PROLOGUE
Francis Bonnefoy was unbelievably, undeniably, pathetically, at the lowest point in his entire existence.
He'd seen bad times during his life: Being shunned by his parents, the death of the woman he loved, that time he was caught getting very-*ahem*-familiar, with a married duchess, and that one time he caught a flu that was circulating in Paris.
But this? This had to be one of the worst parts of his life.
London, he firmly decided, was positively dreadful. It didn't help, he supposed, that he had come during the summer, when the weather was hot and sticky and the air was heavy with sweat.
And his bitterness didn't stop there.
The Frenchman was anchored to a small, cramped flat near the railroads. His only company was his five-year-old son who refused to speak since his mother's death, three years ago.
His connections managed to find himself a job, but there was one little problem that was actually quite a big problem: He'd never worked a day in his life.
Okay, so he knew a little about gardening and baking, but never enough to maim his beautiful hands. He was above such things, such-such...peasant-like things! Things his servants did! "Eh bien, pas plus." He muttered sulkily before entering the looming white-marble building in front of him.
The Royal Justice and Crime Investigation Building of London.
The inside was just as grand as the outside, if not more. The arches reached up high, like in the Church of Notre Dame back in Paris. "Excusez-moi," Francis frowned slightly at the confused look the desk-lady gave him. Uncultured English. "Could you...direct me to my new-n-new boss?" He stuttered, the strange words stammered across his tongue, alien.
"Name?" The woman sighed out, slightly dreamily. She'd just noticed how handsome the man in front of her was.
"A-ah, Francis Bonnefoy." He internally smirked. Even here, in stuck-up, proud England, did he find victims to his gorgeous self.
The woman grinned at him, leaning closer, protruding her chest and lowering her voice seductively. "Mary Sue," She licked her lips, "But you can-"
"Yo, hey, dude!" Mary yanked back and whipped a piercing glare at a man that was jogging up to them. He had golden hair with some sort of weird cowlick that seemed to bob up and down, like it had a life of its own, and bright blue eyes behind glasses.
He, in one word, was: BIG. Not fat, particularly, just muscular. And tall. Very tall.
He was dressed in a navy blue uniform, but it was halfway buttoned (Showing a blaring American flag) and his left arm...It had been replaced with a humming, red, white and blue bionic arm that looked like it could crush Francis in a millisecond.
"Hey, Mary." The man remained oblivious of her glare. "Hey, your Francis Bonnefoy, right? Your boss had a feelin' that you might get caught up here." He gave Mary a teasing wink.
"How in ze world did-" Francis was interrupted by the American's loud laugh.
"Dude, don't sweat it! Mary flirts with everyone that passes through here."
"Damn you, you cheeseburger-eating wanker!" Mary threw her pink stapler, face ready to explode.
"Run, man, run!" Alfred's bionic arm snatched Francis' wrist and launched into a full-speed run, laughing manically and bowling through everybody in his path. "Move, bitch! Move, bitch! Get out the way, Bitch~!" He sung loudly.
Oh. God. Francis thought. Someone kill me. Now.
The two men crashed into the elevator. "Yo, dude, you okay?" Alfred grinned at Francis.
"I zink I lost my stomach," Francis muttered bitterly, glaring at Alfred. Stupid commoner.
Alfred laughed again. "Here," he held out two suckers. "Bubblegum or rootbeer?"
"...Bubblegum?" Francis said, weakly (Still panting from the chase). "Merci,"
"Oh, yeah! Your boss said you were French." Alfred stuck the root beer sucker in his mouth. "Man, I wonder 'ow lon' you'll las'."
It was hard to make out what he said, but Francis managed. "What do you mean 'how long I'll last'?"
"Mhmph, well..." Alfred looked around nervously, as if someone were spying on them. They were the only ones in the elevator. He took the sucker out of his mouth and gave Francis a dead serious expression. This American had a severe case of Bipolar. "Not many people can deal with her, y'know? And she doesn't really deal with other people, either, dude."
"She?" Francis' jaw dropped. "A woman homicide detective?"
Alfred grinned, but this time in pride. "Yep!" He popped the 'p'. "But don't be fooled by the fact she's a girl, 'kay? And ya probably shouldn't say anything like that to her, she'll kick ya right in the jingle bells."
