The Frenchman (Crime Royalty Romance Book 1) (14 page)

Maybe they were his entourage? They ogled me for a moment, as I said
bonjour
, climbing out with the help of the shorter, bearded one. They weren’t smarmy about it; in fact, French men can be very respectful about their regard for women.

My three-inch heels were not a good idea on the long dock they were escorting me down. Was I meeting Louis on a yacht? So, nerves aflutter, I bent over to take them off.

“
Non, non
,” said the bearded guy, and looped my arm through his, taking me along very slowly, like I was precious cargo. I would have preferred to go barefoot. As we neared the yacht, I could see only lights from a few windows of the cabin area. Near the bow, men were lingering, smoking. I was shaky as I walked across the sloped plank, and it wasn’t from the cold wind coming off the sea.

Louis’s entourage joined me on the deck. I was struck by how much larger the entire boat seemed once you were on it. My escorts pointed in the direction of the lit cabin with encouraging nods. Just outside the doorway, looking down into the deep inset cabin, I spotted Louis sitting at an elaborate bar, sipping a highball.

He was poised, on the edge of a stool, in black dress pants, one long, thick leg stretched out, the other bent underneath the stool. The sleeves of his blue dress shirt were rolled up, which, I noted, might be a habit of his. He spun the whiskey around in his hand, watching the golden elixir reflect light. I wondered if he was trying to read his fortune in that glass, he stared so intently at it. I recalled the night we met, at the bistro, how he gave off animosity. But now I knew better: it was power.

He glanced up and watched me step down into the cabin. His silent magnitude left me breathless. He took in my dress quickly, eyes steady, and when he broke into a smile, my heart skipped a beat.

“You came,” he said in English, standing up, looking ginormous in the tiny room.

“
Bien sûr
,” I answered. Why would he think I wouldn’t?

He was already near. It was odd: his face was sketched with relief. He reached for my hand and pulled me to him, brushing his mouth close to mine with a mere greeting. He paused, hovering near, suddenly shifting his lower half up so close I could feel the heat coming off of him. He clamped his lips down on mine with two-ton force. I was crushed under all his intensity as he nudged my mouth open and tasted me. My heart was beating a mile a minute. I kissed him back, tasting the whiskey on his tongue, smelling his cologne and natural musk. We lingered a moment, before he pulled back and, clasping both my cheeks, planted two more soft kisses on my lips.

So romantic.

When he released me, inhaling deeply, I stared up at him, totally star-struck. I was floating on a wave of pleasure.

Oh wait. That part was the subtle motion of the boat. I looked out the window and noticed the rolling horizon. I clasped his arms, losing my center of gravity, and looked back up at him.

“You have never been on a boat,” he said, gruffly.

I nodded, and he shook his head. Disbelief replaced his heated stare. At once I went back to worrying about my lack of sophistication.

“First time for everything,” I said cheerily, blood instantly rushing to my face.

That’s it, Fleur, bring up your virginity.

When he’d picked up on the connection, what was left of his good-natured expression was gone. He was a stormy Monday.

“So, uh.” I stepped around him, feeling the need to get out from under his lightning, maybe find some shelter. “Are we eating here?” I noticed a small table set in the corner, for two.

“
Oui
.”

His eyes were on me as I made my way over to the bar, removing my wrap as I went.

“I hope you don’t mind I don’t take you somewhere popular.”

“No. I understand. You don’t want anyone to see us together.”

“No, that is not true,” he said, joining me at the bar.

A man stepped out from behind a door. He was very tiny, very old, and wouldn’t make eye contact with me or Louis.

“
Monsieur
?”

“
Champagne
,” ordered Louis.

It hit me hard then just how important Louis and his family were. And it wasn’t because he had an entourage or wait staff he could order around. I was standing on a fancy yacht within a huge, secured harbor, with a man who had to keep me secret to protect his privacy. I wasn’t thrilled anymore. I was deeply sympathetic.

“My car had to make sure we weren’t followed. I can’t believe you’re hounded by photographers. It must be awful for you and your family to have no privacy.”

