The Frenchman (Crime Royalty Romance Book 1) (2 page)

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. Anxiety 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.

Another man across the table, whose stare I did not appreciate (too cunning), announced his name, way too quick to grasp, and stood up to reach over and clasp my hand. I said in French, “Nice to meet you.” I felt my Frenchman stiffen beside me—we were seated that close—and he uttered something in a deep voice, fast and sharp, as I shook the man’s hand. At first, I thought it was directed at the guy who had introduced himself, but no one answered.

I looked to the blond for interpretation. He shifted, clearly uncomfortable. After a moment, he said, his face a mask, “He wonders why you not speak
français
well.”

My stomach flipped. My Frenchman’s tone had not been friendly. In fact, I think I’d heard the word
terrible
just now.

So.

I recalled once hearing how the French could be rude. My pride reared its ugly head.

“
En Amérique
(in America) . . .” I said, trying to remember my friend Tammy’s coaching about my accent, “
tout le monde
(everyone) . . .
parle anglais
(speaks English).” I said this with a deliberate cheery tone, eyeing my Frenchman, who stared down his nose at me. I had no way of knowing if he’d understood what I’d said or my intended sarcasm. If anything, he appeared amused. “Anyway,” I smiled back at the blond, “I have time to learn. I’m here for a year, and I’m going to take a class down the street,” I added. Marie had told me about one near the police station.

My friendly companion introduced himself as Alain Dubon and told me he was thrilled to learn I wasn’t just a tourist. He helped revive a lighthearted mood after introducing those seated closest. I skidded along a groove with the group, trying to speak broken French, mostly English with those who were fluent, answering vague small-talk questions. I asked the group, “What are you?” I pointed to one’s black eye, and raised my fists in front of my face.

“
Ah non!
We play rugby!” exclaimed Alain.

“Oh, you mean football?”

“
Non, non
!” he admonished. “
Rugby
.”

“Oh,” I said. “I’m not familiar with that sport. I mean I’ve heard of it, but I’ve never seen a game.” Alain translated for the group.

My Frenchman made a
tsk tsk
sound with his teeth, and when I looked up, he was staring at me with a brand new expression. Curious.

Others were expressing outrage, and Alain insisted I would be invited to the next Toulon game. But all I could focus on was my Frenchman’s eyes on me. I was relieved when he finally returned to his conversation.

“You have not gone to the port yet?” Alain asked. “You must be careful. Some areas of Toulon port no safe . . .” I tried to pay attention but my eyes were drawn to the plate of fish that one of the chefs had placed before me.

It had not been skinned. Or deboned. Even the head was still on. This, I am embarrassed to admit, as a popular hobby food blogger (with aspirations to be a cookbook editor), was a first for me.

Starved, and never one to balk at a challenge, I poked at the top skin, cutting in, nodding politely as Alain talked my ear off about Toulon’s port. It was interesting, and I wanted to learn more about where I was going to live for the next year, but I do not multitask well. I managed to peel open a hole and gobbled down the most tasty twenty-five calories of fish I have ever eaten.

Alain was explaining the port’s history. Much of France’s imports and exports pass through Toulon, and had for thousands of years. In addition to being a large military harbor, he said that Toulon manufactures aeronautical equipment, maps, paper, tobacco, shoes, and electronic equipment.

Practically drooling, I remarked encouragingly at Alain and dug deeper into the carcass only to yank out a nest of bones.

Disappointed, I put my fork down and eyed the baguette on the table. The wine was sloshing around in my empty stomach.

A warmth spread through my arm. Realizing the source of it, my heart skipped.

My Frenchman had leaned into me. I glanced down and my breath hitched. He was deboning my fish with his knife and fork.

I thought he’d stopped paying attention to me.

The side of his face was less than a foot from mine, and my pulse was pattering like rain. I could smell him,
man
,
all man
, and some exotic spicy cologne.

I opened my mouth, maybe to protest, but the warmth of his shoulder pressing into mine now and again as he delicately peeled flesh away from bone shut me up. I examined him like a painting up close. He sported a scar over his left eye. Levers of muscle ran down his thick neck. Holy, work out much? I guessed he was a few years older than me, but it was hard to be sure given the athletic wear on his face. Maybe twenty-seven or twenty-eight?