Francis' nose wrinkled. "She sounds absolutely horrid."
"Whoa, hey, buddy! You haven't even met her yet." Alfred stood and pulled Francis up. They were almost there. "I've known her since I was five."
The elevator stopped at the fifth floor. "Why so high up?" Francis asked.
"Oh, that's because there's not enough room for us all to fit on one floor, dude." Alfred licked his sucker. "The bottom floors where me and my buddies are, y'know, the police? It helps the reacting time. And second floor is the lunch room, the third is the detectives and fourth is the laboratory."
"And ze fifz?" Francis raised an eyebrow.
"This is your boss's floor." Alfred caught Francis' look and laughed again. "Yep, she's got her own floor. She said she couldn't concentrate with all the chatter that went on in the third floor and the people from the third floor hated how much of a hermit she is. So, the big cheeses thought it'd be better for another floor to be made. They can't afford to lose her, she's the best damn detective in Britain."
Francis sighed.
Great. Just great.
He somehow manages to get himself kicked out of Paris (And homeless), then manages to find a job (But one that he has no desire or knowledge of) and then it turns out that his boss is some sort of anti-social maniac that just so happens to be a woman!
He could imagine her clearly in his head.
Crooked and yellow teeth, gnarly hands, a possible tendency to talk to imaginary things, a split personality and maybe even a slight taste for human flesh.
Wonderful.
"Here it is," Alfred stopped. Alice Kirkland the door was plated with a golden plate. Alfred kicked the door. "Yo, Alice, let me in, dudette!"
There was a loud crash and yelp of surprise. "Damn you, Alfred!" There was a bit of rustling as someone made their way to the door. The lock clicked and the door was swung open widely. A woman seethed. "What the bloody hell do you want?"
Francis' first thought was: Oh, mon Dieu.
A woman about Francis' height stood in the doorway, glaring at the two.
Her hair was pale, ash blonde and had been slicked back into a strict bun, leaving only stubborn bangs to frame her fair face. Her eyebrows were bushier than most people Francis met, and whatever womanly curves she might've had were hidden by her poor choice of clothes: Trousers, blouse, waistcoat and Francis could see a trench coat lying on the floor just behind her.
All in all, this woman wasn't that dazzling. But...
Her eyes.
Her eyes were gorgeous. They burned with irritation, a smoldered bright emerald color. Like grass or tree leaves. Francis couldn't stop staring. Oh, mon Dieu. The more he stared, the enamored he became. That wild ash blonde bangs were oh so tempting to just reach out and run his hands through, so tempting to cup her fair face and kiss away the pouty frown on her pink lips.
Oh, mon Dieu.
XXX
Alice stared at the man in front of her.
She had no need for a bloody assistant. They were annoying, at best, and tried to be helpful at worst. She worked better alone. And telling by the Frenchman in front of her, her employers were getting desperate to find someone to work for her.
Alfred had quickly fled after introducing her to Francis Bonnefoy, leaving the two to get to know each other better.
Truth be told, it was mainly Alice wishing the frog would stop drooling like a perverted old man. "Alice. Alice Kirkland." She thrust her hand out. "A pleasure to meet you," It really wasn't.
Startled, the man blushed at her and managed a smile. "Oui."
Alice raised an eyebrow.
Smooth hands, manicured telling by the slight gloss, but they were dulled. Someone's lost their family heritage. Bonnefoy wasn't a very common name nowadays, but it was the name of the family that ran a large wine company in France, rumored to be relatives of the French royal family. Soft skin, fair. Hasn't spent too long outside. Velvet indigo eyes, groomed eyebrows, no acne blemishes, silky blond hair and perfect posture. Alice sighed slightly.
Great. A rich boy. A French rich boy. "I'll show you to your office."
No one liked to work with Alice.
She was unfriendly, bitter, sarcastic all the time and muttered to herself as if she had imaginary friends and she wasn't all that easy on the eyes. It didn't hurt Alice. She didn't see any reason in trying to make hateful people love you. Or anyone love you. If it really was love, it didn't need to be forced.
Of course, she didn't have very much room to speak. The last man she had loved abandoned her years ago for another woman with bigger breasts and a better personality.
