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

He lay down the pillows and duvet and then climbed on, holding out an arm for me to slip under and rest my head on his shoulder.

The railing height hid our bodies, but above us the stars blazed. Our only witness.

“Is this better?” he asked.

I smiled, snuggling in next to him. “Yes.” The mooring lights cast a faint glow around us, and as my eyes adjusted I could see as well as if there was a small lamp on.

“We will wake up wet and covered in … what’s the word when everything is wet from the air in the morning? I forget it in English. In French it’s la rosée.”

“Dew?” I suggested.

“Yes, dew.”

“God, that sounds better in French. Everything does.” Especially whatever the hell it was that poured out of his mouth while he was making love to me.

He kissed the top of my head.

“Now, tell me why you are so famous to Cristo. And why does he call you Pasqualey?”

Xavier chuckled. It was a dark rumble under my cheek. “One line of my mother’s family is originally from Corsica. There was a famous hero named Pasquale Paoli who at various times tried to help keep Corsica independent, working with the Corsican resistance against the French in the 1700s. Cristo is convinced I’m descended from him somehow.”

“Are you?”

“I have no idea. But likely not. Pascale is my father’s name, and as far as I know he has nothing to do with Corsica.”

I frowned. “Something doesn’t add up about tonight. That’s a lovely story, but I’m not buying it.” I poked him between the ribs and he jerked with a hiss. “Oh em gee, are you … ticklish?” I laughed.

He grabbed my hand just as I was gearing up to really go for his ribs. “I would be careful if I were you.”

We gazed at each other a beat, my face turned up to his.

Then he kissed me on the nose. “I … maybe …. did something to help clean the area up of crime and corruption by helping the local municipality with donations and contributing to the election of a more upstanding councilman.” He paused. “Who also happens to be Cristo’s nephew.”

“Ahhh.”

“They are good, honest, hard-working people. They deserve to run their own city and not give in to the organized crime that is never too far away. It also has a lot of history, which can be easily lost to too much progress. And I mean of the greedy, commercial kind.”

I turned my face up to him in surprise. “Really? I would have thought a businessman like yourself would be into applauding business opportunities wherever he could find them.”

“You make me sound mercenary.”

“Aren’t you? I’d heard you were.”

He hummed. “Maybe only about things that fascinate me. Technology, innovation. Commercial building development is not one of them.”

I chuckled, warmth zinging through my veins. “That’s the sexiest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“How so?” I felt his gaze on me again, curious.

“That idea is kind of close to my heart living in Charleston, South Carolina. I struggle against the commercial developers all the time who want to come in to our city and make a quick buck with no regard for the history of what came before. I love that our city has progressed in so many ways. It’s considered a foodie capital now—fantastic restaurants, vibrant with students and a mix of old and new. Of course, there’s still lots of social progress to be made, and in my field it’s a fine balancing act between progress and preserving history and not only preserving the ‘right kind of history.’”

“Explain.”

“Well, there are parts of my city that have been underfunded for generations. Forgotten and ignored and systematically repressed. Of course, then crime flourishes. Now people want to come in and ‘clean it up,’ but that means moving people who’ve lived there for decades or longer. What needs to happen is those areas should get funding for parks and restoration and better schools and education, not moving people away, just so some developer can get rich.” I finished in a huff, not realizing how my blood pressure had spiked up. “We have a shameful history of owning slaves. But the descendants of those slaves have just as much right for their history to be saved as the white slave owner who built a mansion. Perhaps more so, in my opinion.”

“You’re passionate about this topic.”

I blew out a breath. “Yeah, I guess I am. And I’m not saying all development is evil. Capitalism can be good. I just … there needs to be balance.”

“And were you working toward that in your last job?”

I frowned. “No. I mean, I was trying. I got to work on some projects hand-in-hand with the various preservation societies. But my last project kind of broke my faith.” I told him about the hotel and the history of the land it was on and how the stupid nepotism and greed of my ex-boss and his nephew had thrown all my hard work and potentially that history out the window. “Not to mention,” I added with a grim edge, “that my boss implied he was only keeping me on because I was easy on the eyes. So what could I do but quit?”

Xavier hissed. “What is his name?” he growled the question, his body tense.

I glanced up at his troubled gaze. His eyes glittered darkly. “Are you going to avenge my honor?” I asked, amusement lacing my tone.

He grunted. “Maybe.”

I shifted, turning farther into him and walking my fingers across his taut belly. “Why such honor?”

His muscles tightened under my touch. “My father. I don’t want to be like him. I already feel like him in some moments when I look at you and my body rages to have you. It feels depraved. Like I’m possessed. And I wonder, was that what it was like for my father? Was that how it began? But then I know, it was about power with him. It was about getting away with it. It