eyebrow. “But wine will go better with the steak, I think.”

“Oh, I’ll have that too.” I noted my protection had taken a table near the door, not very far away. There was an elderly couple in the opposite corner, and a table of three elegantly dressed women next to them. I recognized the head chef. It appeared to be just him cooking; he was waiting his own tables, too. Sundays were probably slow.

I met Louis here on a Tuesday night. I thought about Jess’s dancing eyes the same evening. The sound of her laugh.

See, I could use love, love of a best friend, to block the pain. The pointless pain.

“I guess your mystery man is not the greatest man no more,” said Chloé.

I flashed on her. Wow. I couldn’t believe she’d just hacked open the stitches and jabbed her fingers in my barely mended hole.

No, I could.

“He’s not a man, he’s half of one.”

She sucked in air and leaned back in her chair, assessing me anew. I didn’t know there was a bitter Fleur either. “I don’t want to talk about it, Chloé.” I rubbed my arms.

“Maybe it would help. I too have been disappointed in love.”

I laughed loud enough to attract the attention of the cops. Maybe they weren’t used to the sound. Or maybe it sounded deranged.

“Disappointed in love?” I asked, incredulous. I snorted and took two big gulps of my highball. Oh my God, what had happened to me? He’d . . . polluted me. I exhaled, frowning at the table. “
Je suis désolée
,” I said. “I don’t mean to be inconsiderate. It’s just, you don’t know what happened.”

“Tell me.”

“Oh there’s not a lot to tell, Chloé,” I protested, in English.

She smiled at me with kindness, a first for her. And it irritated me like an itchy clothing tag.

“You first,” I snapped. She wanted to talk, she had to share. Life was a negotiation. I knew that now. I wouldn’t give up anything unearned or unpaid for ever again.

She lit a cigarette and took a short inhale, playing with the pack. “I fell in love with someone who never loved me back.”

Our eyes connected and like a finger-snap, I had perspective. Everyone has their own unhappy ending. Mine isn’t any more or less significant than anyone else’s.

“I’m sorry,” I said, tightly.

“The feelings were . . . actually, I forget the English word, not returned?”

Shit.

“That burns, Chloé.”

She laughed.

“
Oui
, every day.”

“Does he know?”

“
Oui
.”

“Oh, Chloé.”

“No, no I hate pity,” she exclaimed. “It is your turn.”

I shook my head.

What was my condensed version?

“I met a guy,” I started. “I thought he was someone else. And . . . I could have hurt someone because of him. I nearly did.”

“What do you mean you thought he was someone else?”

Our food was served and the steak sat in a pool of its own juice. The pungent oily
frites
were soaking up the bloody sop. My stomach turned.

I gave her a good long stare.

“I don’t want to talk about it, Chloé. It doesn’t matter anymore.”

“Okay, okay,” she said, hands up. “Eat.” After a moment, she said, “Please.”

I dug into the steak and chewed on the meat without tasting it. I told her it was delicious. She changed the subject, asked about Sylvie’s. I asked her about what she did all day since she didn’t have to work. Imagine my surprise to learn she volunteered at an animal shelter. I should have known that about her by now. I should have been donating time to a greater cause by now, instead of wasting it on nursing my heart. I ended up eating my whole dinner, and . . . I felt okay. Not great. But not terrible. Chloé had even made me laugh with one of her crude remarks. Smiling felt like stretching an atrophied muscle.