The Frenchman (Crime Royalty Romance Book 1)

by Young, Lesley

  A statement. Not a question.

  “He is my brother. And he loves you.”

  Fear touched me then. Real fear. Not the kind you have cloistered in a police inspector’s apartment wondering whether true love really exists. The kind you have when the earth goes boom and you know you can’t run fast enough away from the exploding molten-hot lava shooting everywhere.

  I was already out of my chair, and stumbled back over it as it fell behind me. The restaurant was weaving and spinning, and I reached out with one hand for something to hold on to. My sight had grown blurry. My heart couldn’t beat in the thick sludge surrounding it. I looked back, figures were entering the room, coming at me, like ghosts. I turned to the fading daylight, one thought only as I fought to stay conscious. Get to the door.

  I have no idea if I even got close. Unable to withstand my own body weight, my legs gave out.

  The food?

  No.

  The wine? Yes. It had been the wine.

  I fell forward, but . . . I was weightless, like a bird flying through the sky. That can’t be? I tried to make a sound but I had no strength to power it.

  All I heard before darkness took me was, “Sh, sh.”

  Chapter 22

  I woke up with a clear and precise sense of displacement. My body was stiff. Why? The air was both musty and fresh at the same time. I cracked open my eyes and a ceiling came into focus.

  My first instinct was to duck. Cracked wood frames. Open holes in cobbled stone. Everywhere. I blinked hard and focused. I was in a dilapidated, ancient building. I heaved myself up as my heart picked up pace, pounding loudly. Dirt floor. A table and chairs. I was on a small cot.

  Alone.

  I rubbed my face.

  I’d been drugged. I swung my feet around. Where were my shoes? Nowhere. I stood up slowly, panic mounting. There was no door or windowpanes. Just an open exit and holes in the walls. Where was I? I listened carefully, struggling to find balance, maybe for sounds of men speaking. Messette men. Because I knew now. Chloé Bijou. Louis’s sister.

  Was that even her real name? No, of course not. I had let it happen, again. He’d laid another trap, no, they had laid a trap together, and I’d walked right into it.

  How much hurt could I tolerate? I seemed to have no threshold. When would I break? Would I ever?

  More importantly, my heart beating faster and faster, they had me. They were going to threaten Marie. Maybe, maybe even hurt me. My face crumpled up to whimper, but I caught myself before a sound came out.

  I was better than that. I was a police inspector’s daughter.

  I could get away maybe. Yes. I had to try. I owed it to Marie to at least try.

  There were no guards inside. I wasn’t even tied up.

  Quietly, trying to gain my balance, I crept to the left side of the doorway. Ever so slowly, I peered out. The bright light was blinding, and . . .

  . . . nobody. Not a soul, anywhere.

  I stepped out tentatively, but jerked into quick alert, jaw dropping.

  I was high, as in high up. I turned around, stepped backward out onto the small plateau of grass, and looked up. This was an abandoned ancient church—built into the side of a cliff.

  Jesus.

  All around me was steeped in woods, trees growing along jagged cliffs that plunged down to sea. How did I . . .? I couldn’t even see a road that led up . . .

  “It’s behind the next house.”

  My heart stopped.

  I spun around, and stumbled. Vertigo? Or the drugs still? No. It was his presence.

  Louis. Thud. Thud. Thud. My heart couldn’t take anymore. I hadn’t spotted him because he was on a slope, leaning against a short stone wall that dropped perilously down, casually debonair as ever in dark jeans and a dress shirt. “The way out. That is what you are looking for,” he added.

  I couldn’t believe I was seeing him again. No, I couldn’t believe I was actually stupid enough to think I wouldn’t.

  He stood upright, and I stepped back.

  He paused, his brow cast low. He was quiet, not saying a single word with those silent eyes, which scoured me, searching for what? All I had in me was hatred, deep and far and wide as the ocean, for what he was doing to Marie, to me . . . to us.

  Crimes of passion, they call them.

  First.

  Degree.