He stared at me for a moment, his thick brows flickering slightly, disbelieving, before smoothing out.

What? What had I said?

He shifted against the bar and stared at me—no, gawked at me—while the old man poured our champagne. I began to wither under his scrutiny.

“Tell me something I have been guessing. Your mother, this police officer you mention, she did not raise you,
non
?”

“Why?” I asked, rather impressed that he had made this deduction.

“No daughter of police woman would be so . . .” He seemed to search for the right word while staring above my head.

I pursed my lips, knowing full well that it would remove what was left of my lip gloss. My temper flared. Just because I was amazed by the lifestyle perils of a celebrity athlete was no reason to mock me.

“What?” I asked sharply. “So naive?”

He laughed.

“I’m glad I amuse you.”

“You do, very much. You are so,
pardon
, fucking beautiful when you are angry. I like you that way the most.” My stomach somersaulted.

He passed me a glass of champagne, and my eyebrows slowly lowered. “Let us drink, then,
à la santé de
American pride,” he said, barely able to contain his grin, gently tapping my glass with his.

Knowing he was referring to the Fleur Freaks Out Over Euros Incident, which had brought us here, I smiled, too.

“To French rudeness,” I added.

The animation left his face. The room’s vibe turned electric. Once again, I got the feeling he wasn’t used to being talked to like that.

“
Touché
,” he said, quietly, using the word the way Americans do. (In French it means
score
.) He clinked my glass again.

We both drank.

“You’re right, actually,” I added, appreciating that he’d leaned back against the stool. He was eye level with me now. “I was raised by my adoptive mother, Lisa Smithers, in Austin, Texas.”

“She raised you alone?”

“Yes, but I didn’t mind.” I explained how it had all played out in the past few months, most certainly not mentioning what I had just learned of my father, the thief. I was still chewing on that.

“Do you miss your home?” he asked quietly.

I shrugged. “I miss my mom. And my friends. I miss some American conveniences. But I am loving spending time here, too.” To fill the silence, I added, “Austin is a fabulous city. Have you ever been?”

He shook his head. “It is the world capital of live music. And there are lots of inventive chefs. Some of the best Japanese fusion is being done at a restaurant called Uchiko. I bought the cookbook and have been experimenting with their recipes. I don’t know if I mentioned, but I want to be a cookbook editor, though right now I’m working in fashion, retail, at a place called Sylvie’s on rue Henri. Anyway, Austin is the capital of BBQ and other classic southern foods. Have you ever had Tex-Mex?” I asked.

He shook his head, and I had the distinct feeling he wasn’t listening any more than one might listen to a cute animal begging for food at the zoo. Oh no. I was blathering. I bit my lip, leaned from side to side, and sipped my champagne, glancing around at the stunning ebony and caramel marble counter. Wow, this place was something.

“What happened?” he exclaimed, since I had shut down the sea otter exhibit.

“Oh, well, I don’t want to bore you, talking about food.”

“
Pas du tout
! I love how excited you get when you talk about it. And it shows in your blog.”

“You’ve read it?”

“Some. My English is better to speak than to write or read.”

I glanced at him shyly. Why do I do that stupid grin thing around him? Why does this ridiculous happy sensation surge up in me when I’m around him?

“I love food as much as you,” he offered, “but I can’t eat what I want when I am in training. I am on a strict diet.”

“Oh, that is terrible.” I abhor diets.

“I don’t mind. I must run for eighty minutes and tackle. I only care about winning.”

The way he said winning caught my attention. His eyes roamed around my face, and landed on my mouth. I swallowed.

“I watched you play rugby on YouTube,” I blurted out, shyly, red-faced. “It seems like a very violent game.”

“That’s because it is not a
game
,” he grumbled.

Oh. His tone. A darkness washed over his face. My stomach lurched. What? What did I say now?

“We call them ‘matches’,” he offered, as if that would explain his sudden mood swing. Now he just seemed . . . resigned.

“Let us eat,” he added, putting on his charming mask and motioning to the small table nearby.

I headed over, not quite sure what to say.

