Broken French: A widowed, billionaire, single dad romance, Natasha Boyd [e reader books .TXT] 📗

through her drawer to see if she’d left an old toothbrush. I found a new unopened one and threw that in the bag too. Going back to my room, I dug out my sketchbook and rolled up a few blank pages with two pencils and used one of my hair-ties to secure it and laid that in the bag too.

I could feel the weight of Xavier’s desperation and fear emanating through the entire boat. Taking the bag I’d packed for Dauphine, I headed up to the galley and threw in a bottled water and a granola bar. What if it wasn’t her uncle? What if his appearance was coincidence? What if some sick fucker had taken her? Not for ransom, but for terrible, unthinkable, unfathomable reasons. My stomach heaved, and my heart pounded. It had to be a thousand times worse for Xavier. And what about Madame Pascale, his mother? She’d lost Dauphine on her watch. God, this was agony. Outside the window was open ocean. I couldn’t tell how close we were to picking up the crew and refueling.

This second night in Corsica had been for me. If I hadn’t been here, Xavier would already be heading home. He might even be there already. My skin grew clammy with the thought. Was it my fault?

I slung the bag on my shoulder and left the galley to the sitting room, so I could see if we were almost back to Calvi. We were. This was taking too long. I went to Xavier’s room.

It was quiet and his door was open. Poking my head around the door, I scanned the stateroom, expecting to see him on the phone.

“Xavier?” I called softly.

There was no answer, but I heard a muffled sound. I entered and rounded the bed, rushing to Xavier’s aid.

He was hunched over, rocking, his head hitting the ground. He jerked when my hand touched his bare spine, sucking in a hitched breath.

“Shh,” I soothed, falling to my knees next to him, and rubbed his back, my own eyes filling with stinging tears. “Shhh. We are going to find her,” I whispered. “She’s all right. She’s going to be all right.”

He leaned sideways, his head finding my lap and his arms coming around my waist. He was shaking—a full body tremble. He was in shock, I realized, and probably also having a panic attack and some form of PTSD episode. I bit my lip as I gave in and cried with him, holding him as tight as I could.

I didn’t know how long we sat like that, but the phone he was clutching in his hand behind my back suddenly rang, loud and shrill.

Xavier jerked away from me.

I barely got a look at his face before he scrubbed it with his arm and got up.

“Oui,” he barked, stalking away. He was still in his swimsuit. “Bon. Immédiatement,” he said and hung up.

Getting up off the floor, I realized he needed some things too. I picked up the pink linen shirt on the bed. “You need to get dressed. Can I help you with anything?”

“Non,” he said. He turned toward me but walked straight by me to the bathroom. He closed the door.

I sank down to the end of the bed, holding his shirt. There was nothing worse than this feeling of impotence to help. I got my phone out of my shorts pocket and thought about texting or calling Madame. My fingers ran over the texture of Xavier’s shirt, and I brought it to my nose and inhaled the comforting scent of this man I loved—the father of the little girl I adored.

Then I started praying.

Please, God. Please let Dauphine be safe. Please touch the heart of the person who has her and ask them to return her to her father, safe and unhurt. He needs her. They only have each other. Losing her will kill him, she’s all he has left. Please, please. Please. Please.

I swiped the tears that had rolled down my cheeks.

The bathroom door snapped open and Xavier came out.

“You’re still here,” he said in a flat voice.

“Have you heard anything more?”

“No.”

I swallowed. “Is there anything I can do?” I asked helplessly.

He gave a bitter laugh as he buttoned his cuff and headed to his desk. Papers were all around it from his earlier frantic search for his phone. “You’ve done enough.”

“Wha-what do you mean?”

He blew out a breath as he leaned down and began gathering paper.

I stood and bent to help him.

“Leave it,” he barked.

I raised my hands. “S-sorry.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I shouldn’t have even been here.”

My fear exactly. Guilt tore through my stomach. All of our beautiful and sensual moments turned sordid and dirty. Like we were being punished for stealing these selfish moments of pleasure. “I-I’m sorry,” I said. And I was.

I wished I could rewind time and plan to stay with Dauphine and Madame Pascale until my flight.

I would have been with her. I would have been an extra set of eyes. Extra protection. She would be safe right now.

My hand settled on my belly, feeling the pain and guilt settle deep in my gut. Oh, Dauphine, I’m so sorry. I sniffed and wiped my eyes. “How soon can the boat make it back tonight?” I asked. How many more hours of agony will we endure waiting and unable to do anything to help find her?

“I’m having my helicopter pick me up from Calvi. The boat will follow.”

“Oh. That make sense.” Gesturing to the beach bag I’d packed, I stood. “You should take that. I packed some things for Dauphine for … when you find her. In case it’s late and you have to speak to the police or something. There’s a change of clothes and things.”

“Thank you,” he said and then looked down at his phone, scrolling, his brow furrowed.

The engine of the boat changed, and I knew we were approaching the port. He pulled out a small brown leather bag of his own and threw in some clothes,