(Crime Royalty Romance #1)
Publication date: December 2nd 2014
Genres: Adult, Romance
Synopsis:
Fleur Smithers rarely veers off the straight and (excruciatingly) narrow. So moving to the seaport town of Toulon to live with her newfound biological mother—an inspector with the French National Police—for one year is a pretty major detour.
Son of France’s crime royalty family and international rugby star, Louis Messette, is devoted to his sport, famille and nothing else. But the carefree American he meets one night changes everything. She sparks a desire in him like no other. Possession takes root. She will do as he commands.
Bit by bit Fleur slips into the Frenchman’s realm of wanton pleasure agreeing to his one condition: that she keep their affair secret. She serves up her heart without reservation in the hub of the glittering Côte d’Azur, and the along the soulful Seine in Paris, unaware of the danger she is in. For her new lover’s family business will pit her against her mother, the police woman sworn to bring down the Messettes. And by then, far more than Fleur’s heart will be on the line.
READER WARNING: This novel contains explicit sex.
Son of France’s crime royalty family and international rugby star, Louis Messette, is devoted to his sport, famille and nothing else. But the carefree American he meets one night changes everything. She sparks a desire in him like no other. Possession takes root. She will do as he commands.
Bit by bit Fleur slips into the Frenchman’s realm of wanton pleasure agreeing to his one condition: that she keep their affair secret. She serves up her heart without reservation in the hub of the glittering Côte d’Azur, and the along the soulful Seine in Paris, unaware of the danger she is in. For her new lover’s family business will pit her against her mother, the police woman sworn to bring down the Messettes. And by then, far more than Fleur’s heart will be on the line.
READER WARNING: This novel contains explicit sex.
#1
After a moment, when I steeled my
resolve, the door opened.
Not Louis.
A man with salt and pepper hair, a
nasty scar above his lip and astute eyes, scanned me. “Oui?” he asked rudely.
I hesitated, but then thought, I’m
all in.
“Je suis venue pour voir Louis.”
He scanned me much more carefully,
and his dark eyes stopped at the cash in my hand. After his eyebrows rose, ever
so slightly, his face relaxed and a side hitched up. He shrugged and opened the
door wider.
I stepped into another foyer,
encased in a marble, circular partition. With one last wave of jacked-up
energy, I barreled around the wall, quickly scanning the, holy massive, space, hesitating only to admire
the incredible view provided from floor-to-ceiling windows everywhere. Gorgeous
kitchen, too. I sucked in a waft of cooked chicken. God I missed meat. Pausing
to get my bearings—this was an extremely large suite—I followed the faint sound
of the television sports game. There was the living room. I spotted a giant
flat screen against a wall, blinds tugged down around it.
My heart was going a mile a minute,
my hands shaking. I couldn’t turn back now. I stepped down the two stairs,
powered across the empty dining room area, into the living
room space, aiming straight for the middle, where . . . my eyes
scanned quickly . . . there were others present, two, I think,
standing behind one sectional.
Ah-ha!
There sat Louis, legs wide apart,
on a giant leather sofa, a remote in one hand and an empty plate of chicken
bones beside him. He was in a pair of track pants and nothing else. To say he
was shocked, when he realized the girl standing in front of him was not a cute
American announcer suddenly on his TV screen, was an understatement.
“Fleur,” he exclaimed sitting
forward, absolutely no fat bunching at the waist.
“What the hell is this?!” I shouted
at him, waving the cash.
I watched red sprout in his cheeks
as he glanced around at the chilled room, and back on me. His eyes took in the
money, and my other hand on my hip. He stood up to his full, mighty height,
extra slow, his eyes steady on me.
But I wasn’t intimidated. Not in
the least. He was way out of line.
“You know what? In America, you
pay—” I shook the wad of cash at him “—after you’ve finished the transaction.” I threw the money
at him but it didn’t get very far. It kind of fluttered to the floor.
Holy cow. Did I really just
say that? That is not what I had meant to say. It just came out.
Waves of regret rippled through me
as he pulled his head back, and his lips bunched up, contemptuous. Disgust
spread on his face like ink.
And who could blame him? There I
was, standing in his living room, lamenting the fact he had not bopped me. Oh
sweet mercy.
#2
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.
