Hooked Up: Book 2 (47 page)

I zigzagged like a lunatic, weaving between other drivers to pin Pearl down.

Finally, she pulled over at a restaurant parking lot. I overtook her and then screeched to a halt. I got out of my car and pelted towards her, just in case she got it into her head to take off again. She buzzed down her window, and in that moment, I knew that she was not only crazy, but loving the attention, lapping up the drama.

Yes. Pearl Robinson was a drama queen. She was trying to suppress a grin, which stretched across her full, wide lips.

I leaned into her open window. “Nutter. You want to get us both killed?” I couldn’t help but smile too.

But, stubborn as ever, she continued her little game. “I meant what I said, Alexandre. I am not going to Vegas with you. I’m going to Kauai to see my dad.”

“Oh Kauai now, is it? I don’t think so.” I opened her door and hovered my lips centimeters away from her face. “Correction.
We
are going to Vegas.
Together
.” I heard my own voice and I sounded so French . . .
togezzaire
. “We’re getting married tonight; it’s all arranged. Then we can go to Kauai for our honeymoon.”

I
had
planned for Bora Bora, but who cared? As long as we sealed the deal, we could go anywhere. I grabbed the keys from the ignition and scooped Pearl into my arms and then flung her over my shoulder so I had my hands free. She was kicking like a child, screaming like a little girl.

“Put me down Alexandre! This isn’t funny!”

“Then why are you laughing?”

“Because this is preposterous! You’re being outrageous!”

I strode over to the trunk of her car and took out her suitcase; a vintage Luis Vuitton, the weight of which was hard to manage with Pearl jiggling and kicking and flailing her arms about and thumping my back. My Taekwondo training certainly helped me manage this little vixen.

“Enough, Pearl. Stop behaving like a child. Or I’ll have to spank you.”

“Ha, very funny. You are
insane,
Alexandre Chevalier! Let me down! I won’t marry you. I won’t, I
won’t!”

“Yes, you will. Stop playing games.”

“Don’t you dare try and control me, you arrogant French shit!”

“Don’t tell me what to do, Pearl. I know what I want and it’s your crazy ass. You know it, and I know it. You
know
that we’re meant to be together but you’re just too stubborn to accept it right now. Stop wasting time because in the end I’ll get my way.”

“Ha!” she squealed, still laughing. “You can’t marry me because you don’t have proof of my divorce!”

Pearl had underestimated me. I’d gotten my hands on her divorce papers weeks ago. “All taken care of, baby. All will be quite legal I can assure you.”

I practically threw her into the back of my Mercedes and quickly locked the door. Child safety locks. She couldn’t get out. She was pummeling the windows, and I too knew that I was behaving like a madman. But I didn’t care. I wanted Pearl Robinson—soon to be Chevalier—and I wasn’t going to take no for an answer. I drove off. I could see her through my rearview mirror pouting like a ten-year-old in the back seat. The Sophie topic came up. Of course. Pearl was convinced that Sophie was out to kill her.

She announced, “Laura called.”

Shock horror!
The word, “Laura” made my body flush with heat and nausea. Had she revealed all to Pearl?
Oh, Jesus.
My stomach churned.
What is that psycho up to now?

In that second I so wanted to come clean. Tell Pearl about Laura drugging me. Assure her that Laura was making this rubbish up. But I knew that it would make things worse with Pearl. She was on the edge. Admitting that I’d had Laura on top of me, naked, would hardly be the right move—no, Pearl wouldn’t have accepted that for a second. So I said nothing, just kept driving to Van Nuys airport, where the jet would be waiting. The truth was I wanted those wedding bands on our fingers first. Seal the deal. My mission was to marry Pearl and sort the rest out afterwards. Typically male, I realized later. I should have laid all my cards on the table.

But I didn’t.

And it got me into more of a mess than I imagined possible.

“D
id you hear me?” I said. “Laura called. “She says Sophie tried to kill her.”

There was a long pause, as if Alexandre were thinking about something else entirely. Then he said, “Nonsense.”

“She did! She says it was no accident, and that Sophie owns chunks of Vegas and will have me murdered.”

He didn’t say anything. Just kept his eyes on the road.

“What is
wrong
with you? Your sister is insane, and you’re too blind to see it!”

“I agree, my sister is a little eccentric, shall we say, but she’s not going to try and have you killed.”

“How do you
know
?”

“Because I know her. I know how her mind works.”

“Like she stabbed your father in the groin? She is
dangerous
.”

He turned his head abruptly to me. His lips closed tightly, bitterly—his eyes flashed with rage. “He deserved what he had coming to him. Don’t you
dare
defend that vicious monster.”

I retaliated, “It doesn’t let Sophie off the hook. She’s out to get me.”

“She’s jealous, Pearl, that’s all. She’ll get used to you.”

