The Frenchman (Crime Royalty Romance Book 1) Read online

  I planned the rest of my day to a tight schedule—stepping up my determination to land the job and pay my own way. First, I would go back to bed for a few hours to remedy my mild hangover, then work out in the building’s gym, research a food blog about deboning a fish, practice my standard job interview answers, nailing a few in French, and then pick out the perfect outfit. Nice and orderly.

  Crawling under the naked duvet (I’d put Jess’s tryst sheets in the wash), I felt pretty content. There I was, seizing the day. Taking hold of opportunities, creating routine, and making things happen.

  I caught myself frowning and pushed aside the worrisome dark edges I’d sketched around the larger-than-life Louis my mind insisted on drawing. Instead, I focused on the fascinating parts of last night—namely, the intensely erotic moments.

  After all, there was part of me that was deeply unsatisfied. I’d been too numb from shock after Louis fled to resolve the aching gnaw. And while I had doubts about the real Frenchman ever finishing the job, you better believe his imaginary—princely, debonair, hungry—stand-in did.

  • • •

  “Sac à main. Um, pantalon. VESTE!” I shouted the last one. Sylvie Allard leaned back in her seat.

  The tiny, exotic-looking, brunette designer and boutique owner was clearly not impressed. She’d asked me to say a few French clothing nouns.

  “I can learn!” I said in butchered French. “I’m starting a class,” I added in English. I was going to go there and sign up first thing tomorrow.

  I told myself to shut up. Nothing like coming off whiny and defensive in a job interview. I’d hoped my resume, I’d worked at two local designers’ stores in Austin since grade ten, would help.

  Sylvie’s small brown eyes scanned my outfit—snug gray pants and a pale gray blouse with a unique blue cut-out pattern. I figured she was trying to source the designers. They were all indie. At least she would know I had good taste.

  God help me but I was burning with American determination. The minute I walked into Sylvie’s warehouse studio, carved out of an ancient building that looked like it had seen one too many citizen revolts, I knew it was meant to be—me, working here.

  Marie had told me she got me an interview at a clothing store. Nuh-uh. This was a studio. Sylvie had three seamstress working full-time in the back, plus a fabric designer (I mean, she designs her own fabric!). I also loved the fact her showroom was quite small. It lent to the high-end appeal.

  Sylvie looked at my resume. There was nothing left to say. We’d covered everything.

  “Pardon, mais,” she searched for the right words, “I am not ’appy to ’ire non-French girl.”

  Oh no. I grasped at straws. “Mais je . . .” I struggled. What was “will learn” again? My eyes darted around frantically; surely the words were in me somewhere.

  She murmured something else about my mother in French, and I felt it: all was lost. Marie had clearly pulled in a big favor getting me this interview, and that was all it was destined to be. Sylvie sighed. I heard the ding of the bell as the shop door opened and closed.

  An effusive French greeting. Marie was here. I would recognize her voice anywhere now.

  Sylvie cleared her throat and glanced, wincing, at the office door, which was open. I didn’t want to put her in a further awkward situation.

  Smiling graciously, I stood up, reached out to shake her hand, and said, “Votre magasin est . . .” shoot, I scrambled for the word to compliment her store, and then I remembered the name of the place I was taking my dress to be fixed, “quelque chose de spécial,” I finished, meaning it. It was something special.

  Her eyes narrowed and I worried I had chosen the wrong word.

  Her animated face flattened out. She scoped the door behind me, and wearing a frown, said, “You will learn from Anne before ze baby arrives, non?”

  She was giving me the job? “Oui!” I said quickly, clasping my hand near my throat.

  “You no speak to customers. Work on these. Vendredi, à onze heures,” she pointed to her books. I nodded, happy, but slightly unsettled that she wanted me doing paperwork on my first day. My strength was sales. Well, I would show her on Friday at eleven.

  “Merci beaucoup!” I exclaimed.

  “Oui, oui,” she answered, already moving onto the next bit of business.

  I’d gotten the job. Why or how, I didn’t know. Elated, I entered the shop section. Marie, in her usual work day attire of a long blazer with gaping pockets, a blouse, and skirt, was deep in conversation with the very pregnant assistant Anne. She glanced up and we shared a smile. I waited nearby, pleased as all get out.

