Broken French: A widowed, billionaire, single dad romance by Natasha Boyd (books like beach read txt) 📕

did. “Apparently I’m still a tragic prince in mourning. And ready to crash and burn.”

“X—”

“They’re not wrong. Look around. This is my mansion. Have you looked in the garage lately? And wait, aren’t we about to leave on my yacht?”

“Well, they are wrong about the fast women. Any woman. That’s what I mean about taking a vacation.” He lowered his voice. “I mean take a vacation from being a dad just for a few days. Even a week. And, I don’t know, maybe go on a date?”

I barked out a laugh. “Jesus. As if it wasn’t bad enough from my mother. And just who the hell would you suppose I’d do that with? Any woman I’ve even had a business meeting with has ended up splashed in the papers. Who would want that? Oh wait, can’t you see I have women waiting in the wings?” I gestured around the large and empty manicured yard. “Far more than I can handle.”

At that moment, Gérard, my ancient, toothless gardener, who I seemed to have inherited with the property came over the rise. I guess he thought I was waving hello because he raised a hand in greeting.

Evan pressed his lips closed in what looked like a bid to bite back another laugh. One of pity, probably. “Your mother said she’s tried to introdu—”

“No.”

“There are services—”

“I don’t need a hooker,” I snapped.

“Not a hooker—”

“Nor an escort.”

“My French must really be rusty.” He switched to English. “I meant dating services, asshole. Discreet dating services for high net worth individuals.”

“Oh. So you’d like me to date someone who is specifically looking for a rich man?”

Evan let out a pained sigh. “Never mind.”

“Just drop it, okay?”

“It’s dropped.”

“Good.”

“Great.”

We sat in silence.

“Well,” Evan said eventually, “I guess I’ll just go. Boat has to leave the marina promptly at 5 a.m. on Tuesday if we’re going to keep the security protocols in place around your itinerary. You need to be on there by Monday night. Whether or not we have an au pair by then.”

“Yes, boss,” I said.

“Cute.”

I looked at my watch. “I have a call.”

The chair scraped as he pushed it back and stood. “Great chat.” He headed across the yard to talk to Gérard. I knew he personally spoke to everyone who worked on the estate and made sure they knew to look out for potential trespassers and tele-lenses in trees. He’d also be taking over as my driver, since I was giving most of the rest of the staff time off.

I poured another glass of sparkling water and took my laptop over to the shaded loggia where we had the outdoor living room. I went through my security protocols to open my laptop and found the email from The Tabitha MacKenzie Agency in Charleston, South Carolina and clicked the meeting link.

My own image came up on the screen. My dark hair needed a trim. My eyes and the circles under them showed the strain. Not even the exercise and sunshine could erase the fact I’d been working around the clock the last few weeks with my team in Sophia Antipolis to get our latest innovation packaged up for presentation to investors. And several times a week Dauphine still awoke with night terrors. Maybe Evan was right about taking a vacation. Not to go on a date—God knew, my libido had dipped to nothing—but simply to fucking sleep.

After a few seconds my image shrank to the corner and Tabitha Mackenzie’s friendly face filled the screen.

“Monsieur Pascale,” she greeted.

“Xavier, please,” I responded. “How are you?”

She grimaced. “Doing all right. I’m so sorry about the previous nanny. I’d never have referred you if I’d thought the agency would be unreliable. I got your email request, and I’ve tried …” She looked down and seemed to have misplaced something. “Hold on. I left your file in the other room.”

She moved away from the screen, leaving the view of an architecturally elegant, but minimally decorated, high-ceilinged living room. There was sound of a heavy door opening and latching closed. And then suddenly a red high-heeled shoe shot past the screen and hit the wall.

My eyes widened.

“Mother-fucker,” came a woman’s voice off-screen.

Another high heel sailed past. “Tabs?” the voice called. “You still home? Goddamn assholes,” the voice raged. There was a rustling and then, “Stupid, irritating, uncomfortable, anti-feminist contraption.” A bit of white lace catapulted into view and then landed on the chair back. “Ah. That’s better.”

A bra. My mouth dropped open.

Suddenly a figure followed the voice—curves encased in a tight pencil skirt and lush auburn hair spilling down her back.

My stomach bottomed out. And she was turning toward the screen as she re-buttoned her blouse.

Shit.

She had no idea she had an audience.

As if woken from a stupor, my hand shot out and slapped my laptop closed.

A beat of silence passed. Then another.

Breath burst through my lips in a harsh exhale, and I blinked. Belatedly, I realized my heart was pounding like I’d been reacting to an erotic movie.

I guess my libido wasn’t dead after all.

Holy shit.

I busted out a snort of laughter.

Who the hell was that? Whoever it was hadn’t realized I’d been witness to the whole thing.

She’d be mortified if she realized.

Tabitha Mackenzie would be embarrassed too. It wasn’t exactly the professional and discreet image the agency prided itself on.

Whoever that woman had been, she oozed unconscious and fiery sex-appeal. I reached for my glass of water. My mouth felt dry all of a sudden.

I’d give it a few minutes then reconnect and pretend I lost the connection as soon as Ms. Mackenzie left to go get her file.

Chapter Four

JOSIE

Tabitha snapped her laptop shut and whipped her headset off. “Damn. That was brutal. And he hurts to look at.”

“That hot, huh?”

“You have no idea. But a grumpy son of a gun.” She eyed me from across the room where I now sat in my comfiest sweatpants, a clay mask on my face, digging into a pint of Ben & Jerry’s Triple Caramel Chunk. “So, you want to tell me