  Murder.

  “She won’t give you what you want.” I hoped to turn him to ash with the darkness in my heart. My hands balled into tight fists. I wouldn’t give him what he wanted. I wouldn’t let him hurt Marie through me.

  Ever.

  I tensed as he threw back his head and shouted something to the sky in Corsican. He brought Zeus back down with him when he pinned me with those eyes. He wore a small, victorious smile.

  Why? I thought he’d uttered a curse just now, but maybe not. I clasped my throat.

  Oh no. You stupid fool. With my hatred, I’d shown him how he still held my heart in his giant hand.

  He was pleased.

  I scanned the yard. Could I get away?

  “Are you an alpiniste?” He glanced quickly at my bare feet, then back into my stunned face. Right. He’d removed my shoes. Just in case.

  He was moving closer. I searched again for a way, any way, away, but already my feet ached from the cool ground. And even if I had shoes, where would I go? I was trapped by the cliff’s edge. I stepped back again, matching his every step forward, but he was gaining. I hit the stone wall of the old church behind me.

  Frozen, helpless, angry, I stared off into the distance. I held my breath as he stopped just shy of the door, so close.

  “Come inside,” he said, softly near my ear, ducking in.

  I didn’t move. I just kept staring off at the sea far, far below.

  I tried to steady myself. This was a strange primitive place, with its enchanted thick pines. Salty sea winds whispered through tree limbs of ancient Mediterranean lore and hardship. And inside a broken church waited a man who seemed immortal to me, at least in that moment.

  Was I brave enough to face him? Could I guard myself against his inexplicable pull on me? Already, I could feel the obsession, my obsession, tug at me, from proximity alone. Could I stay alert enough to not fall into any more of his traps? I searched deep inside.

  My love and respect for Marie would guide me.

  Yes. I was strong enough, given what was at stake.

  I took a deep breath and stepped in, letting my eyes adjust to the dark, taking in the musty scent of earth.

  He was so large in the tiny, abandoned place of worship.

  I stepped farther in. He was pouring water into a glass. When he was done, he sat down on one of two chairs on either side of the small rickety wooden table. I felt his eyes on me, as I had grown used to when I felt safe around him.

  He waited. I had no other option. So, I joined him, taking the chair opposite.

  “Drink the water. You will feel better.”

  I sat stiff, ignoring him—so fucking bossy—staring at the old wall instead of him.

  I wished I was less groggy. I needed my wits. Maybe I should drink the water.

  “How long have I . . .”

  “Overnight.”

  “Where am I?”

  “Corsica.”

  Really? Of course. He brought me to his real island. And I thought I was never getting off the figurative one. “They’ll search for me,” I gasped.

  “Non.”

  I looked at him then, frightened. But his face stunned me. It was full of anguish. He felt pity or sympathy or what? A repentant kidnapper? It was too much, too confusing, and I turned back to my wall, covering my face with my hands.

  “I told your mother I will return you to her tomorrow. Unharmed.”

  Okay. I tried to breathe normally. That’s good. Really good news. I dropped my hands back into my lap. Then why bring me here? Why take the risk? He had gotten himself in some potentially serious shit abducting me.

  Fleur. Ho
w could I still care about him or what happened to him? No. I didn’t. I just didn’t want to give Marie any more collateral. “That won’t stop her,” I whispered. I tried to make it sound like a challenge, but it wasn’t. I was warning him. I was still worried about what would happen to him. I was a terrible daughter.

  “I told her if she searches, or makes any move against my family in any way, she will never see you again.”

  “So, you are threatening her.” I couldn’t reconcile how much he despised my mother. All this time.

  He would not meet my gaze. “Oui.” He slouched, staring down at the water glass. “If you insist. Oui. I threatened her. For seventy-two hours.”

  “What do you want, Louis?” I asked shakily, wholly unable to imagine withstanding the wretchedness of being near him and yet so far for an entire day. And what was Marie going through right now?

  “Two things.”