  I checked out the man I’d barely noticed, leaning against the counter. He was dressed in black pants, a blazer, and a white shirt. Attractive. Maybe early thirties. Light brown hair, inset eyes, and Viggo Mortensen look-a-like bone structure, minus the chin cleft. It was uncanny. A gun strap peeked out from inside his open blazer. A cop. This must be Marie’s dinner companion. If so, why was he checking me out like that?

  Inappropriate.

  Clearly, he didn’t know who I was. I needed to rectify matters pronto. I ambled up.

  “Je suis Fleur. La fille de Marie.”

  The silence grabbed my attention. Marie’s eyes, full with joy, found mine in the shop mirror. That was the first time I had said I was the daughter of Marie. My chest expanded, and I reciprocated the affection before glancing back at the man.

  He stood upright and took my hand.

  “Bastien Vauclin,” he offered, with a thick French accent.

  “You speak English?” I asked, hopeful.

  “Yes, a little,” he answered, eyes smiling, running his hand through his medium-length hair, short on the sides.

  “Are you to be employed?” he ventured. Marie had filled him in on my job interview, apparently.

  “Oui,” I answered. “Je suis excitée!”

  He laughed at my enthusiasm. His eyes flashed over my body. My stomach sank. What the hell? This was Marie’s date. She may have scored in the youth department, but this guy was trouble. I looked daggers at him when his eyes found mine again. The smile slid from his face.

  Marie was finishing up at the counter. She’d bought a beautiful little clutch made of braided velvet in shades of purple. She passed it to me, and my mouth popped open.

  “Pour toi,” she uttered, pink-cheeked.

  “What? Non,” I shook my head. She was already footing the bill for food and other extras, which I planned to change with this job.

  “Yes, to celebrate your job! Please,” she pushed the evening bag at me.

  “Merci beaucoup,” I said quietly. A burst of powerful emotion made my eyes burn. This was replaced by a hollow worry. I did not want her thinking for a second she had to buy my affection. I glimpsed at her pleased face and also wondered: How did she know I had got the job?

  She kissed me on the side of my mouth, and then stared at Sylvie, who had stepped into the showroom. Marie sent her a look of . . . how to describe it . . . collusion, stern collusion, and ordered the three of us to be on our way.

  The first half of the walk conversation was stilted. I was distracted by a pretty big question: Why would Sylvie have given me the interview if she and Marie were not friends? Because they had not acted like friends.

  In the bustling market area, we grabbed three whole fresh fish, so I could practice how to cook and carve my own, as well as fresh vegetables, wine, fruit, and more confiture (jam) for our morning croissants. I loved shopping for fresh food under an open sky, and carrying it home in a well-used brown paper bag.

  The second half of the walk, I was silent. My mood was horribly muddled. The elderly seamstress at the shop I had found was more than emphatic about not being able to fix my dress. She’d grunted at Marie, “Non, non, non, non!” repeatedly, and shoved it back at me.

  Thankfully, Marie and Bastien didn’t seem to notice my change in mood, as they had entered a deep, quiet discussion about something I assumed was work-rela
ted.

  By the time we neared our apartment building, I was black fury drenched in inky regret. Two hundred euros! Gone in one single moment of passion. Maybe, once I was settled in at Sylvie’s, I could see if one of the seamstresses there could fix it?

  “Fleur, what is wrong? Are you still upset about your dress?” asked Marie. We waited in the lobby for one of the elevators. Glancing up, surprised she had noticed my mood, I conceded I was. Marie had been surprised by the extent of the damage to the dress, and I’d had to fib about being impatient undressing for bed.

  She patted my cheek.

  I smiled at her—

  Uh-oh!

  My heart quickened.

  Holy crap.

  Over her shoulder.

  My Frenchman. Louis. Was here. Now. Entering the building.

  Why?!

  An explosion of whiteness blinded me before clearing the way for a surreal reality.

  His cool eyes were already on me. He was wearing jeans, a dark blue shirt, and two bimbettes, one on each arm.

