The Frenchman (Crime Royalty Romance Book 1)

by Young, Lesley

  The Frenchman

  By Lesley Young

  L.A.Y. Books

  Copyright © 2014 Lesley Young, 2014

  Cover design by Jenny Zemanek at Seedlings Design Studio

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the written permission of the copyright owner. The only exception is brief quotations in reviews.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or any other means without the permission of the copyright owner is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Mobi ISBN 978-0-9909135-1-1

  To Kim Barton

  Acknowledgements

  This book, and thus, the Crime Royalty Romance series, may never have happened without Kim Barton and our mutually fueled, addictive chats about the latest, greatest bodice rippers. Thanks for making going there a no brainer. Thanks also to Shawna Hook for reading a rough first draft and lying about parts making you laugh out loud. You reassure and guide me in all the right ways. Copyeditor extraordinaire Rachel Daven Skinner, you rescued this book (and my meager reputation) from grammar malaise and just plain silly mistakes—it was a big job. French translator David Warriner at W Translation, you elevated the authenticity of this story and my characters with your much-needed edits and suggestions *blush*. Thanks also to my agent Nalini Akolekar at Spencerhill Associates, and the team there, including Amanda Leuck, for their early vital suggestions, and ongoing support. Last, but most important, my husband, Cosmo. You’re in every hero I write. Just wait ‘til The Italian.

  Books by Lesley Young

  The Frenchman (#1 Crime Royalty Romance)

  The Australian (#2 Crime Royalty Romance)

  The American (#3 Crime Royalty Romance)—Coming Soon

  Sky’s End: #1 Cassiel Winters Series)

  Sky’s Surrender (#2 Cassiel Winters Series)—Coming Soon

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  How to reach the author

  Books by Lesley Young

  Sample Chapter, The Australian

  Chapter 1

  The wine. The food. The vibe. That’s what I loved about France. After just six days of being in the southern port town of Toulon, I’d finally identified and labeled the energy the country spritzes out in tiny imaginary perfume bottles: elegance. You could be crammed into a dark little bistro, bumping knees around a wobbly table and inhaling secondhand smoke, and still feel like you were at the most sophisticated gathering in the world.

  A chef asked for our order from behind the restaurant’s small counter, which opened up into the closet-sized kitchen where two more chefs were sweating madly. This was the second time Marie, Jess, and I had come to this shoebox bistro. The food was fresh, and it was conveniently located across the street from Marie’s luxurious apartment.

  All three of us ordered the pan-seared fish. My mouth watered at the fresh, savory aroma of tarragon, and I sighed, deeply satisfied.

  Mistake? Regret? Fear? Forget it. Moving to Toulon for one year to get to know Marie LaSalle, my biological mother, was the best decision I ever made. I’d thought so ever since the morning I arrived, consumed my first croissant, and sat in her super-luxe marble kitchen, jet lagged and . . . happy.

  I’d been transported to a different world. One that was actually kind of exciting, even if the Frommer’s travel guide had been wrong about one thing: there were not “hundreds of sailors” wandering the streets of France’s principal naval base, much to my disappointment. The fear part, leaving home for the first time, was over. Or at least, within my control.

  The one minor downer so far was that the only time I’d spent with Marie was over dinner.

  Marie smiled softly, at me and then at Jess. I think she was glad I’d brought a friend with me from Texas to help me ease in during the first week, especially since it was clear I would have been on my own a lot if Jess hadn’t come. I was glad too. Jess and I had been best friends since grade school, and it was hardly a chore for us to stroll around la vieille ville (the old town) while Marie was at work. The district was full of cafés, markets, and shops, and we were fascinated by the Frenchiness of it all. Thank goodness both la vieille ville and Toulon’s lively port area were walking distances from Marie’s apartment.

  Both Marie and Jess kept glancing behind me. By the sounds of it, our little bistro was filling up.

  I noted the dark circles under Marie’s eyes. Toulon’s investigative task force sure kept her busy. She’d gone back to the office after our dinners almost every night. What I’d managed to learn about Marie so far, I liked, especially the things we had in common: a love of museum facts and mystery novels. We both push our hair behind our left ear in an uncertain, almost shy manner. It would seem the ambition genes skipped me, though. Marie had outlined four generations of LaSalle police officers and she was the only female in the family to reach inspector status.

  A round of loud, male shouting rattled my eardrums—what was going on behind me?—and I rolled my eyes at Jess. But she wasn’t paying attention. Her dark eyes were dancing as she looked over my shoulder, and her slightly long face was as animated as I’d ever seen. I resisted the urge to glance behind me.