#3
My chest hurt from a strange new
kind of anxiety, high-pitched, full of woe. Dread closed in on me. I’d never
felt so exposed standing before one human being before. And realization that he
could desecrate
me with a mere cold
shoulder sank in.
And maybe that was his point. But
why?
“Is that what you want? Do you want
me to go?” I whispered, trying to keep my voice steady.
I swear a universe of emotion flickered in his
eyes, but it presented itself so quickly, and was hidden from view, I wondered
if it existed at all.
I waited.
He shrugged. As if I was asking him
what color tie he wanted to wear.
I gasped. The floor opened up
beneath me, and, as I fell, I knew it then. He was the keeper—the keeper of our
connection. And he’d decided to punish me, without explanation, to prove a
point that he refused to explain.
I recalled thinking once that he
was a rotten man. What had happened to that idea? It was suddenly clear and
present again.
I rushed into my dress, zipping it
up on the way to the door. I stumbled because tragedy lay before me.
Was I going to leave?
My heart was up in my throat, and
tears ran down my cheeks.
Why was he so mean?
I didn’t understand!
I was steps from his door. Yes. I
was running home. To my mother. Like the child he clearly thought I was. The
lump in my throat ached, as with one last gasp of disbelief, I pulled on the
handle, desperate for him to stop me and desperate to get away, but
. . . the door wouldn’t budge.
I tugged again.
Oh.
His hand was above me, holding it
closed. The tattoo glared down at me. He’d moved—fast.
To stop me.
He didn’t want me to leave after
all.
I didn’t know whether to be
relieved or terrified or angry.
I felt, only, numb.
When he stepped into me, my body
moved of its own volition as close to the door as possible.
Seems he’d gotten what he was so
desperate to have. I was scared of him.
He buried his face in my hair, and
my chest burned. Tears of hurt streamed down my face. What had just happened?
My heart was pumping so fast it was going to burst and spray black everywhere,
and I didn’t even know why!
“Fleur,” he whispered.
No. I shook my head, but his body
had drawn close and followed mine as I tried to shift away against the door.
“Fleur,” he whispered.
I paused. We stood there, barely
touching, me trapped in a standstill of . . . hope. So much hope.
Pure hope. It was a field of azure bluebells on a Texas highway promising to
bud every spring without tending or mercy. I didn’t know what he wanted from
me, not by the way he had said my name, or in general, anymore, and I didn’t
care, not as long as he wanted me.
Slowly, gently, he pulled me into
him, and I let him.
I let him.
And . . . time began
again.
Purchase:
How to write a negative
book review
Romance novelist Lesley
Young suggests ways to deliver the bad news with compassion (even after you’ve
tossed the book across the room)
I think sometimes book bloggers forget that authors are readers,
too. We know what it’s like to go into a story and come out frustrated or just
plain appalled. The trouble is, your advice isn’t going to resonate with us if
it’s laced with a lot of negative emotion. And yes, I realize how the opposite
does not apply. I love reading reviews for The
Frenchman or Sky’s End where the
blogger is so excited she’s making typos.
Bottom line: if you are a book reviewer, it’s because you love to
read. And if you love to read, you probably want to support the industry. So
know this: authors live, learn and grow based on feedback (or they should). So
next time you’re exasperated by a novel, may I suggest applying the following
to make your post worthwhile.
*Don’t focus on how the
book made you feel, but why it made you feel that way. Here’s the difference:
A waiter serves you breakfast. You dig in, and . . . you are disappointed. When
your waiter returns to ask if everything is okay, do you say: These eggs taste
awful! I don’t why you would cook them like this!”? Or do you say, “These eggs
were not seasoned properly and served cold. Next time please try to season
them.”? If you pick the former, I’ve got news for you: no one likes a
complainer. You turn off your readers if a bad attitude shows through your
writing. So if you were upset at the ending, for example, explain why. In doing
so, you may realize the author had a reason for ending the book the way she
did. Or, you may not. Either way, you’re opinion will be better respected.
*Couch your comments in
ways to improve, instead of pouting.
When I shop for books on Amazon.com, I always read the 1-star and
2-star reviews. So I’ve read thousands of negative reviews, and the truth is
.00001% actual had any real impact on my buying decision. Why?
Imagine you are shopping for a women’s magazine and one cover
article is “15 Ways You’ll Never Lose Weight” and another cover article is “15
Ways You’re Guaranteed to Lose Weight!” Which one are you going to pick?