  His body language was relaxed, but his mouth was tense. He scanned the backs of Marie and Bastien casually, and God help me, I recalled him face-deep in my coochie. I cringed remembering how intimate this perfect stranger had been just the night before. Now he wouldn’t make meaningful eye contact with me.

  In the lobby of my freaking building.

  It was clear he was waiting for the elevator.

  Did— Did he live here?

  I couldn’t let him know I cared. I tore my eyes away and turned slightly, desperate for an elevator to arrive.

  Oh my sweet Lord.

  He must live here.

  I remembered how last night Alain told me the rugby players often eat in that bistro because it is so close to the stadium where they spend hours every day training. But why hadn’t Louis mentioned it last night?

  I sensed Marie watching me. I just needed to pretend none of this was happening. Her phone pinged, and I exhaled as she pulled it out of her pocket and read the email.

  What I really needed was escape. Now.

  One of the women said something, and their laughter cut deep.

  Two of them. He’s got two of them.

  I placed my hand over my abdomen. The knife wounds were gushing blood everywhere. There could be only one reason those stunning Victoria’s Secret models were going up to his apartment.

  They had quieted, standing behind us, waiting. I felt his eyes on my back, burning holes in me, or so I imagined. My heart was thudding.

  “Maybe we can find another seamstress to mend your dress?” said Marie, putting her phone back in her pocket. Oh no, don’t mention that! “I know how much you like it,” she added, “and it was very expensive.”

  I cringed. There was little doubt Louis had heard her. “Mhm,” I mumbled, hoping she would drop it.

  Finally the elevator arrived, and I rushed in, Bastien and Marie beside me. I spun around and realized with sheer horror that I would be squished in with the ménage à trois.

  I caught Bastien give me a sideways glance, but I wouldn’t return it. I knew I was fire-engine red. Please Lord, give me strength.

  The bimbettes slithered on, and Louis last. Was his face red? Maybe. Good. It should be. I couldn’t look him in the eyes as he’d stepped on, before he turned his back to me and pressed the penthouse button.

  He lives in the penthouse.

  I needed oxygen, stat.

  He’d sucker punched me three times in less than twenty-four hours. First, he’d left me at the altar of sinful bliss. Second, he lived in the same building as Marie, and never said a word, like he couldn’t be bothered. And now, clearly, he was going to fuck these women. I knew it, as sure as Torchy’s makes the best queso. I stared at their backs and watched one of them run her perfectly manicured hand over his shoulders.

  He was going to ask them what they wanted over and over. They were going to articulate their deepest, darkest desires with poetic, breathy elegance. And then he was going to enter their bodies, and give them the best orgasms they’d ever had.

  I peeked over at Marie, perhaps hoping for some kind of help. My anguish expanded to include confusion.

  What the hey?

  Marie was not herself. She was fixated on the back of Louis’s head, intensely. Angrily? I glanced at Bastien. He was watching Marie closely. Something was off. It was her body language. She was stiff. Her legs were spread. Her arms slightly out at her sides. Plus, her mouth had flattened, and her hands were in fists.

  No time for that because the elevator reached our floor. I was going to have to pass by Louis. Dread steered me back to anger. I couldn’t let this man make me feel this way. Ashamed. Undesirable. Wounded. The list was long considering he was practically a stranger. Yeah, one who could I.D. my snatch in a series of random nude Snapchats.

  I squared my shoulders, preparing to give him a nasty stare as he stepped out to let us pass by.

  But he didn’t look my way. Instead, his lasers were aimed at Bastien.

  Louis’s face was stiff with animosity, and I gaped, speechless, at Bastien. Even as the elevator doors closed—Louis slayed Bastien.

  What in the . . .

  Bastien didn’t acknowledge my silent question. He rubbed the outside bridge of his nose and glance at Marie, eyebrows raised expectantly.

  Yes, what was with Marie? She was still tense.

  They shared an expressive look.

  “Salaud (Scumbag),” muttered Marie.

  “Tu le gardes tout près. (You’re keeping him close.)” He shrugged. “Tu pourrais déménager. (You could move.)”

  Huh, what?

  “Non,” she barked. “C’est chez moi ici. (This is my home.)”

