Chapter One

Étienne Gagnon knew the moment he woke to the pale, morning sun breaking through the trees that his stepsister had matured during his six months on deployment with special forces in Syria.

The rich smell of sausage filled his nostrils and seemed to lift him out of bed. American pop music drifted through the crack between the door and the floor. He laughed. She loved to sing to it as well, and it appeared she’d been studying English as her accent had lessened. He should have her give him lessons. What English he learned in secondary school had taken a back seat to Spanish, Arabic, and Pashtun, languages much more useful in the port city of Toulon with its rich mixture of cultures.

He shook off the last dregs of sleep and quickly brushed his teeth in the bath attached to his room. He tried to set his hair to rights, but the shaggy length made the effort hopeless. Eh, he thought. It’s only Brigitte. She won’t care if I have messy hair.

He looked at his well-worn desert fatigues that had served as his pajamas when he arrived late last night straight from the base. He should probably tell his stepsister what he really did for a living. She’d get a shock to learn of the lies he’d told to all of his family. They’d thought his days of danger were over many years ago. He hated the deception, and today seemed like a good time to reveal the truth. Perhaps it would push him to hang up the combat boots for good.

With no more delays, he strode out the door and smiled at her dancing as she cooked in the small kitchen. Her back was to him. Her long black ponytail swung back and forth, opposite her hips. She’d lost some weight, too. Her bare legs had more tone than he remembered from last summer when she’d joined him at the gym. She was singing with such volume she didn’t hear him.

He took advantage of her distraction and grabbed her around the waist as he announced in French, “Surprise! I’m home!”

She snapped her head back, whacking the back of her head into his nose. Sharp pain made him grab his face, letting go of her. Her well-placed elbow cracked against his rib cage. An oof escaped his lips as he absorbed the blow. He backed away just in time to avoid a round kick to his knee. He let go of his side and put both hands in front of his chest in self-defense mode. She’d not land any more hits. “Brigitte! Why? It’s me! Stop this!”

This wasn’t his stepsister. This woman resembled her greatly, except she had larger breasts, better legs, and excellent self-defense tactics. She yelled in English. What she said was a mystery, but her face and body language told him everything he needed to know. She was fully prepared to kick his ass.

He softened his voice as he told her he wasn’t a threat. “I live here. This is my house.”

She must have recognized a word, because she said in terrible French, “Your house. No. House of Brigitte.”

He smiled at her simple French, but he wiped it off as soon as he could. This wasn’t the time to laugh at her. He didn’t know why she was here, but she believed she should be here and that he shouldn’t.

“Oui.” He spoke as slowly as he could in his native language as the adrenaline running through him had obliterated all English words from his reach. “Brigitte lives here. I live here also.” He pointed at the walls and the floor as well as the furniture.

Hell, it was all his. Not a bit of the furniture belonged to Brigitte. She’d taken over the room of a reassigned sailor, including the man’s bed. He hoped the woman breathing heavily before him understood that he lived here, too. He kept repeating it. “I live here, too.”

She said something else in English. Her eyes narrowed. Had he heard the word you? What was she trying to say? He cursed his lack of English. If only she spoke one of the other four languages he knew.

“Who is you?”

It was terrible grammar, but he knew now what she was asking. “I am Étienne Gagnon. I am a soldier. This is my house. My apartment. Brigitte is my sister.”

“Sister? You are brother?” Her eyes narrowed again, and she moved her head to clear her bangs from her eyes.

Again, terrible grammar, but he understood her French. A word in English came to him. “Yes.” Then another. “Brother.”

“Call Brigitte.” She grabbed something from the counter and held it up. A phone. She tossed it at him.

He caught it, and he realized he understood what she said from that catchy song Brigitte was always playing. It was years old, but she loved it anyway, always pantomiming calling a person as she sang it around the apartment. He tapped in his sister’s number, wondering where in the hell she was and why this woman, who was becoming less and less similar as he studied her, was cooking breakfast in his house.

The sound of trumpets and a large crowd blasted into his ear before he heard his sister say, “Genevieve! How are you? How was your first week? I am very happy in your city. Very magnificent!”

“This isn’t Genevieve, Brigitte.” This American had a very French name. St. Genevieve was the patron saint of Paris. He shook that random thought away.

A squeal preceded his name. “Étienne! You’re back? Oh, shit! You have returned. Did you scare her? Be good to Genevieve. She is allowing me to live in her apartment in New Orleans.”

“She assaulted me.” He kept his eyes on Genevieve who returned his stare.

“You are a big man. She is small. You will be fine.”

He shook his head although his sister could not see him. “Explain to her who I am, or she’ll beat me up again.”

