Bonjour Cherie

www.escapepublishing.com.au

It's Paris or bust in this New Adult comedy of errors about seeing beyond the surface…

Beth Jenkins is into all things French—especially her French teacher, André LeBlanc. She's on the fast track to Paris and nothing will stop her, not even the very Australian Zach Mills, whose abs and attitude are a powerful combination. As she endeavours to catch André's interest, she also stubbornly ignores the growing chemistry with Zach.

But as mishap after mishap delays her dreams, Beth begins to learn that neither Zach nor André are quite what they seem. Will it be too late to win the one man who shows her that Paris is not the only destination worth planning for?

Born in Canada, Robin has worked as a teacher in several countries and now lives just outside Brisbane. Writing has always been her passion and in recent years she has written several novels and short stories. She enjoys cross genre fiction, including romance, speculative fiction and history. Married with two children (three, if you include Rosie, the Pomeranian), Robin is happiest when she is lost in a good story, either reading or writing it.

With grateful thanks to Kate Cuthbert, who said 'yes' again! Thanks always to Rob, who has supported me in my writing in so many ways. Another big thank you goes to Ruth, who gave me such valuable feedback and encouraged me every step of the way. Also, many thanks to Richard, who gave me a Kobo, so I could read the wonderful books now published digitally. And finally, a nod to my own French connection, the Fequet family, pioneers of the Canadian north—they also had a feisty redhead or two among them!

To the 3Rs—Rob, Richard and Ruth—my little family, who are my biggest cheer squad!

About the Author

Acknowledgements

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Epilogue

Bestselling Titles by Escape Publishing…

I was going to Paris. That was a definite. But with $87.50 in my savings account, there was a tiny question mark over when. Optimism, however, was my middle name. I had visualised it and completed my dream board with pictures of
Le Tour Eiffel
, Champs Elysée and Toulouse Lautrec reproductions. I had a bottle of Chanel No. 5 perfume from last Christmas that I was still eking out. I was even taking French evening classes. Really, except for the fine print, I was there.

My French teacher.
Monsieur
André LeBlanc. Sigh. He was what I always thought of as a typical charming Frenchman. What he was doing in this small Queensland town, I couldn't imagine, unless it was to meet me. There you go, the law of attraction. I wished it, thought it and,
voilà
—André LeBlanc came to Clearwater Creek to teach French. Don't tell me the power of positive thinking doesn't work.

André had liquid brown eyes and long, silky dark brown hair that brushed his collar. He was slim, graceful and had a French accent to die for. Ninety per cent of our class was in love with him – except perhaps, Sister Augustine, and even for her the jury was out. Perhaps she too whispered ‘
Je t'aime
,' after her evening prayers and wasn't exactly thinking about Our Lord. I'm just saying. André LeBlanc was hot.

There was the slight problem that Andre hadn't yet realised the powerful attraction between us. Perhaps he was shy. After all, we had only had three French lessons. It would take time for him to acknowledge what was so obvious to me—we were meant for each other.

It was our fourth lesson and we were learning how to introduce and describe ourselves. ‘
Je m'appelle Mademoiselle
Elizabeth Jenkins,' I said to Mrs Ingham. I went on to describe my long auburn hair and green eyes.

‘
Très bien, Mademoiselle
Jenkins.' André beamed at me. I flatter myself that my accent was very good. I twinkled a modest smile back at him as Mrs Ingham began a complicated sentence that told him she had blue eyes and blonde hair (as if). But I was prepared to be kind. Perhaps she didn't know the term for mousey brown. We weren't all meant to be Francophiles.

At that point the door opened and a guy came in. ‘Is this Introductory French?'

André looked up. ‘Yes, it is.' Three short words in that hot French accent.

‘Sweet. I'm one of your students, Zach Mills.' He slid into the class with a confidence that bordered on arrogance. Tight jeans and a tighter black T-shirt. He flashed me a smile. Sporting a sixpack of abs, he was clearly a tradie and 100% Aussie. Forget it.

André frowned slightly. ‘The class has already commenced,
depuis
… since three weeks.'

‘No worries, mate. I cleared it with the office. I'm good to go.'

‘You may have to catch up…'André gave him a dubious look.

‘I'm sure some of the students here,' he looked at me meaningfully, ‘will be happy to help me.'

André gave a Gallic shrug and said, ‘Please join us,
Monsieur
Mills.'

He sat next to me. I ignored him and turned to look at André, who had moved back to the front of the class. We went through the months of the year and the seasons and then, sadly, class was over for another week.

I was about to ask André about homework, when Mr Abs said, ‘Well, Babe, what's your name?'

I gave him a frosty look. ‘Elizabeth Jenkins.'

He gave me a laconic smile, ‘Good to meet you, Liz. You want to grab a coffee or something? It seems I have a few things to catch up on—love some help.'

‘You'll manage. And it's Elizabeth.' I got up from my seat and moved away from him. Surprise was etched on his face. What? Didn't he think any female could turn him down, even for a cup of coffee?

