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The French Billionaire

By:Lisa Cartwright

The French Billionaire



Billionaire Romance





By: Lisa Cartwright




Chapter One




Emily Goodson’s journey into French culture started with a phone call from her sister, Lynette. After the usual pleasantries, Lynette said, “Something came up which helps both of us. You need work in your area. I need someone inside a certain business. Someone with your talents and equipment fits exactly. It shouldn’t be dangerous, but I’d keep my head up if I were you.”



Emily took down the information. She was going to be applying for a job with a small company that dealt in paintings.



As she gets ready for her interview, she realizes she has to take the mirror out of the closet. It wasn’t easy for her. She gathered her courage and retrieved the full length mirror and set it against a wall.



Facing away from the mirror, Emily prepared herself like a knight putting on armor. First, her pretty panties from Victoria’s Secret. They were a lovely shade of blue and cut like a bikini. She’d never had that kind of panty before. She’d always used the full variety.



She held her breath and turned around. There she was and the sight didn’t make her want to cry. She turned from side to side and smiled. She turned all the way around and looked over her shoulder and smiled. No cellulite, no flab, not mottled or discolor skin. Her body looked fantastic’ curvaceous and full.



She moved her eyes above her waist. Her breasts had always pleased her. Even when she was so heavy, they never drooped or fell. Always buoyant, always shaped as if they belonged in a man’s hand. She knew they were her best feature. She’d shopped online for just the right bra and found a demi bra from a French company that fit perfectly. It pushed her breasts up just the right amount to give her some fullness in a top with a low neckline without making her look cheap.



She slipped into the skirt and a top with a scoop neckline. She turned around and smiled again.



In the previous year, Emily lost over a hundred pounds. Her new body was round and firm. Her brother told her that her body was perfect for a man who liked to grab something and hold on.



The address took her to a long empty street in the hills above Malibu. The street ended in a cul-de-sac with one building. She parked, got out of the car and stared. It was a Queen Anne mansion that stretched for two hundred feet in front of her. Four separate towers lifted off the main building. Each roof had a weather vane of a different style.



She climbed the stairs and rang the bell. The man who answered the door appeared out of breath, as if he had been somewhere far away from the door. He said, “Good morning. May I help you?” Emily had never heard a butler speak with a French accent. In his mouth, it sounded foreign, not to the country but to the job, as if a poet were working a road crew.



Emily said, “Yes. I’m Emily Goodson. I’m applying for the job of curator. I’m supposed to talk with Mr. Latrec.”



“Please follow me.”



The man was tall and stocky. He wore a black suit and tie and looked perfect for the role of butler. As Emily walked behind him she glanced in each room they passed. Paintings by artists she revered hung in every room. She hoped they were all fakes. Any house with as many perfect paintings as this would be a prime target for thieves.



The man led her into a kitchen. He took off his coat and got a clean apron from a hook on the wall. Another man stood at a stove big enough to service a restaurant. The man she followed said, “I am back now. You may stop stirring.” He took the spoon away from the other man and examined whatever was cooking with a practiced eye. “Bon. You did a good job this time. The béchamel is perfectly blended. Bon.”



The man stepped away from the stove and turned to Emily. He said, “Good morning. I am Reynard Latrec. This is my home and my office. I’m guessing my chef didn’t introduce himself. His name is Alain Lefevre. Say hello, Alain.” Alain didn’t look up from the sauce. He lifted his hand in the air and waved two fingers. Reynard continued, “Please have a seat at the table. Have you eaten?”



Emily smelled the wonderful aroma of a perfectly cooked sauce. “No. I haven’t.”



“We’ll be eating in a few minutes. Please stay with us for lunch.” Emily saw a rather naughty smile light up Reynard’s face. He turned to Alain and said, “Would it be too much trouble to add one more for lunch, mon ami?”



Alain and Reynard had played this game before. Alain turned, not to Reynard, but to Emily. “For a woman of such obvious beauty and culture, it is always a pleasure to add another setting to the table.” He turned to Reynard and sniffed. Reynard raised one eyebrow in response. He turned to Emily. “Do you have any questions about the job?”

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