  Shocked, I interrupted. “Uh, Marie, do you—” I cleared my throat, wanting to appear casual “—know that man or something?”

  Smack. She slapped me with my first glimmer of her policewoman stare. Without answering, she took a step down the hall, but paused suddenly, turning to me. “Stay away from him,” she hissed.

  My stomach dropped and my pulse quickened. “Oh, uh, sure. I mean, but, why?”

  “Just do as I say!”

  Taking in my no-doubt-surprised reaction (I was desperately hoping she couldn’t read the guilt on my face—already kind of seen him, Marie), she softened. “Fleur, you need only to trust me in this. You see what kind of man he is with two salopes,” she added, upper lip curled. She shuddered and headed on, leaving me utterly gobsmacked.

  Not only did she know Louis, she disliked him. Furthermore, she’d ordered me not to see him.

  I needed an explanation. But I couldn’t demand one. Marie might ask me why I wanted to know, in which case I would have to explain. “Oh, yeah, well I nearly bopped him in your bedroom just last night, no biggie.” Not exactly dream-daughter material. We were still getting to know each other. The last thing I wanted was to ruin her impression of me.

  Curiosity competed with discretion.

  Nope. Don’t say a word.

  I clomped down the hall, brooding on the other inexplicable Louis moment: the whole stare-down with Bastien. He’d zeroed in on our dinner companion with a look that seemed to say, “Prepare to die.”

  His actions could only mean one of two things, I deduced, as we paraded into the apartment and set about unloading groceries.

  Either Louis knew Bastien—and really, what were the odds?—and he didn’t like him, or, Louis had blasted Bastien on my account. And that sure as blue blazes didn’t make sense. Because even if Louis had mistakenly thought Bastien and I were together, why would he care? He’d made it very clear, last night and definitely just now—I rubbed my face, surprised to feel my nose tickle with tears—that he didn’t want me.

  And frankly, I didn’t want him anymore either.

  Chapter 4

  Okay, I still wanted him.

  It had been a struggle to prep the meal, drink and be merry, knowing what Louis was up to six floors above me.

 
Of course he could totally handle two women, I fumed. Just not one virgin.

  Worse, how could I still want him? That was the truly baffling part. People wonder why women are attracted to bad boys. I always thought the answer was easy: picture Ryan Gosling in a biker jacket, fitted out in movie-set press-on tattoos, pretending to wear his heart on his sleeve. Nuh-uh. The reality is far more . . . visceral and exciting. How the risk beckons one like a wildly steep ski run. Oh God.

  I needed to get this dinner over with so I could call Jess. She left that morning and it was about seven-thirty p.m. She would make this all better. Or Mom. I wouldn’t tell her any of this stuff. I just wanted to hear her voice.

  “Be careful, my love.” Marie was watching me chop onions. Her mood had shifted back to lighthearted after the meal preparations got underway. Bastien reached out for the knife, and I gladly handed it over, eyeing the wine that had been poured for me.

  I needed to get it together. Marie was a cop. She was reading me. And I wasn’t ready for her to see the real Fleur. The one who, on rare occasions, had major meltdowns. Plus, I would have to lie and say it was still the torn dress upsetting me, which I should be over by now.

  I took a deep breath, smiled, and asked about her day. She said the usual, “Fine,” (she never divulged details) and began talking up Bastien. Somewhere around finding out what Bastien thinks of my blog, how much he loves cooking, and visiting America, I realized she had invited Bastien to dinner for me.

  Um, okay.

  I tried to go with the flow. And why not? Pile on the strange, I thought, unlocking my stiff shoulders.

  Mid-meal, I was enjoying myself. Mid-dessert, I was laughing at Bastien’s understated charm. Over coffee, he had me making eyes. At the door, when he asked me on a date in two days’ time, I said yes.

  Friday night. A fabulous new restaurant.

  And why shouldn’t I go out with him? He and Marie had worked together before he’d been transferred to a different division. How could I go wrong?

  This is what I told her, sitting side by side, cozy in our PJs, watching a local French news station.

  She smiled. “I do not want you to think I care either way,” she said, earnestly. “I only wanted Bastien to meet you before you were in Toulon too long.”