“Louis knows fish,” said Alain, noticing, perhaps, my discomfiture.

So. His name was Louis, pronounced with no
s
.

“He eez from a famous
nautique
, er, nautical
famille
,” added Alain.

Louis stiffened and paused his carving at the word
famille
. He gave Alain a stare that would sink a cruise ship. Alain looked at me, oddly, and then away.

That’s when I peered deep into my Frenchman’s gem-stone eyes. They were hazel with rich green embroidery, vivid and full of passion. I tried to smile as my face flushed and my brain rattled. He had this expression, I’d seen it just earlier, when I imagined him taking me to the floor; intense, focused but vocal, like he was saying something silently.

He turned back to the job at hand, nearly done, and I noticed his watch. Wide-eyed, I confirmed it with another glance. Yup. He was wearing a Patek Philippe. Holy smokes! It had to be hundreds of thousands of dollars. (I knew this because I’m nuts about fashion.) Wow. These guys were for real, like NFL-status for real. Even so, only the super-rich buy those watches. I’m not intimidated by wealth, mind you, or overly impressed by it, either, like others might be. But being raised in a single-income home (my adoptive dad split when I was still a newborn), I was definitely curious. It was exotic, like seeing a panda in a zoo.

After he pushed the carcass to the corner of my plate, I murmured
merci
, and he stared at me again, with
that look
.

“
De rien
,” he said, his deep voice plucking at me like I was an instrument. He held my gaze, this time with a question, or so I imagined.

My eyebrows raised and, unable to control myself, I got that stupid grin on my face again. Yeah, super smooth. I pressed my hands out on my thighs.

He nodded and went back to conversing with his friends.

Uh, had I just agreed to something?

No. No, of course not, considering we didn’t actually exchange words.

I mean, he probably doesn’t speak English. Why else would he not bother to be friendly? I wished, ruefully, for a chance to impress him with the Fleur-flirt experience, and in my fantasy, allowed myself to deliver it in super elegant French.

At some point, shortly thereafter, my breathing steadied and I focused on Alain fully, tipsy on adrenaline and Beaujolais. I kept hoping Louis would interject, but he didn’t. Soon, the bill was paid—no one would let us chip in for our meal—and my heart sank.

I couldn’t help it. The evening was almost over. Louis was speaking some new language based on proximity and energy alone. And I wanted to hear more, but, it was clearly not going to happen.

As the tables were shoved aside, and groups rose and milled near the door, someone else grabbed our table and stacked it on another. Alain smiled at me and headed toward the washroom. Louis was shifting beside me.

I beat him to standing. Something in me just couldn’t let him walk away first. Then I didn’t know what to say. Anxiety pulsed in me. Rolling my eyes inward at myself, I dashed over to Jess, my mind a blur. Yes, yes, it was rude and immature and embarrassing, but I needed to check on her, or so I rationalized.

She was staring sexily up at one of the men she’d been seated beside. Yup. She’s more than good, I thought, relieved. I didn’t want our last night here together to be tragic and tearful. We could save that for the morning.

As I stepped back to let someone pass, my heel caught in a rubber door mat. My tipsy brain informed me,
You’re going down
, when a vice clasped around my arm and a hard, warm thigh steadied me. I peered around, and up, to thank whoever had come to my rescue.

Louis.

Staring down at me with those intensely expressive eyes.

He let go of my arm, but remained standing behind me close enough I could feel his body heat. There was lots of it.

Delighted that he was back by my side, yet confused, because he still hadn’t said anything, I watched him stare above me stonily, like a bodyguard, or, my heart began racing again, or like a man marking his territory. I balked, and flapped like a baby bird inside my heady brain. I mean he’d barely spoken two words to me.

“Fleurrr,” said Jess, with a slur. She’d stepped over to me and was sandwiched between two men. “I was thinking we could pop up to the apartment for a drink or two. I want to bring François”—I smiled because she pronounced the
s
—“and Philippe over, to see the view.”