“Give the phone back to her. Did you wrest it from her? Is she well? You are such an ogre.”

“I did nothing to hurt her. I simply thought she was you. There is very little difference from the rear.”

“But our fronts are very different. I do not have her breasts, and she has muscles. She exercises more than I would ever. You should see her arms. The Americans call them guns. She has some guns.”

He knew exactly what his sister meant about Genevieve’s arms as he’d felt the force of those muscles, and he could see how tense and lean they were as she stood across from him in a T-shirt and shorts. “I did not approach her from the front.”

“My God. Give the phone to her. I will explain.”

He offered the phone to Genevieve as he inched forward, one arm lowered to defend a kick if she were to deliver one. He didn’t feel right, letting down his guard just yet.

Worried that he might grab her again, Genevieve Hoffman moved to the side with her arms held in front of her. This man, this Étienne, might be big and handsome, but he was also an unknown and not to be trusted. She grabbed the phone, and as she backed to the counter, lifted it to her ear. “Brigitte?”

“Genevieve, my apologies. I did not know my brother would return home from service. He is in foreign aid. He comes and goes and never tells me when he returns. I thought he would be gone the entire time.”

“Describe him.” Genevieve’s adrenaline rushed through her veins, making her voice shake. Since she’d relaxed her battle stance, her legs shook. She breathed deeply to stave off more tremors.

“He’s tall with what you call a slight build. He is strong, but I suppose you have not experienced that.”

“I did. He picked me up.” Easily, she recalled. His arms had encircled her, squeezing. If she’d not been scared to death, she might have enjoyed the hug. His arms had been warm and wrapped all the way around her.

“What did you do? Did you hurt him?”

“Not permanently. He might have a bruise.” And possibly a sore nose. Not once in New Orleans had she ever had to use her self-defense tactics. Using them in the south of France? In Provence? She shook her head in disbelief. “Any guy can be tall and strong. What else?”

“Ah, short brown hair, and he is very tan, not pale like me. I should not say this, with him being my stepbrother, but he has a deep voice. Very sexy, especially when he speaks Arabic.”

“Arabic?” Her voice rose in surprise.

“He’s an interpreter for his aid group.”

“Interpreter? He looks more like a soldier.” The man before her had the well-worn look of someone who’d been in combat. She’d seen her father look like this after coming home from his deployments.

“No. No.” Brigitte drew in a deep breath. “But the man I talked to is Étienne. Ask him where our parents met.”

“He doesn’t speak English, and you know how bad my French is.” For the thousandth time since landing in France a week ago, Genevieve cursed her inability to speak the language. She routinely struggled to order the right amount at the market, and the clerk at the fabric and sewing store had lifted her nose in disgust at Genevieve’s pitiful stab at describing what she’d wanted.

“Why did you say yes to my offer when you knew you’d need to speak French? You should have found an Irish girl to switch places with you.”

“Yes, I probably should have, but I’m here.” She eyed Étienne with a calmer eye. He didn’t seem like an intruder, and he’d spoken easily to Brigitte.

“I am an idiot. I have a photo. Let me send it.”

In a few seconds, Genevieve’s phone dinged with a message. She opened it, and before her eyes a bronze god posed on the sandy beach near the house. Her heart beat a different rhythm with one glance at his toned abs and legs. Even thinking about touching him made her mouth water. Truly, this was what she’d always envisioned the god Apollo would look like. The man in the photo stood in front of her but disappointingly clothed. He was Étienne. “It’s him.”

“Do you want me to come back? I can. I will hate leaving, but I can come home.”

“No. Stay. We will do a whole month like we agreed.” It unsettled her that she’d no longer be alone, but something about the situation appealed to her. He didn’t speak English, and she didn’t speak French. It would be almost as good as being alone. “Go party.”

“You are wonderful. Teach my brother English while you are there. He is very good at languages.”

The way the two had met, Genevieve doubted Étienne would want to learn anything from her. “Bye, Brigitte.”

“Bye.”

She set the phone down and stared at the man before her, dressed in desert fatigues. If he couldn’t understand her, what could she say? What was the word for sorry? How could she tell the man she didn’t mean to hurt him? Already she could see the burgeoning bruise beneath his eyes. The back of her head must have packed quite a wallop across his nose. Somehow she had to apologize to her new, unexpected roommate. She didn’t even know the word for sit or breakfast.

Then like a flash, she knew he’d understand one phrase. “Café au lait?” She reached for a mug.

His eyes narrowed, but he said, “Yes,” in a deep, sexy French voice.