The Assistant's office wasn't far from Alice's and looked like they had just stepped into a newly built room. Well, if you ignored the thick layer of dust that had accumulating everywhere. "Mon Dieu," Francis gasped, horror etched on his face. "When was ze last time someone was in here?"
Alice snorted and made her way to the covered windows. "A year and a half, maybe two." She yanked the curtains open, revealing busy London. Smoke plumed from factories, dirigibles soared through the air and the streets could still be faintly heard from that high up.
"And why did they leave?" Francis ventured, setting his suitcase on the dirty desk. He needed to get cleaning as soon as possible.
Alice shrugged. "Same reason everyone else does. I don't know why the board keeps trying to assign me with assistants all the bloody damn time, they just leave in a week or two. You'll be gone in a couple of days, at most, I imagine."
"What makes you zink zat?" Francis moved over to Alice, trying to sound like her comment hurt him.
Alice glanced at him, suspiciously. She didn't miss how he was quietly shuffling himself closer to her. Wonderful. Absolutely fan-fucking-tastic. A flirt. A rich French flirt. "Because I know what kind of person you are."
"And what-" Francis paused, his voice low and husky. Time to turn on the sex appeal. "-kind of person am I?"
Alice paused, risking a quick glance at his lips. Nice and smooth. Light pink and full, too.
Fine. If the little frog wanted to play, then they'll play.
Alice leaned in closer, almost chest to chest with Francis. "You're the kind of man that whispers sweet nothings to his lover, the kind that is a diehard romantic, the kind that will fuck everything that can move and maybe even things that don't. Just for the fun of it."
Alice pulled away, snickering at the appalled face of the Frenchman in front of her. Did he seriously think that she'd just lay down and be another one of his toys?
"You're a rich boy. Never worked a bloody day in your life and you're not here because you want to be. You did something. Something scandalous enough for you to be shunned out of your family." She smirked at his slack jaw. "So, tell me, frog, what kind of woman am I?"
It was a trick question, really.
If he praised her, he was a simpering ass-kisser and a liar. If he bashed her for her rudeness, he was hotheaded and wouldn't be able to handle anything more than paperwork and would most likely leave next week for the lack of respect that he got.
Francis stepped forward, his blood simmering. "You're a brittle woman, chérie. Your attitude is dreadful and your eyebrows need to be plucked and you need a closet change." He paused, looking into her eyes again. "But you have ze most magnifique eyes I have ever seen."
Alice sputtered, whipping her head back to the man. What the fucking hell? Was he an ass-kisser or stupid? Probably both, Alice muttered in her head. She recovered herself, but it was too late. Francis had already seen her fumble. Damn it. The Frenchman listened to her silent demand to continue. "And zat's not just it. I find your sour attitude adorable."
Oh. No. He. Didn't.
Alice's eyes burned violent chills down Francis' spine. "Your paperwork is over there." Alice hissed, jabbing a finger at a three-foot-high pile of paperwork that Francis hadn't noticed before. "I want it done before the end of the day, at least."
Francis' shoulders slumped.
"And that's not even the tip of the iceberg." Alice gave him a sadistic grin, green eyes twinkling. "Oh, and frog?"
Francis turned to look at her. "Oui?"
"You're playing a game...And I'm not very good at loosing."
XXX
Francis took back every single kind thought that he might have harbored of his boss.
The woman was a fucking slave driver! His fingers screamed for relief, after filling out papers for more than five hours straight and he was rapidly losing patience with the rude bâtards that couldn't seem to stop harassing him on the phone for more than two minutes.
"Yo, dude! You're still alive!" Alfred barged into the office, grinning and carrying two bags of...coffee and doughnuts?
"Oui," Francis mumbled, "Barely."
Alfred laughed. "Well, you're not screaming about how insane your boss is, that's pretty good for a rich boy."
"Is it really zat obvious?" Francis looked up, eyelids heavy.
"Totally, dude." Alfred gave Francis a bag. "Here, lunch is on me."
"Merci, but won't Alice be upset zat you're in here? Or zat I won't be working?" Francis raised an eyebrow.
"Man, you musta really pissed her off!" Alfred laughed. "Nah, she's out on a case right now, anyway."