  For the first time, our eyes met, properly, and across the table I allowed his turbulent emotions to pour into me.

  I could do this. I could take the missile about to enter me. He had given me a warning just now. He had to deliver it. Go on.

  “Your mother must drop the charges against Georges.”

  I blew air out of my mouth.

  No problem. That didn’t hurt at all. Yeah, right. It had all come crashing down to the one horrible truth: He wanted me to work against my own mother.

  “He is innocent.”

  “Of course he is,” I scoffed. How could Louis put me in this position? I glared at him, silently demanding he take it all back.

  He smiled at me, with acceptance.

  “This will be the hardest, I think,” he said quietly.

  “What?”

  “Convincing you that your mother is not so good as you think.”

  My eyebrows shot sky high. How dare he?

  “Oui,” he said, smiling so sure, so smug—wait, wrong—both his fists hit the trembling table with a crunch. Not smug. Violent.

  “I can just imagine the lies she has put in your head. This—” he pushed up the sleeve of his shirt “—does not mark me a murderer. This is our family crest.”

  “But—”

  “Yes, my family fortunes are derived from crime,” he interrupted me. “But what your mother would never tell you is that the Messettes are the ones who police the port, not her little squad of imbéciles. I make no apologies for my family. None. And she, she would have you believe I was ashamed. That I hid it from you.”

  He shook his head.

  My God, how stupid did he think I was? “You did hide it from me! You made me care for you, so you could—”

  “Non. That is not the way. I knew she would twist your mind,” he bellowed over me. I was too intimidated to shout back, to protest that Marie was not the bad guy. He gathered himself, continuing more calmly. “The minute you came into my apartment that day, throwing my money at me . . . Georges, he saw right away, ‘ah, finally little Louis is smitten.’ And then you told him your name.”

  Louis glared at me, as if I should have known to hide it from Georges.

  “And I knew, I would have to make you mine to protect you. Not to threaten you. To protect you.”

  What?

  I gawked at him. He was spinning this as though I’d brought this on myself. That I had forced my way into his life. “But you knew who I was before then, Louis, and you could have stopped all of this from ever happening.”

  “Oui. I did. I knew who you were that night in the bistro, and the second I saw the bitch kiss you goodbye—”

  “Don’t you dare call my mother that—”

  “I thought,” he added, shrugging, “yes, I think I will fuck the daughter of the great Marie LaSalle.”

  I blanched.

  “So then it was all just a way to get back at her,” I whispered, staring down in my lap.

  “Non. I just told you it was more. And I walked away, Fleur, when I found out you were innocent. I wanted to protect you, Fleur. I only want to protect you. Do you forget all that followed between us, hm? Did Marie make you forget?” he added, softly.

  I wasn’t going to answer. His voice was laced with tenderness I couldn’t trust, but wanted to. No, Louis, I have not forgotten what we shared. I relive every wild, silken, golden-dappled moment over and over.

  “Right. I see in your face, you know better, Fleur.” I was unable to hold his intense stare. “I tried to stay away from you. But when you show up at my nightclub, with that salaud Vauclin, his hands on you . . .” He hissed something in French.

  “What’s your problem with him?” I asked suddenly, outraged at all that had been kept from me. Was he actually saying that if Bastien hadn’t taken me there, none of this would have happened?

  “He is the biggest snake of them all.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He works for the Messettes. We bought him years ago when he was partners with your mother. Oui. And that night, he brought you to Noir to provoke me. He wants our money, but hates himself for taking it—not a man, a snake! And I knew, then, watching you, so beautiful and—” he clutched at thin air “—and carefree, I could not let him have you.” He stared at me accusingly, like his attraction to me was all my fault. “That is why I sent up the money,” he added, without apology.

  Oh my God, wait, so he had wanted to buy me? One way or the other—

  “Yes, maybe that is when I decided, I would have done anything to have you, Fleur. But I would not use you. Not like that. Not the way she would have you believe. As long as you were mine, you and your mother were safe from Georges. That’s the truth.”

