Read The Frenchman (Crime Royalty Romance Book 1) Online
Authors: Lesley Young
The Frenchman (Crime Royalty Romance Book 1)
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.
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Mobi ISBN 978-0-9909135-1-1
To Kim Barton
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
Sample Chapter, The Australian
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 oui
s 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.