She motioned to a chair, but he shook his head. She steamed the milk as the espresso dripped into the mug. When she combined the two, she handed it to him silently. She tried to smile, but her nerves were still too raw.

He spoke one of the few words in French she knew well. “Thank you.” He sipped a few times and seemed to nod his approval.

She again motioned to a chair. She’d feed him as a peace offering. The sausage was done, probably a bit browner than usual, and she could make some eggs for him easily. They could ease the tension of the morning through breakfast. She grabbed a plate from the open shelving and placed some sausage on it. She heated up a separate pan, broke some eggs into it, and let them cook. From the small pantry, she grabbed the croissants she’d bought yesterday morning and placed them beside the sausage. As the eggs browned on the edges with the golden yolks bubbling, she tried to ask him to eat.

“Ah,” and the rest of his words were gibberish to her, except they were pretty gibberish, spoken in his deep, sexy voice. Instead of sitting, he opened the utensil drawer, pulled out two forks and knives, and set them on the table. He added napkins. When he sidled near her, he pointed to the plate and added one more.

She understood three of the four words. “One for you,” he’d said, or something like it.

“Yes.” She wished she could add, “I will eat with you and be calm and not whack you with my head or my elbow,” but her vocabulary was limited.

He added two sausages to her plate and a croissant. The heat of his body reached her as well as a hint of musk, thick and manly. When he said something else to her, she jumped. He stepped to the side, far from her.

He showed her the palms of his hands and spoke softly.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to jump. I’m all hyped up. I’m good. Fine. Really.” She slid an egg onto his plate and then hers. She offered it to him.

With a nod, he took it and waited by his chair until she sat. He lowered into his chair slowly, never taking his eyes from hers. They were beautiful, his eyes. Intensity burned in them. He had something hidden, mysterious, and she wanted to know what it could be. A laugh bubbled up. She’d never know his secret with her rudimentary French.

His eyebrows raised, but he didn’t ask anything. Yet she knew he wondered what she found funny. She wouldn’t be able to explain, so she shrugged.

He set about to eating, as did she. She’d skipped dinner, instead diving deeply into sketching and playing with the swatches of fabrics she’d picked up in Toulon the day before. There were such colorful fabrics in Provence, but the French people were swathed in dramatic blacks with only shocks of scarves for color. She wanted to take the fabrics they used for table linens and napkins and turn them into fun shirts and skirts for spring and summer wear. Due to her skipped meal, she ate quickly, sopping up the runny egg yolk with the croissant.

Étienne said something, rose, and crossed to the stove in one long stride. The apartment wasn’t very large, but she had to take several steps from the table to the cook top. It was as if he leaped to keep her from stopping him. He grabbed two eggs from the basket on the counter and heated the pan. She sipped at her coffee as he cooked the eggs, except he stirred them and added milk. Slowly, the eggs got fluffy and a beautiful golden yellow.

He mumbled something at a shriveled plant in the window. She heard Brigitte’s name, and she was sure he cursed his stepsister for not watering the plant. Perhaps it was an herb he enjoyed and wanted to add to the eggs. They did look very enticing.

He turned with the pan in hand and offered her some eggs. She was sure that’s what he said since she knew the word oeuf due to the signs in the markets, though these came from a farmers’ market she’d browsed the past Tuesday.

She nodded and mumbled, “Yes. Thank you,” in French, hoping she pronounced the words correctly.

His arm brushed her shoulder as he slid half the scrambled eggs on her plate. His musk invaded her nose and enticed her to lean closer, feel his warmth on this cold, windy morning. They could snuggle on the couch with coffee and plan their day together before ditching in all to discover the secrets of each other. Such a lovely fantasy, and that is what it would stay. She wasn’t here for romance.

They ate in silence, and both rose at the same time. She headed to the sink to wash the dishes, but he beat her there, heating water and adding soap. She set her dishes beside the sink and wet a cleaning rag to wipe the table and the cook top.

He hummed an indistinct low melody as he washed the dishes and rinsed them. His comfort at the routine sent a tiny thrill through her and relaxed her. This was something she could do each day with him, and she’d do it happily, loving the small slice of domesticity.

She grabbed a towel to dry those dishes he’d set in the rack. As she dried one, he reached for it and replaced it on the shelf, but underneath the stack already there. When she handed him the last dish, sadness fell upon her. She’d have no reason to be in his presence now. Though they had eaten in silence and cleaned with no words, she’d been comforted, even slightly thrilled each time his hand brushed against hers.

“Goodbye,” she told him as she backed down the short hallway to Brigitte’s room. As she closed the door, she sighed. “I’m going to feel like an interloper all the time now. This is not going to be good.”