  I steadied my hands on my lap. He couldn’t think so little of me. Did he expect me to buy this? “Do you really expect me to believe your gang wouldn’t have used me as leverage for something?”

  “Mon Dieu, we are not animals!” he bit back. “And we are not a gang. We are a family. And oui, Georges would have respected my wishes, and you, on my word alone. We can handle your mother, we have for years! Until now.”

  I gave him my best “oh really” look. My ears were ringing.

  “I see you will never believe we have honor. You can only take my word for it, that I would never have allowed them to use you that way.”

  “Your word? I don’t need your word, because none of it would have mattered, Louis. Just being together would have trapped Marie.” I wanted it to be otherwise. But it wasn’t. It never would be. “And you knew it, Louis, and that’s why you lied to me over and over again. You lied about who you were.” I stared back at the wall, my vision blurring. Maybe he’d lied because he couldn’t give me up. Well, maybe he should never have brought me so close. I fought the tears, and flinched when he swore under his breath. “Back to this,” he said in French. “You want to blame, and take no responsibility, but—”

  Silence. In my peripheral vision, I could see him lean forward, hands on his knees.

  “Look at me.”

  His voice was low. Menacing.

  “Look at me.”

  I met his glare.

  “Tell me, when did I lie to you?”

  “Come on,” I whispered, a low burn, worse than hunger, in my gut. “Omission is the same thing.”

  “Is it? When did I ever omit anything? Hm? Non. It was you who lied to yourself. Over and over and over again,” he said quietly. “I was astounded how strongly you protect your perfect little version of the world.” He shrugged. “I could lead you to water only.”

  My eyes popped open wide. I spun my body around to match the direction of my view.

  “You expect me to drink this crap?”

  Had I— Had I somehow unwittingly let this happen to me?

  “None of that changes what you’ve done now, using your sister to deceive me, to kidnap me?”

  “Oui, tell yourself that. Keep up the lies. I told you I will release you and I will, unharmed.” He ignored how he’d used Chloé to betray me, I thought, pursing my lips.

  “Mais . . .” H
e flipped his hand open on the table. “I could keep you if you like. Cut off your body parts and mail them one by one to your mother until she releases Georges, if you like?” He used that special kind of sarcasm that the French have mastered. “Then your mother really will finally have something to accuse me of, which is, how do you say, irony, since I am trying to help her from herself.”

  I stared at him then, my endless well of hope springing forth at the slightest sign that he meant well. He wanted to help Marie? Why? I thought it was Georges he wanted to help. Yes, don’t lose focus! This is a trap . . . isn’t it?

  My eyes darted back and forth across the dirt floor. What could I believe in the moment?

  He says he doesn’t want to hurt me. I could, maybe, believe that.

  He doesn’t want to use me to hurt my mother. Very hard to believe.

  Then again, he says he wants me to get my mother to release Georges, when he could have simply forced her hand by never releasing me from here. I was certain other members of his family would have no problem cutting off my body parts and mailing them to her.

  He said he wanted to help Marie from herself.

  I pushed back my hair. I pulled it all around my right side, twisting it over and over, staring over his shoulder.

  I glanced at him. “Why do you want to help Marie?”

  His face, pulled taut, relaxed.

  He drank a glass of water and slowly slid it, empty, back on the table. “Inspector LaSalle has charged Georges with drug trafficking.”

  “Yeah, and her case is air tight,” I said, thinking how confident Marie was that Georges was going to jail for a long time.

  “Oui, because she made it up,” he said vehemently. My jaw dropped open. “And you must undo this, Fleur. It is wrong. This informant she claims to have is lying. He was not at the scene the time they say he was. I have no idea where she got the drugs.”

  I squinted—hard to see him for the shame. Seriously? This was his tactic? “You want me to believe my mother, what, planted evidence? My mother is one of the good guys.” I was shaking. “She’s spent her whole life, no she’s sacrificed her whole life to rid the ports of scum like your family. She sacrificed me to do it!”