  Deep-throated laughter spiked through the din. Must be some kind of rowdy bachelor party. A week ago, deep into my hopeless campaign to lose my virginity back home in Austin, I would have thought, “Alright! Bring it on.” What can I say? I’d waited too long to move out of my mom’s ultra-conservative home; I was twenty-three years old and never been plumbed. Jess felt I’d turned despo (maybe I had) and she’d been resorting to extreme measures to rein me in. One night, out on the town just before graduation, she’d rescued me from a sloppy sophomore. “He’s wearing cords,” she’d hissed drunkenly in my ear while texting for a cab to take us home to our shared apartment near campus. She’d started a list on the chalkboard over the microwave titled “Things Fleur Will Not Screw,” and the next morning made me add “Side Parts.”

  But now, I was just disappointed I couldn’t converse properly with Marie, let alone eligible men. My French was rusty at best, even if my French-Canadian friend Tammy had been adding to my phone app language lessons. (Imagine my reaction to hearing the French have five different words for “fuck.”)

  Besides, I knew how down Jess was about flying home tomorrow, so if she was having fun eye-bumping some guy, have at it, I say. I had a whole year to find my own French beau.

  Sipping my delicious wine,
I studied the ever-poised Marie over the candlelight, admiring the way she smoked while at the same time hating that she did. (Not even cops heed France’s smoking laws.) I wanted her to live forever. And the realization that it mattered to me felt good.

  I’d fallen “in like” with Marie right after she’d shown up in Austin, before graduation, just over three months ago. There I’d been, going along, planning to work part-time in retail and intern at a small indie publishing company, when boom. I have a second mother and whole other family. After visiting Austin a few times, Marie invited me abroad for a year, and my adoptive mother, Lisa Smithers, a reporter for the Austin Times, encouraged me to go spend time with the woman, a police inspector of all things. “At least you’ll be safe,” she said.

  I’d gotten Marie’s natural blond hair, her delicate nose, and height. But my prominent cheek bones, full lips, and green eyes must have come from the lover she’d had, whoever he was. It was notable how she had not mentioned my father. She was probably waiting for the right time to share that with me, or for me to ask. And I would, as I told Jess repeatedly. In time. I just prefer my change snack-sized.

  Marie’s serious mask slipped into place as her cell started rattling on the table. She took one last drag of her cigarette, stubbed it out on a bread plate, and took the call. I’d come to recognize the number that frequently popped up. I confirmed by her guilty glance at me that it was indeed her boss (le commissaire) with yet more news that would take her back to the office. She murmured a lot of mais ouis before tucking her cell into her loose blazer pocket. I couldn’t get over how she never carried a purse.

  I smiled right away, not wanting her to feel badly. The male voices were unbearably loud anyway, and I motioned “what can you do” with my hands. Marie turned to Jess and they exchanged a few quiet parting words. Jess would be leaving too early in the morning to say goodbye then. Marie slipped a bunch of euros under my plate, stood up, kissed me near my mouth and smoothed my long hair.

  Money was becoming a growing concern for me. I was pinning a lot of hope on the job interview Marie had arranged for me tomorrow afternoon in a friend’s clothing store. As for my sucksalot French, Marie said I only needed to learn a few lines, like, “It looks fabulous,” and, “Try this belt with it.”

  “As-tu apporté tes clés? Je vais rentrer tard à la maison,” she asked, loudly, competing with the noise.

  I had to think each word through before nodding. Yes, my keys were in my purse. And, the last time she said she would be working all night, she showed up at two o’clock—the next afternoon. Clearly, there was no rest for the virtuous.

  “Pas de repos pour . . . la vierge,” I attempted slowly. Her eyes popped wide open. She threw back her head and laughed. It was a beautiful sound. Cupping my face with her hand, she glanced around the restaurant.

  “Perhaps not, ma belle,” she said. I cringed, all at once realizing I had said “No rest for the virgin” instead of “No rest for the virtuous.”

  How did she know I was one? Or did she just see me for what I was? A naive, horny American? Maybe Mom had told her my only serious boyfriend, in sophomore year, had eventually decided to become a priest, and she’d drawn her own conclusion. (Yeah, that was a real confidence boost.)

  The restaurant quieted down behind me, and tables were being pushed aside. We were crammed in that tight? I heard Marie murmur merci once before the door opened and closed. Figuring this was as good a time as any to go to the washroom, I said so to Jess.

  She nodded, barely able to contain her excitement, smiling openly at someone behind me.

  I stood up and straightened out the dress I had spent two hundred euros on yesterday. I was having mild coronary events over the price of everything here. But, I told myself I would have the dress forever, and hopefully I would get the job the next day. I tugged on the left side where the gray layered silk sat quite a bit higher up my leg. Clutching my bag, I turned around and stepped into a football locker room.

  The restaurant was crowded with massive men—maybe two dozen?—most in their twenties. My eyebrows shot up and stayed perched high in my forehead.

  Six of them, on my side of the room, were standing, having shifted and stacked a table or two to let Marie, and now me, through.

  My face flushed. I scanned for the WC sign.

  That’s when my eyes locked with his. My breath hitched and my step faltered. He had me then. It was that simple. I couldn’t possibly explain the connection because I’m not sure I believe it, even having experienced it. We were a cliché in that moment, or rather, I was one.

