Broken French: A widowed, billionaire, single dad romance Natasha Boyd (i read books .TXT) 📖

a financial journalist.” Okay, so that was the ex, ex-boyfriend’s job. A stockbroker who wrote opinion editorials. Who’d dumped me when he realized I was never going to talk about my stepfather.

“What is this, Finansh …?” she tried to pronounce with a frown.

“Financial journalist. I’m afraid you might think it’s quite boring.”

“What is the word boring?”

“Pénible,” Monsieur Pascale offered from the front seat, clueing me to the fact he was, indeed, paying attention. He was holding the phone to his ear as he flipped through some papers on his lap. But it clearly didn’t take his attention off what I was sharing with his daughter.

“Ahh,” said Dauphine, nodding gravely. “Continuez.”

I swallowed a smile. “He writes about the stock market for the newspaper. Do you know what the stock market is?”

Dauphine bristled. “Yes. Of course. Papa talks about that too and makes me so … boring.” Her eyes rolled slightly.

I chuckled and also heard a soft snort from the front seat.

“Bored,” I corrected with a smile. “You are bored, not boring.”

She scowled, and then seemed to get it, and let out a small giggle.

“But your English is very good,” I assured her.

“Papa says I am only allowed to watch TV and YouTube in English.” She gave a dramatic sigh. “So yes, it is quite good. Better than the girls at my school,” she added without a hint of arrogance.

I noted she didn’t refer to them as friends. “What do you like to watch?” I asked as the car went around what felt like the seventeenth roundabout. My empty stomach tipped nauseously, and I reached for the overhead handle.

“On TV I like Disney Channel.”

I searched the recesses of my mind. “Zack and Cody?” I chanced.

“Oui! I love them.” She looked at me with renewed interest.

“Why is he not your boyfriend anymore?”

Yikes. This girl. “Um—”

“Did you love him? Your boyfriend?”

“Dauphine,” her father snapped from the front.

I sucked my lips between my teeth to avoid laughing.

Dauphine folded her arms over her chest again but didn’t press me and we all lapsed into silence again. I caught her eyes, and making sure no one but her could see me, I mouthed, “No.”

She gasped in delight and then snickered. And we both looked away innocently.

Outside the window, the scenery became more enchanting with every moment. I’d never seen blue quite like the inky indigo of the bay in front of us, ringed with turquoise and sparkling in the sun. There were only a few boats anchored in the bay, but it was hard to imagine they were owned by individuals. They could double as an elite cruise ship enterprise. I hadn’t thought much about the vessel I would be staying on, beyond the fact I hated the isolation and claustrophobia of boats. Add to it the fear of falling overboard, or drifting in a large expanse of sea with no land in sight, and they just weren’t a vehicle I spent much precious mental bandwidth thinking about. But now my pulse began picking up its pace. I tried slow breathing exercises.

Fifteen minutes later, the Mercedes slowed to a roll over cobblestone streets and came out between a small row of clothing boutiques on one side and what looked like the Hermes flagship store to my right.

“What town is this?” I asked.

“St. Tropez,” Evan responded.

We glided slowly through throngs of holiday makers gawking at the yachts lined, stern-to, along the quay. They towered like hulking monoliths, glaringly white with gleaming metal and sparkling glass. It was an almost gross, but breathtaking, display of the mega wealthy trying to one up each other. If the port in St. Tropez was anything like the coveted berths in downtown Charleston, these spots alone would pay for the national debt of several small countries. Below almost every name was the word Valletta. I’d have to ask about that. To our right, cafes and restaurants had appropriated some of the street for their tables. Waiters in white shirts and aprons darted around holding trays aloft. I sucked in a joyous breath. I was here.

Dauphine was chattering away to Evan and her father in incomprehensible French. It seemed she was excited. We slowed to a stop in front of a gate arm, guarded by what I assumed was a policeman, complete with an AK-47 slung around his neck. I swallowed. The gate arm rose, and we surged forward down a long private quay with much larger boats than any we’d passed until we stopped next to a gangplank made of teak wood and steel.

I ducked my head to look out the window and gulped at the sight.

No one made a move to get out.

Evan made a quick phone call.

The boat wasn’t exactly like the others, rather it was a shining marine navy on the hull with several white layers stacked above. It wasn’t the biggest of the boats on the private quays, but my apartment in downtown Charleston could probably fit into the square footage of one level twice over. The name of the boat Sirena gleamed silver in the sun.

My view of the yacht partially disappeared behind the torso of a strongly-built man with a bald head and dressed in a white uniform consisting of a short sleeve button down and slacks. The Mr. Clean lookalike wore a name badge that read Paco. He had an earpiece in his ear similar to Evan’s and approached us down the gangplank, looking left and right. Then he spoke to his wrist and approached the passenger side. As he opened Monsieur Pascale’s door, Evan opened the driver’s side door, got out, and immediately opened mine.

I looked up at him.

“Just nip onto the boat, I’ll grab your things.” He looked past me. “Dauphine slip out this side too please. Hurry.”

My pulse rocketed at his all business manner, so different to the affable fellow who’d loaded my luggage.

I clambered out and then took Dauphine’s hand and helped her out. She let go, pushed past me, and ran up the gangway.

“Attention, Dauphine!” Monsieur Pascale cautioned after her.

She leaped