Read The Frenchman (Crime Royalty Romance Book 1) for Free Online

answers, nailing a few in French, and then pick out the perfect outfit. Nice and orderly.
    Crawling under the naked duvet (I’d put Jess’s tryst sheets in the wash), I felt pretty content. There I was, seizing the day. Taking hold of opportunities, creating routine, and making things happen.
    I caught myself frowning and pushed aside the worrisome dark edges I’d sketched around the larger-than-life Louis my mind insisted on drawing. Instead, I focused on the fascinating parts of last night—namely, the intensely erotic moments.
    After all, there was part of me that was deeply unsatisfied. I’d been too numb from shock after Louis fled to resolve the aching gnaw. And while I had doubts about the real Frenchman ever finishing the job, you better believe his imaginary—princely, debonair, hungry —stand-in did.
    • • •
    “ Sac à main . Um, pantalon . VESTE !” I shouted the last one. Sylvie Allard leaned back in her seat.
    The tiny, exotic-looking, brunette designer and boutique owner was clearly not impressed. She’d asked me to say a few French clothing nouns.
    “I can learn!” I said in butchered French. “I’m starting a class,” I added in English. I was going to go there and sign up first thing tomorrow.
    I told myself to shut up. Nothing like coming off whiny and defensive in a job interview. I’d hoped my resume, I’d worked at two local designers’ stores in Austin since grade ten, would help.
    Sylvie’s small brown eyes scanned my outfit—snug gray pants and a pale gray blouse with a unique blue cut-out pattern. I figured she was trying to source the designers. They were all indie. At least she would know I had good taste. 
    God help me but I was burning with American determination. The minute I walked into Sylvie’s warehouse studio, carved out of an ancient building that looked like it had seen one too many citizen revolts, I knew it was meant to be—me, working here.
    Marie had told me she got me an interview at a clothing store. Nuh-uh. This was a studio. Sylvie had three seamstress working full-time in the back, plus a fabric designer (I mean, she designs her own fabric!). I also loved the fact her showroom was quite small. It lent to the high-end appeal.
    Sylvie looked at my resume. There was nothing left to say. We’d covered everything.
    “ Pardon, mais ,” she searched for the right words, “I am not ’appy to ’ire non-French girl.”
    Oh no. I grasped at straws. “ Mais je  . . .” I struggled. What was “will learn” again? My eyes darted around frantically; surely the words were in me somewhere.
    She murmured something else about my mother in French, and I felt it: all was lost. Marie had clearly pulled in a big favor getting me this interview, and that was all it was destined to be. Sylvie sighed. I heard the ding of the bell as the shop door opened and closed.
    An effusive French greeting. Marie was here. I would recognize her voice anywhere now.
    Sylvie cleared her throat and glanced, wincing, at the office door, which was open. I didn’t want to put her in a further awkward situation.
    Smiling graciously, I stood up, reached out to shake her hand, and said, “ Votre magasin est  . . .” shoot, I scrambled for the word to compliment her store, and then I remembered the name of the place I was taking my dress to be fixed, “ quelque chose de spécial ,” I finished, meaning it. It was something special.
    Her eyes narrowed and I worried I had chosen the wrong word.
    Her animated face flattened out. She scoped the door behind me, and wearing a frown, said, “You will learn from Anne before ze baby arrives, non ?”
    She was giving me the job? “ Oui! ” I said quickly, clasping my hand near my throat.
    “You no speak to customers. Work on these. Vendredi, à onze heures ,” she pointed to her books. I nodded, happy, but slightly unsettled that she wanted me doing paperwork on my first day. My strength was sales. Well, I would show her on Friday at