The Frenchman (Crime Royalty Romance Book 1) by Lesley Young Read Free Book Online Page B

back whatever it was she had clearly lost.
    “ Fleur, ma belle , please remember,” she said. “It is a—” she searched for the right word “—choice. I never knew I had a choice.”
    My chest was laden with pressure—it was the weight of love, love that I had for her. She’d opened up to me. Goosebumps tingled down my arms. I wanted to soothe her, whatever it was that had hurt her so badly. So I hugged her to me and inhaled her orange blossom scent.
    I should have asked what had happened to her, what she meant about choosing or not choosing good, but I was overwhelmed with raw, new, tender feelings. And I felt childish, sensing innately that some things should be kept private between mother and daughter . . . for that’s what we had become.
    • • •
    She’d left early the next morning before I was up—apparently there had been a murder in the port area—and it had now been two days since I’d seen her. She’d called quite a few times, reassuring me she was getting short naps in the station and apologizing for her absence.
    “Are you kidding?” I told her. “Solve the crime!”
    I was in awe. My mother was one of the good ones. She was like Beckett from the TV show Castle . Smart. Driven. Cool-headed. Virtuous. In Austin, I watched repeats of the show on weeknights with my mom, who loves the actor Nathan Fillion.
    Of course I wanted to impress Marie, badly, and the only way I knew how to do that was to be organized, helpful, funny, and kind. And kick some ass at my new job.
    Only . . .
    My first day, today, had been less than monumental. I flopped down on my bedspread after walking home alone in a funk. Sylvie had spent four hours explaining the books in frustrated French. It took me another two hours (they only work seven-hour days in France— awesome ) to begin to make sense of them on my own.
    I gathered Sylvie intended to have me manage the back end of the studio until Anne gave birth. Fabric orders. Deliveries. Making demi-tasses of Nespresso. I did get to observe as she took measurements of a middle-aged, elegant lady who stared me down like a hamburger wrapper crumpled on the floor.
    Anyway. It was going to work out fabulously. It was. I would make it work.
    More importantly, tonight was my date with Bastien. And I had successfully not thought about my Frenchman for, oh, let’s see, about five hours.
    Unfortunately, I was now boring a hole in the ceiling. I was alone in the apartment and needed to blow three hours before Bastien was picking me up.
    I had already blasted Jess’s ear off about the Frenchman and his bimbettes . I’m not sure why I didn’t tell her about Marie’s reaction and warning—maybe because Jess was less than impressed herself. After fifteen minutes of my speculative ranting, she called off the conversation. “He’s not worth it. Move on,” she ordered.
    But . . . she hadn’t been there. She didn’t know what it felt like to levitate under that man’s touch, to hear him gasp from appreciation, to lose your mind in mutually fueled lust—it made me weak just thinking about what he did to me.
    My finger hovered over the Google search button. I had typed Louis and Rugby Player Toulon into my notebook.
    And really, what had taken me so long?
    The minute I hit search, my heart racing, I regretted it. I was assaulted by page after page of content about my Frenchman. Photos. YouTube videos. Dozens of articles. My hands were clammy, my pulse erratic. My God, there were dozens of pages of links.
    He was famous.
    Maybe that’s how Marie knows him, I speculated. A famous, rich rugby player was living in the penthouse of her building. But why would she call him a scumbag? Was it his rich and famous lifestyle? Seemed kind of harsh, but I was learning that Marie could be rigid in her views.
    Messette. His last name was Messette.
    Of course I waded in. I started with the photos because everything else was in French. Images seared my vision. There were Facebook fan