The Frenchman (Crime Royalty Romance Book 1) (21 page)

“What does ‘semper fidelis’ mean?” I asked, remembering that was what Louis’s brothers had whispered to him when he’d said, “Everything will be fine, just remember:
semper fidelis
.” I’d forgotten to look it up online . . . and there it was, right there, on a plaque in my mom’s office.

“Um, ‘always loyal’ or ‘always faithful,’ I think. It is a common law enforcement theme.”

“Always loyal,” corrected Chloé.

We both gaped at her. She shrugged. “I was taught Latin in boarding school.”

“Hm,” I’d responded. Apparently wealthy shipping magnate families used the term, too. What had Georges meant by that then? That they were sticking by Louis in helping me out?

I melted, thinking how sweet and wonderful it was to have such a close and loving family. This was particularly heart-touching to me because I had always pined for a bunch of siblings who looked out for each other.

Okay, wait a minute.
Fleur!
I could hear Jess or my mom say.
Hello
? Now was a good time to lift off those rainbow glasses. How on earth did packing a gun and having a slew of bodyguards fit into this rosy picture I had been painting?

Well . . . I took a big gulp of wine and thought about the articles I had read about the family, how they were deeply involved with businesses in Toulon—all connected with the port. And I knew there was crime in the ports. That’s why Marie was always working so late. And Louis had said wealth attracts problems.

I frowned. The fluffy cloud I like to live on was shrinking, thinning, disappearing. I was going to have to find the right time to probe deeper (ahem) with Louis. Find out more about the troubles his family seemed to face. And I was going to have to tell him I didn’t want us to be a secret anymore.

“
Bonjour
,” said the man with the Filipino partner, interrupting my brooding. The couple had made their way over to me and Chloé. Or rather, his partner was chatting with the other three. He introduced himself as Michel Gatineau.

“Fleur LaSalle.” I left off the Smithers. It seemed to confuse people and demanded an explanation I wasn’t in the mood to provide, not with a perfect stranger. Perhaps the French reserve was rubbing off on me.

“If it is not too direct, may I ask you, do you enjoy to cook?” His French accent was heavy. He was absorbing me with his eyes but not in a lustful way. I thought he might be one of those rare kinds of people you meet who give you proper, sustained, unblinking eye contact.

“Certainly. Yes, but I prefer to write about food. I write a food blog,” I added, in French, focusing on my accent.

I thought I was improving, but he cringed. I saw it even as he tried to hide it. Smarting, we chatted some more about food, in English. He was a restaurateur, and mentioned that he was here to check out the chef.

The chef peeked over nervously. He was being tested. How stressful.

But this Michel Gatineau seemed more interested, for the moment, in chatting with me. He apologized for his English, but it was clearly better than my French. I found myself admiring a certain magnetism he put off. Leaning back, I laughed at one of his remarks. He asked me why I was in Toulon, and, suddenly feeling very open-hearted about the world, I explained how I had come to spend time with my biological mother, a police inspector.

His face literally lit up. “Ah! A police inspector!
C’est extraordinaire
! What is it like for her? There is much crime in Toulon,
non
?” It was a nice change to encounter someone who thought my mom’s job was cool. I told him how busy she was, and no, I conceded that I knew no details of any of her cases. “Oh wait, remember that murder that happened a few weeks ago? The Casolaro case, did you read about it in the newspaper? She busted the guy who did it,” I boasted.

“
Santé
, to one of the good guys,” he said, clinking my glass in cheers. We drank and he said, “There are not many truly good people in the world.”

His somberness grabbed my attention. “What do you mean?” The chef had asked us to be seated again.

“It is hard to measure goodness,
non
,” he said, “since it is can only be weighed against bad.”

Hm. “That is probably very true,” I agreed.

He watched me for a second longer, and winked, like he knew something I didn’t.

“
D’accord
!” he exclaimed suddenly, turning to his beautiful companion. “
Allons cuisiner, ma petite palourde
.” He took her arm and they went back to their seats. I was lost in a brand new world of gourm-ecstasy for the rest of the affair.