André, putting his notes in his brown leather attaché case, looked up and smiled as I reached his desk. ‘Yes,
Mademoiselle
Jenkins?'

‘Beth,' I said. I had mentioned this before, but perhaps he forgot. ‘I was wondering if you had any homework.' It came out sounding breathy and shy.

‘You could have a look at the links I gave you for the net. There are a couple of conversation exercises there.'

‘Oh yes, of course, thanks for reminding me. I'll do that,' I gushed, sounding exactly like a thirteen-year-old with her first crush. Where was that confident chick who handled men as easily as a pizza chef tossing dough in the air and catching it with casual expertise?

As I tried to think of something else to say, he gave me a nod and disappeared out the door. With an inward sigh, I turned to leave. Obviously, he was too reserved to make the next move. It must be that teacher/student thing. I would have to think of something by next week. It was only a ten-week course and we were nearly halfway through. If only he had asked me for coffee instead of that new guy.

As if he read my thoughts, Zach Mills stood, arms folded and leaning against the wall. The mocking smile he shot my way told me he had heard my bumbling attempt to engage our French teacher in conversation.

Raising my chin, I swept out the door as if he didn't exist. But I couldn't avoid hearing his whispered comment as I passed him. ‘Way to go,
Beth
.'

How could you dislike a person in such a short period of time? I'd make sure I sat as far away from him as possible next week.

The parking lot behind the institute was nearly deserted by the time I reached my battered little Fiesta. I really needed a new car, but my job at the local IGA wouldn't quite cover that—not if I was planning to go to France in the near future. I turned the key to start the engine and it gave an arthritic cough. I wasn't worried. It often needed a bit of encouragement to get going. I tried it again. Splutter, splutter. Again and again. The battery light came on.

Fantastic. Great. Way to go. Why couldn't this happen in the driveway at home, or at least in daylight? Both Mum and Dad were away for a few weeks on holiday at the coast. I could call the RACQ, if I was still a member. But my membership had lapsed three months ago and I hadn't renewed it because … I was saving for France.

Frustrated, I rested my forehead on the steering wheel. Just as I was realising I would have to call a cab to get home and wait until morning to deal with this, I heard a tap on the windscreen. I jerked upright, hoping like crazy that I'd locked my car door.

Dark eyes peered through the glass. Zach. Of course, it would have to be him. My day was just getting better and better. I rolled the window down.

‘You okay?' he asked.

I wished I could tell him to get lost, but considering my situation, that wouldn't be very wise at the moment. ‘I think my battery's flat.' I tried to start the car again, praying it would start, but it gave a tiny burp like a baby and went silent.

‘Don't try it any more, you'll make it even worse,' he said, stating the obvious. I'm not totally stupid where cars are concerned, just broke.

He looked at me, hesitating for a moment and then said, ‘I've got some jump leads at home. I could go back and get them.'

I considered this. I didn't really want to accept help from this guy, who would no doubt use it to his advantage. I could tell ‘smug' and ‘arrogant' were his middle names. Even the way he was standing, hands on hips, probably secretly (or not so secretly) smirking at me after my having turned down his offer of coffee and now having to accept help from him. Calling a taxi would cost twenty dollars minimum, not to mention having to come back tomorrow and then pay for a new battery. I considered my bank account—low. I considered my pride—high.

‘No thanks. I'll be fine.'

‘Really? What are you going to do?'

As if that was any of his business. ‘I'll just make a few calls. Thanks for the offer,' I said. I could be polite.

He stood there looking down at me, dark brown hair just skimming his eyes and a look on his face that said he didn't quite believe me. Of course, with his muscles and tan, he was your typical alpha male who probably put cars together in his backyard, watched the footy and drank Fourex. Not that there was anything wrong with that, for some people. But I was more into cultured guys who listened to classical music, didn't mind watching ballet (or at the very least figure skating) and knew a thing or two about wine. Someone like … well, André. But André wasn't here at the moment and Zach was. And I wished he would stop staring at me like that and go away.

‘Please, don't let me keep you,' I said, hoping he would get the hint.

‘So, who are you going to call?' Jeez, he was persistent.

I've always found it hard to lie, even when I really, really wanted to, like now. ‘A friend,' I said vaguely. Well, a taxi driver could be a friend, couldn't he, especially if he picked you up when you were in an awkward situation.

‘Who?'

This guy was really starting to irritate me. ‘Listen, Zach, I'll be fine. Thanks for the offer of help, but I would prefer to deal with this on my own.' There, I couldn't be plainer than that.

‘I'm not going to leave you until I know you're all right. It's getting late and this isn't the safest area at night. So, go ahead and make your call and when I know someone is on the way, I'll leave.'

Did I say persistent? I should have added overbearing, chauvinistic and patronising. I so wished I could start my car and drive away leaving him standing open-mouthed. But there was no way that was going to happen, at least not tonight. He was standing there looking like he had no intention of moving.