"Mmm," Francis inhaled the smell of coffee. It wasn't the premium, hand-ground that he was used to, but anything was better than nothing right now. "How could you tell zat I am-sorry, was a, err, 'rich boy'?"
Alfred gulped down a cup of coffee before stuffing his mouth with a doughnut. "I get a lot of cases about rich family feuds, murders for money, bastard children wanting some of the fortune. Y'know, that kinda thing." He paused a bit, stuffing in another doughnut. "But I can easily tell because I'm not rich."
"Quoi?"
"Yeah, I mean, I notice the differences." Alfred said. "You're a hella lot prettier than any of the guys or girls here combined, and your posture is like totally perfect and your hands are smooth, so it's obvious you've never done any work in your life."
Francis just gaped. "You're good."
Alfred laughed again. "I know, right? I'm not nearly as good as Alice, though. She probably knew your whole life history after one look at you." He gulped down more coffee. "I learned from the best: Alice's dad."
"Her papa?"
"Yeah, he was awesome, man." Alfred's eyes kind of glazed over. "He had this cool beard and red hair and he was the best detective in Britain, if not the world!"
"How did you meet?"
"Alice found me, actually." Alfred said. "After my parents died and I had no relatives, I was kicked out of the orphanages because they were full. I lived on the streets before Alice found me on her way back from school. When I told her I didn't have a home, she dragged me back to her house. Her dad found me a home with his friends, and Alice and I have been total BFF's since!"
"How old were you?"
"I was five. Alice was eight." Alfred paused, counting with his fingers. "I've known her for twenty years! Twenty damn years! It's amazing that I can still stand her sorry ass."
"...Are you two, eh-"
"What? Nah, man!" Alfred waved him off, laughing again. "We're too much like family. And besides, I'm as straight as a slinky!"
"Oh, you're gay?" Francis looked up in surprise. "You didn't strike me as zat kind of guy,"
Alfred stuffed two doughnuts into his mouth. "And I got lucky! I landed myself a tall, sexy Russian lawyer!"
"Félicitations," Francis smiled at Alfred.
"Thanks-oh, man, I gotta go!" Alfred jumped off the chair he had been sitting on. "Oh, and Rich Boy?"
"Oui?"
"A word of advice on Alice," Alfred looked serious. "I tell most of her assistants this, but they never listen to me: Alice isn't very good at expressing her emotions. She's just too shy, as unbelievable as that is. Read in between the lines, y'know. Look for the hidden meanings."
XXX
10:00pm
"What the fucking hell are you still doing here?" Alice stood in the doorway.
"Oh, you're back," Francis offered a soft smile. Maybe if he tried to be nice to her, she would lay up on him. "I haven't finished all ze paper yet." He pointed to another fifty or so pages lying next to him.
Alice stared at him. This was...different. The other assistants would have left by now, saying that they didn't get paid for overtime, so why do it? She paused, watching him work away. Okay, maybe he wasn't completely useless. At least he had good worth ethic. "Do that tomorrow."
"Quoi?" Francis glanced up, flabbergasted.
"You heard me." Alice walked in and plucked the pen from his sore hands. "You don't get paid for overtime in your first year, Frog."
"Zat's fine," Francis tried to reach for the pen.
"No. No, it's not." Alice yanked her arm up again. "Your work will just get sloppier the further you go on. Plus, don't you have a kid waiting for you at home?"
"Well, he-" Francis paused, thinking about what Alfred said earlier. Read between the lines.
Stop working, you'll just burn yourself out on the first day. You don't need to overwork yourself. I'm worried about you...I'm worried about you...I'm worried about you...
"What the fuck? Your face is red. Did you get sick or something?" Alice reached forward, but Francis leaped from his seat. I'm worried about you!
"I-I-I-I-I I'm fine. Perfectly fine!" Francis rushed over to his coat and grabbed his suitcase. "A-ah, g-g-g-g good Day-I mean, n-Night-Ms. Kirkland!" He dashed out of the office before she could say anything.
"...What the bloody hell got his knickers in a twist?"
Translations:
Eh bien, pas plus = Well, no more
Excusez-moi = Excuse me
Merci = Thanks Oh, mon Dieu
Oui = Yes
Chérie = Dear
Magnifique = Magnificent Bâtards
Quoi = What Papa Félicitations