  As he stood near the WC sign, holding a chair to the side for me, I stepped forward shakily. My pulse quickened under his heated stare. He was the most visceral man in the room, no, probably that I’d ever encountered. I need to emphasize the man part. As in spark a fire and fend off other hungry carnivores encroaching on his territory kind of man.

  He wore a pair of fine wool pants and a tailored dress shirt, sleeves rolled up to show off ropes of muscle. I noticed a black tattoo on the inside of his left forearm, and a watch the size of a business card glittered on his right wrist. I could not get over how Frenchmen dressed so sharp.

  His hair was nearly black, he wore it very short, and his eyes—well, I didn’t notice the color just then. But his face was striking. High prominent cheekbones and a nose with a slightly thick bridge (broken before?) all sloped down into a profoundly sexy set of lips and a strong chin. He was a prototype for a movie character playing a Gaul warrior, both rugged and ancient. As I drew closer, it was his eyes that sealed the deal, the lids just a tad heavy, under thick, dark eyebrows that tilted ever so vulnerably? angrily? into the center. They were focused on me with an intent that was utterly clear.

  Instinct informed me that if we were in another era, like the Stone Age, he would have thrown me on the ground and done me right there. It was both thrilling and terrifying because now that I was less than a foot away, it became clear this man bench-pressed females.

  He was a mesomorph. Huge. Tall. At least six four. But broad, in a—I glanced down, certain I would see a beer belly, nope—super-fit way. My heart was pounding, a first for me around any man, and it was extremely unsettling.

  My nipples beaded and signaled “suck me” through the thin silk material. Just get to the ladies’, and touch up your makeup, was all I could think, exasperated. I looked quickly left and right as I moved ahead, my prey instinct on alert. I noticed a black eye in the group. What was this party? A convention of heavyweight boxers?

  A stupid, goofy smile spread on my face as I passed by the Frenchman. I managed to murmur merci to his broad chest, and sucked in a waft of potent cologne and man musk before I escaped into the tiny closet. I had to grasp the miniature sink, no kidding, and inhale deeply to get some oxygen into my lungs. And you know what my thought process consisted of: had I shaved everywhere in the shower this morning? (I had.)

  Holy crap. This is exactly what had been going on with Jess all through dinner. We were crammed into a room full of hot, built, well-dressed Frenchmen.

  I was pretty sure she was into one of them.

  Please, God, let it be one of the other men in the group.

  The music was playing, the voices were loud, and I heard some scraping noises through the door. Uncertain what was happening, I quickly took a pee, and fingers fluttering, touched up my lip gloss and smoothed my already smoothed hair.

  Since when did I need to buy time?

  I paused, steadied myself, and stepped out.

  Oh.

  Panicked, I took in the room. In my short absence our table had been moved, more like merged, into the group’s. Jess was tucked between two enormous Frenchmen, smiling and nodding. The chef was speaking with another two from the group, waving hands, smiling, confirming the new seating arrangement.

  But—I glanced around again—there was no clear spot for me, at least not beside or even near Jess.

  I broadened the search. There. An empty spot. A
nxiety burst in my stomach. It was next to my Frenchman.

  Beside him stood a blond man, who was not as tall or as muscular but clearly fit. He wore a welcoming smile. “Asseyez-vous ici,” he said. “You sit,” he added, motioning at the seat enthusiastically.

  I glanced back over at Jess, who managed to tear her gaze away from two dark-haired men. Geez. Both were focused on her like bears on a piece of fresh meat. And I knew the look she was giving me. It was a you’ll-come-play-or-else look. She didn’t go man-crazy very often, but when she did, watch out. I guess it was payback for a year of watching my reckless Fleur-flirting.

  I smiled slightly—there were a lot of eyes on me in that moment—and made my way over, glancing at my Frenchman. He stood like a soldier, staring somewhere beside me. His aloofness was weird. After I sat down, all the others who were standing settled in, and the chattering intensified again.

  “What eez your name?” asked the blond, in a lubing French accent. I flushed, unable to quite believe the direction of my thoughts.

  “Fleur,” I answered, and a few eyebrows raised. My Frenchman’s hand, which was in a fist, unfolded and spread on the table. Its span was enormous. The idea of one or two of those fingers inside of me just popped into my mind. I gasped. What in the hell was wrong with me? I glanced up just as he glanced down. Had he read my thoughts?! No. Don’t be ridiculous. Didn’t help matters that my cheeks were on fire, though.

  “Oh, vous êtes française! French parents en Amérique?” the blond man concluded on his own, nodding at one of his friends across the table like they’d had a bet going.

  He wasn’t exactly right, but I didn’t feel like clarifying. I nodded. This seemed to please everyone, and maybe even my Frenchman, who’d been appraising me.

  I was French. Goosebumps spread down my arms. I knew my roots now. I mean, I would always be American. But my ancestors were French. And that did mean something after all.