You don’t help readers get value from your reviews (or authors)
when you’re a Negative Nancy. So pick the top two or three things you don’t
like about a book and write a review that focuses on how you would have changed those things. E.g.: I wish the Alpha
hero had been less mysterious, kinder to the heroine and didn’t swear so much.
When you think through aspects of the book, you may just realize that you don’t
like Alpha heroes. In which case, I would say, stop reading those kinds of
books and don’t post the review.
*Do not not write a negative review.
Many book bloggers don’t even bother writing bad reviews because,
well, who wants to waste time reading a review of bad book? It’s not like the
movies—where you only get to choose among eight in the theatres on the weekend.
There are millions of books out there, so you probably want to boost your following
by showcasing only good reads.
But there is real value in reviewing less than stellar
books! I don’t know about you, but I
still like the odd Great Sex, No Plot book. Or, Hot Alpha, Wimpy Heroine book.
Or, Great Book if You Can Live With The Poor Grammar book. Where do I find
great reviews for those categories? I would go to a book blog with fun, fair
reviews of those categories—all the time.
I’ll wrap this up by stating the obvious—you only do yourself and
your book blog a disservice when you rush off a review. Take the time to you
compose your thoughts, and articulate them with compassion. It takes an author
over a year or more to write a book. And whether you liked it or not, you owe
them a thoughtful, kind commentary.
Please share your tips for writing negative reviews. You can read
all of my good (and a few poor bad reviews) for The Frenchman at Amazon.com http://amzn.com/B00QJGFZMM, and for Sky’s End at http://amzn.com/B00DXV8G9K.
And please stay in touch at Facebook.com/LesleyYoungBooks,
@LesleyYoungBks and LesleyYoungBooks.com.
Author Lesley Young makes the case for why Frenchmen
make for good romance novels reads
Obviously I am
totally biased here, since my novel The Frenchman is set in France and features a hot, Alpha hero from
Toulon (to up the ante I also made him a super fit rugby player and utterly
rude). Anyway, I took my job quite seriously and researched the heck out
culturally significant romantic facts. I mention a few here (the rest are based
on one bout of firsthand experience in my youth).
Zhe accent
Seriously, is
there a sexier accent, especially delivered in a soft, deep, hoarse murmur, at
least, prevalent in romance novels? Oh sure, the old Scottish brogue will give
you the odd pang, but it’s hardly as elegant, slick and let’s all agree —
exciting. If I had an Amazon.com gift card for every book I read with, “Aye, ya
wee lass...”
Fashion sense
Frenchman have
some. Should I leave it at that? I know us novelists tend to dress our North
American heroes quite snazzy, but readers know better. I like to think that’s
another reason why The Frenchman is so realistic—you think maybe you could meet a truly debonair man just like Louis Messette in
real life. . .
You’ll know when he’s into you
Little known
fact: Frenchmen don’t play games. They’ll call you the day after your first
date, eager to set up the next one. Date three he’ll call you his girlfriend.
Week two he might say he loves you! While my Frenchman, Louis Messette, didn’t
play it straight, when he made up his mind about my heroine Fleur Smithers, he
was ALL IN.
Attitude
He’ll look you
straight in the eye and always mean what he says, with emphasis. Yup, um. . .
what was I writing about? Oh yeah, I made sure Louis held true to this truism,
ack! (sorry, I got distracted there).
They invented the phrase je ne
sais quo
Yes, they are
so overwhelmed with adoration for you that they are unable to quite articulate
why. This doesn’t mean your Frenchman will be complimenting you all the time
(it does happen!) so much as openly admiring you—in all the ways that make your
heart race.
Tell me if I
delivered on these pluses in The Frenchman available Amazon.com http://amzn.com/B00QJGFZMM.
Thanks for the opportunity and please stay in touch at
Facebook.com/LesleyYoungBooks, @LesleyYoungBks and
LesleyYoungBooks.com.
AUTHOR BIO:
Lesley Young is a genre-defying author of unforgettable heroines who experience thrilling life- and love-altering journeys. Her debut novel was Sky's End; her most recent stand-alone series, Crime Royalty Romance, includes The Frenchman and The Australian. She loves to hear from readers.
Author links:
Author links:
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