I’d barely managed to contain my malnourished inner carnivore at the event—I’d sampled rather than gorged, as I didn’t want to be bloated for Louis. But it had been extremely difficult to show restraint when we were served dish after dish.

I told Chloé this as she dropped me out front of my apartment building. The saliva was still pooling in my mouth just thinking about how the beef (which had been tenderized via
sous vide
earlier in the day) felt between my teeth. “I am sorry if I ruined you.”

“No, no, thank you. Honestly, it was a life-changer and I got lots of material for my blog, though I may lose all of my followers.”

“I will follow,” she said, shyly. I smiled.

I suggested we meet for a drink in the week, so I could thank her, and she agreed. I hurried into the lobby, planning to scoot to my place to freshen up quickly before heading up to Louis’s. Marie was not supposed to return home from work tonight (I’d checked on her plans earlier), so, alone in the apartment, I touched up my makeup, and decided not to change. I was wearing a simple deep-red dress with a V-neck and three-quarter length sleeves.

I closed my bedroom door, left my purse on the counter, taking only my keys, and then . . . changed my mind. I took my purse with me. I couldn’t chance Marie checking in on me and calling in the entire squad at my apparent kidnapping. I would text her that I’d gone out dancing with Chloé.

I locked the apartment door, heard the elevator doors open and turned around to see Marie walking down the hall—her eyebrows raised. Shit.

“Fleur!” she said, taking in my outfit, confusion slowly appearing on her face. We met up halfway.

“But where are you going? I thought you would be arriving home from your dinner? How was it?”

“It was great.” My stomach was swaying side to side.

“Good,” she said, her smile slipping.

Damn.

“Uh, Chloé wanted to hit a club.” Marie frowned. “Only, I needed to pop back for a . . .” I looked at her, my cheeks red from guilt.

“Oh!” she exclaimed. “
Je comprends
,” she patted my hand.

She’d thought I was embarrassed to say I got my period.

A moment of delight that I’d gotten away with my lie startled me. Enough was enough. I couldn’t lie anymore. “Actually, I’ve been meaning to tell you, I met someone.”

Her eyebrows raised, and a small smile formed on her lips.

“
Oui
?”

“So, uh, remember Jess’s last night here in Toulon, the bistro where we ate dinner?”

“
Oui
.”

My heart was racing. I recalled how she’d called Louis a scumbag outside the elevator. Right about here, actually.

“Well I met a guy that night.”

“So, this is why you act so different!”

Had I been acting different? God she was observant.

“Well, who is he?”

“A rugby player, and the only reason I didn’t tell you before now is because he asked me to keep it private. He is famous and doesn’t want exposure.”

Her body had stiffened as I spoke, and I could see her wheels spinning. No way was she going to be happy about this news. I just knew it. Marie was no longer a mystery to me: she cared about very few things, but the things that mattered to her were life and death. She could be extremely dramatic. Did I really want to deal with this now, tonight, here in the hallway?

I cleared my throat. “His name is . . . Alain Dubon,” I blurted out quickly, remembering the blond I sat beside the first night I was here.

No!

“Chloé and I are meeting him and his friend, at Noir.”

Double no! I had just lied twice. What was wrong with me?

Marie was still for a moment or two, and exclaimed, as though someone had breathed life back into her, “Oh,
ma belle
! I am happy for you! It is serious,
non
? I can tell.” She hugged me to her. (Shit, she could read me well.)

Now what in the hell would I do if, no, when, the time came to finally introduce the two of them? Jesus. I’d dug myself into a deep hole. I was shame blotted with self-contempt smeared with disgust.

Should have said “Louis Messette.” So simple.
Say it!

“Oh well I won’t keep you. Bring him by, please.” My stomach plummeted. Oh dear Lord. That was not a request.

“He is going to Paris tomorrow. Final Aviva match,” I blurted.

She cupped my face. “When he returns, then. Have fun, Fleur. I won’t wait up for you. I am sleeping for a long while and will pray I am not called tonight.”

“Thanks. Yes, I will pray for you, too,” I added, slinking down the hall and stepping onto the same elevator she had just arrived on.

