The Frenchman (Crime Royalty Romance Book 1) Read online

  “I’m Fleur, very nice to meet you,” I said, Texan politeness seizing hold of me. He held my hand lightly and wouldn’t release it.

  “Fleur . . .?” he asked, eyebrows raised, hanging on my every word.

  “LaSalle,” I offered up without a second thought.

  The mood shifted as if, well, as if someone had farted. Visibly collecting himself—what? does he know the name?—he glanced behind me at where Louis was standing. Louis’s grip tightened on my shoulder, and Georges released my hand. His smile was no longer smarmy. It was mechanical.

  I was grateful for Louis’s warm body behind me and I moved forward at his nudge, as eager as he was for me to leave, apparently. Louis hissed something behind me at his brother, something I couldn’t make out.

  I thought it strange that he closed the door behind us so were both standing in the hall. Was he making sure I didn’t linger? Oh God, maybe he did think I was a stalker.

  “So we have a deal? I will call you when I am back,” he added.

  I nodded, even as I balked at our first date involving “a deal.” Why would he care so much about me not dating Bastien? Was he jealous? No, there was more to it. Bastien said they had a history, and Bastien had tried to taunt Louis with me at his bar. Sooner or later, I would get to the truth.

  I turned to step toward the elevator, when he grabbed my hand and held it firm in his.

  “I did not mean to insult you earlier.” He looked down at me without any artifice, and I saw a kind, handsome man. I knew there was one inside! My heart purred. He motioned over his shoulder, slightly, with his eyes, indicating he didn’t want anyone behind the door to hear.

  “Oh, you didn’t, I mean, I misunderstood is all,” I said quietly, flashing back to the money I left on his floor. And yet, the way he had asked to buy me, to taunt me, just thinking about it, I could feel my body responding, willing to offer itself—for free. “So where is your rugby game anyway?” I asked quickly, instantly worried that sounded clingy.

  “To the land of gray. England,” he said, curling his lip, rolling his eyes. “It is a Premiership game. We will destroy them.” Yikes.

  “Well, safe travels and bonne chance.”

  He nodded.

  Um, okay. I stepped over to the elevator and pressed the button. Half turned, I expected him to go back inside. But he stood there, drinking me in.

  I was wearing that stupid goofy grin again. God, what was wrong with me?

  “Who is number eleven?” he asked.

  It took me three long anxiety-ridden seconds to realize he was asking about the number on my shirt.

  “Oh! My friend’s favorite player. College football. Longhorns,” I said by way of explanation, pointing at my boobs with my hand.

  Oh my God—I did not just do that. He won’t know that’s the team’s name! I turned fifty shades of red.

  “From now on you wear only number eight,” he ordered, winking at me, and slipped back into his apartment without a second glance.

  Chapter 7

  I had established an unsteady routine over the following week. Wake up early, think about Louis. Work out, think about Louis. Have breakfast with Marie, when she was there and not sleeping in from a late return. Walk to work for eleven a.m. (Vive la France!) Underscore all of the above with more thoughts of Louis and our pending date. The only time I didn’t think about the man was at work, because muddling my way through paperwork, telephone calls, managing deliveries, and shipping orders took all of my concentration. Plus, I needed to draw the line somewhere. Even I knew a man could only live up to so much expectation.

  I’d thought, as the days passed and we drew closer to his return, that I would get nervous. But the opposite was true. I was starting to believe the date wouldn’t actually happen. Events, as I’d rehashed them, were a mess of confusion. He’d sent so many mixed signals. I tried to focus on how sweet and respectful he’d been at his place after he’d propositioned me, of course. And yet, I couldn’t help but think he had asked for my number to get rid of the aggressive American. He was beyond rich, famous, a busy sports athlete, and . . . kind of unattainable. Why on earth would he want to go on a date with the Miss Teen Austin Two-Step Champion? I mean he was probably snacking on regal anglaises every night. Or so others would have me believe.

  And what did I believe? Well, I hardly knew him. Still, I felt he wasn’t just out for a good time. After all, he had not banged me the first night we met. Not many men would have made that choice. He seemed to want to show me respect . . . didn’t he?

  My shoulders slumped even more forward, and I leaned back in my office chair to stretch my back. Yeah, that’s why I was grimacing. I had about as much faith in my Frenchman as I did in low-carb diets. Focus on the positive, I cajoled myself.

  Okay, three times over the week I had assisted Anne with taking measurements of new clients, partly because she was so far along in her pregnancy she couldn’t bend down. I knew that getting client interaction was a major concession on Sylvie’s part. Tailoring was a very important aspect of the Sylvie prêt-à-porter experience: I picked up on how to make a new client feel comfortable, flattered, and confident while her greatest assets were measured and recorded.

  Day two, it became clear I was acting the role of Sylvie’s assistant, but I wasn’t upset about that because I was learning a ton and she clearly needed one. I wanted to justify my job, as much as I suspected she needed to justify my job to herself.

  Let’s see, what else . . . I had discovered how and where to source some of the most stunning, quality leather in the world (and that I could do it in forty minutes or less while an insanely panicked seamstress paced in front of me). I had also learned that there are four ways to insert additional profit margins in every order.

  Oh yeah, and one of my more unpleasant discoveries: French delivery men could be rude. I’d signed for three truckloads of boxes that week, and after the second time I’d asked what I was signing for, I got a “None of your fucking business” in French from a very bad smelling man. I kept forgetting to mention it to Sylvie.