Our food was served—all vegetarian. When I protested, he insisted it was better for his waistline, but I was secretly disappointed because lately I’d been hoping to find myself in a situation where I
had
to eat meat.

I observed the men out on the front of the boat, smoking in the dark.

“I forget they are here,” he said, nodding that way.

“We could invite your friends in?” I tried to sound sincere.

His mouth popped open, and he gaped at me with a look of horror on his face. What? What had I said now? Honestly. It was like I was in a foreign country or something. “Well isn’t entourage a French term, for Pete’s sake? How am I supposed to know who they are? I am just trying to be polite. I mean, it’s cold out there,” I shot out defensively.

“No,” he shook his head. He leaned back. “You are right. Why would you know who they are? They are protection. They are my family’s protection. And they stay outside.”

I had wondered if that was the case, but didn’t want to make any assumptions. “You mean like bodyguards?”

“
Oui
.” He’d closed up, lights out. Hardness reflected back at me. Any nicety I might have sent his way would have pinged right off that tough exterior. “So, why do you need bodyguards?”

“Wealth attracts criminals. We own much of the port. There is always risk.” He barked this out by way of explanation, and I floundered in the silence that stretched onwards. I mean, it made sense. I wondered if the Messettes were worried about ransoms or robberies? Robberies probably. I decided not to ask. Plus, the conversation had further cast a pall on what I had assumed his life might be like. It wasn’t nearly as carefree as I had thought.

We finished our salad, a scrumptious fennel, pomegranate, pine nut, and fresh ricotta cheese number, without saying a word to each other.

“There. That wasn’t so bad,” I said, smiling, as the dishes were taken away.

“What do mean? The salad?” He was still upset about something.

“No. My mother told me you could learn a lot about someone during moments of silence.” I stopped myself before I mentioned she worked for the media, lest he despise all media.

“Oh yes? And what did you learn about me?” he asked, leaning forward, dominating the small table and me, intrigued. Oh well, better than upset, I reckoned.

I swallowed. “Um, for starters, I noticed you are left-handed.” He was amused but not impressed. “You are also a total control freak.” His whole face pulled back in disbelief. I nodded at him. “You made sure every single forkful had the exact same amount of each ingredient on it. You also drank from your champagne after three mouthfuls, twice. Um, what else?” I did not like the way he was looking at me, like he might explode or pounce on me. “And you have this thing you do, with your jaw,” I touched my face, “when you are, um, maybe . . .”

“When I am um, maybe, what?” he practically growled.

“Well I’m going to take a wild stab in the dark here, but I’m going to say, exasperated?”

Given his flinty expression, I should have said
pissed off
. When he laughed suddenly, I flinched, before reveling in the sound of it.

“And now it is my turn to take a
wild stab in the dark
at this game.”

Oh. The relief was quickly replaced with apprehension. As far as I knew he wasn’t paying attention to me the whole time he ignored me. But, I had made that same mistake before.

“You also are left-handed.”

Right, so far.

“And you have
absolument
no control over your lust.”

I gasped.

“For food,” he added, smiling slyly. “You begin with slow, savoring tastes but then your eyes light up and you take bigger mouthfuls faster and faster because you can’t get enough. You are so greedy.” He stared me down. I was horrified he’d thought me gluttonous until I realized he may not have been referring to food. Had—

Had he been referring to putting something else in my mouth?

A pang of desire shot through me.

“And something else. Your magnificent chest”—he motioned to his own—“it heaves when you are turned on.”

The old man chose a perfect time to serve our entrées. I glanced down, cheeks aflame, and realized, yes, my chest was heaving. I closed my eyes momentarily, looked up, and met him dead on.

“
Touchée
,” I whispered. I wanted him to know I was turned on. Do or die was apparently my new M.O.

He tilted his head, half smiling.

Dinner went quickly, maybe because our minds were somewhere else. It was a lasagna thing with spinach. I would have eaten dog food. I stayed away from family and business questions, and desperate, asked about the match he’d just had in England. He explained how the year’s tournaments unfold, and I was surprised by how much travel was involved with rugby. I could tell he did not like leaving France so often, but was absolutely passionate about his sport.