Why had I lied like that? I pressed the lobby button, lest she watch which floor I was headed to. (As if—
she
didn’t think I was a liar; she thought I was an angel.) I soaked in remorse all the way down and all the way back up. Yes, I was a coward. Because the truth is, Marie’s special brand of vehemence, from what I’d seen of it, intimidated me. And, mostly, I didn’t want to disappoint her.

I tried to push aside the negative—so what, I’d lied about his name; at least she had partial truth now. Yes, dammit, that was something. She knew he was a rugby player. There were dozens of them at the bistro that night. I remember how she’d rushed out. Thank God she had not picked up on anything when we were all stuffed into the elevator together weeks ago.

I also felt liar’s relief that I had not left my purse on the counter. Then I would have had to say I was going upstairs—
which is what you should have done!
I reprimanded myself.

Guilt, more of it, surged in me.

Oh, what was her problem anyway?
I brooded. She didn’t know Louis. I would simply have to explain to her what a fantastic man he was. I was filled with adoration for him. She
would
see everything I saw in him if she gave him a chance: his discipline and fortitude, his elegance and philanthropy. Sure, he could come across as haughty if you didn’t know him, but that was just his confidence, and weren’t all Frenchmen like that?

I stepped into the penthouse vestibule. It was midnight, and I worried that it was too late.

Pierre opened the door right after I tapped. He was the one I had formerly referred to as being long-faced. The short, stocky, bearded one was Domingo. Louis had introduced us before I left last night. Pierre nodded to me, opened the door and said, “In the bedroom,” in surprisingly good English.

“
Merci
,” I murmured, trying to pretend their opinion of me didn’t matter.

I knocked quietly on the bedroom door, and, since it was ajar, it glided open. I stepped all the way in quietly, taking in Louis’s restful form. He was asleep, by the looks of it. Magazine were scattered about the bed, and I read the titles as I drew closer.

All sports-related. His notebook was in sleep mode.

I quietly moved everything to the dresser, thinking he would wake up, but he slept like a rock.

I debated leaving. He was wearing only a pair of boxers, and had fallen asleep with one hand up near his face. He was more vulnerable than I had ever seen him, and maybe that’s why the truly wicked idea popped into my head.

I searched the room and found exactly what I needed by one of his bags. An exercise elastic. It was meant to be.

Once I’d made up my mind, adrenaline and excitement mixed in my gut, sloshing around the dinner I’d had. Could I pull this off? I picked up the elastic and moved to the edge of the bed. Only one way to find out. I was near tremulous with the idea, knowing I probably didn’t have much time if he woke up before I managed to tie his hands to the posts of the headboard.

I took off my dress quietly, leaving on my matching red bra and thong. Oh my God—I was full of naughty anticipation. He shifted just then, bringing his other hand up over his head. He’d just made it easier.

I made my move, quickly looping the elastic over one wrist, leaning over, doing the other, my heart racing a mile a minute—he was rousing—and leaned right over him to tie the remaining ends securely to the headboard. My hair had fallen into his face, and I’d squished my boobs into him, but there—I admired my handiwork. His hands were now securely tied to the headboard. Still, he’d barely murmured.

Wow. He was one heavy sleeper.

I straddled him roughly, and leaning over, kissed him softly. Still nothing. I licked my lips, and nibbled on his bottom lip, planting little kisses along his cheek, trailing down his neck. I whispered in his ear, “Louis.” I was caught up in my own excitement and rubbed my pussy down on his—
oh!
—semi-hard cock.

The beast was awake before him. I ground down again, and that got a rouse out of Louis. He shifted, and tugged at his arms, half-asleep.

One second.

Another second.

His eyes popped open.

I stared down at him from my perch, feeling mighty smug.

How does it feel to have no control
, I wanted to goad him.

“Fleur,” he grit out, squeezing his eyes before opening them wide. He did not look happy to see me, though I caught a flash of lust as he viewed my boobs spilling out of my bra. His giant biceps tugged again, and this time he tried to lean up, to no avail. Frustrated, he arched his back to see what was restraining him.

I giggled.

He growled.

“Remove this,” he ordered, his hands forming into tight fists.

I leaned over and kissed his mouth, grabbing his face with both hands to hold him in one spot.

“Mm,” I purred, rubbing my snatch on his fast-growing erection.