  I glanced around thinking I should take up an espresso for her.

  Sylvie must have grown confident I could handle the shop’s back end, because she’d begun tucking upstairs (where she lives in one of the apartments) for hours on end to work on her early spring designs for next year. I didn’t want to let her down.

  The buzz of the serge machine in the background grated on me. The scent of steamed fabric clogged up my sinuses and muddied my brain. But, if I wanted to get to the front of Sylvie’s store, I needed to perfect my French.

  That’s why I’d spent Tuesday and Wednesday evening holed up in a dingy, stale room with a bunch of other foreigners attempting to learn to read and write French. The class was a hodgepodge of ethnicities and life stories but we all had one thing in common—we were desperate to learn the local language.

  Knowing that relaxed conversation was the best way to learn a new language, I had searched France’s equivalent of MeetUp.com late Tuesday after I got home from the class, and found a conversation group where locals agreed to meet with foreigners in a café to spend ninety minutes conversing in French weekly. After exchanging messages with the founder, I was booked tomorrow, Friday at six-thirty p.m., with an elderly woman named Chérie d’Alfort.

  I had high hopes for the tutoring. Otherwise, I would wither away stuck in the back of Sylvie’s. I don’t enjoy fashion as much as dressing with clothes. I know what will transform wide hips to luscious, distract from flat chests, elongate short legs, you name it.

  Of course I could have turned to Marie for help with my French, but it was just easier and better for us to communicate in English when we did spend time together. We wanted to learn about each other fast, and besides, she was not a teacher type.

  I responded to another online customer question, getting one of the seamstresses to check my French before posting. And before turning to the next task, a big bubble of anxiety burst in my gut. The sou
rce: Marie’s mother, my grandmother, Sophie LaSalle, was coming to stay the weekend with us.

  We were picking her up at the train station at eight p.m. tomorrow. I knew Marie was nervous because she’d been fussing about the place all week and talking in a high-pitched voice about how we would spend Saturday together. Her strange behavior wasn’t helping me feel better about meeting my new grandmother.

  Marie had never told anyone about having had a baby at twenty, or that she had given it away for adoption. My existence was as big a surprise to the LaSalle family as theirs was to me three months ago. Marie reassured me they were happy to learn of me, especially her mother (her father had passed away five years ago), and I wanted to believe her.

  “Fleur!” Anne beckoned from the door that led into the front. Her short curly brown hair softly framed her lovely face, while her big blue eyes were wildly pleading with me. I jumped at the chance to tend the front while she took another pee break.

  I rushed forward while she dashed over to the washroom. Poor girl. She had deliberately avoided me the first day, but on day two, her tiny bladder had brought us closer. She’d rushed back all day, giving me no notice, when on the last run of the day I heard the front door ding. In a split-second decision, I headed into the sales store to cover for her.

  I’d made myself busy behind the counter, eyeing the customer. Thank heavens the woman, in her mid-forties, was polite and well-suited to black. I sold three pairs of last season’s pants at full price, speaking French the whole time while Anne returned and watched from nearby. When it came time to pay for the order, I quietly handed her off to Anne, so she could record the commission for herself. Anne’s flat mouth popped open before she caught herself, and finished the sale.

  Anne still wasn’t overly friendly (Marie told me the French don’t make friends with co-workers like in America), but at least she was now speaking to me.

  Taking a deep breath, I casually stepped into the front studio and spotted a customer over by the blazers. Wow—she was taller than me. I took in her high-heeled black leather boots, guessing she was nearly six feet without them. She wasn’t lithe, more like Amazonian beautiful, with shiny brown hair and fair skin, and about my age.

  My heart sank. Her look was definitely not Sylvie’s. She wore a super-modern wide mesh sweater and striped leggings. Chunky, metal Gemma Redux necklaces hung down in ropes.

  What was she doing here? I quickly tried to sort through how to dress her in Sylvie’s flirty, bold, feminine style. The woman glanced up, and the most striking pair of sherry-colored eyes met mine. Her face was slightly narrow for those over-sized eyes, which closed in on me with such intensity I turned self-conscious. Shoot. Where was Anne? This customer was intimidating.

  “Bonjour,” I said, omitting Mademoiselle, and trying my best to give off the haughty reserve preferred by the French in a shop assistant.

  “Hi,” she answered in English. Dammit. I thought my greeting was perfect. She clearly had my number, and I worried I was being judged for my soft pink and white Sylvie wrap dress and flats. I was all rose petals. She was all platinum edge. “You speak English?” she asked.

  “Oui,” I answered, trying to keep the upset out of my voice. I was going to have to work on my enunciation with my new tutor tomorrow.

  “I need help please, to find a—” she inspected the store, frowning, perhaps realizing the error of her ways “—a dress.”

  “Certainly,” I said, stepping forward, shoulders back. I could rescue this situation. This is what I do best. In my spare time at the shop I’d identified a few options that would look terrific on Tammy, who shared a similar style with this girl. “Une minute, s’il vous plaît,” I said as I gathered together some pieces. The Amazon followed me, and stealing glances at her body, I tried to figure out her size and decide what aspects to play up. Long legs for sure. I could feel her eyes on me, and thought it was odd that she wasn’t casually looking around herself.

  “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.

/>   Chapter 8

  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.