“She will
not
get ‘used to me,’ because I’m bailing, Alexandre. I value my life too highly, however much I love you. I’m not going to marry you with your whack-job sister in the picture.”

“I made some calls tonight. I’m selling her my share of HookedUp. Once and for all. Satisfied? Most men wouldn’t let their girlfriends pussy-whip them the way you have with me about this, but because American women have a history of dominating their men, I’ll forgive you. But just this once. It won’t happen again, Pearl. This is the last time you tell me what to do. Do you understand.”
No question mark but a statement.

I was speechless. Pussy-whipped? I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Instead I blurted out, “I got pussy-whipped tonight. Literally.”

He looked around at me with a wry smile, and then back at the road. “Oh yes?”

“Yes, A bit of lesbian S and M.”
There, said it.
“Surely you don’t want to marry a quasi lesbian who got beaten by your sister’s lover? Oh, and by the way, thanks for letting me in on the fact that Sophie’s gay. Another secret you’ve been hiding from me.”

“I didn’t think it was my place to reveal Sophie’s sexual preferences. It’s something we never discuss—she’s very private. It was up to her to tell you. What do you mean, ‘my sister’s lover?’ ”

“What?? So it’s true then, she is gay?”

“Yes, she’s gay. She kept it quiet from me for years, but I always had my suspicions. What do you mean, ‘my sister’s lover?’ Are you talking about Alessandra Demarr?”

“Yes, I found a photo, which I stole for evidence, as I’m fed up with you telling me I’m imagining things. They’re lovers. At least that’s what the photo is spelling out loud and clear.”

He changed the music.
Leaving on a Jet Plane
. How apt. “Interesting,” he mumbled.

“What?? Why do you not seem shocked by this?”

“Sophie must have gotten together with her, when we went backstage that time at the theatre, when we saw her in that play.”

“What? Alexandre, why didn’t you tell me this?”

“I did. I told you we saw a play of hers in London. Sophie wanted to congratulate her, so we went backstage afterwards, to the green room, but I got bored waiting so I left. Sophie stayed, though. She never told me the two of them had anything going on, or that they’d even met. I had no idea. And you had a little fun with Alessandra, too? Oh well . . . keep it in the family.” He laughed.

“Stop it!” I yelled, leaning forward, still riding in the back seat. “I am
disgusted!
I feel used and dumb and a total freaking idiot. Why did I not see this? She seduced me, Alexandre,
and I let her.
My ass is so sore I can hardly sit. She whipped me, she made me come, she . . . she . . . ” I found myself wailing through angry, shameful tears.

He turned the music down. “Ssh, now chérie, it’s so not important in the great scheme of things.” But he still had a slight smile on his face as if the whole thing tickled him somehow.

“Why the hell do you want me anyway?” I sniffled. “I had a threesome with two guys that went all wrong. I’m a quasi lesbian. I can’t do a work deal without being totally screwed over. I can’t look a penis in the eye, excuse the pun . . . I’m a basket-case. I am a disaster. This is all wrong, Alexandre, this is all screwed-up.
I’m
screwed up. Really, I’m not the person you thought I was. I’m not Miss Sweetie-Pie, Star-Spangled American Cutie, Golden Girl. Look at me, I’m all over the place.”

He changed gear again. “I know.”

“No, you don’t
know!
You thought I was perfect.”

He threaded his arm to the back seat and held my hand. “Perfect for me, chérie. You think I want Miss Goodie-Two-Shoes? That I could relate to someone like that with my fucked-up past? I know who you are, Pearl, maybe even better than you know yourself. You’re a contradiction, a paradox, a mix of all things messy and delightful. We’ve only known each other four and a half months but you are my
media naranja
—my soul mate—I knew that the second I laid eyes on you.”

“The other half of the orange?” I sniveled, grabbing some Kleenex from my purse and blowing my runny nose. “That Spanish expression you wrote me in your love letter?”

“That’s right. We fit perfectly together. We’re two separate orange halves that make up one whole.”

I exhaled with frustration but climbed forward and maneuvered myself into the passenger seat so we could have a more normal conversation. All Alexandre’s love and forgiveness still didn’t solve the Sophie problem. This was exasperating. I felt as if I had been left to bubble and boil in Sophie and Alessandra’s witches’ cauldron. With Lucifer purring away, observing the whole crazy scene.

“Well this is all a big shock for me, I can tell you,” I said, buckling up, remembering Bette Davis’s line in
All About Eve
, ‘Fasten your seatbelt, we’re in for a bumpy night.’ “I mean . . . finding out about Sophie being gay, being Alessandra’s girlfriend and, oh yes, P.S., Sophie’s married.”

“So? You think she’s the first gay person to be married? It helps her social status, not to mention fiscal benefits. In France, being single’s expensive. It’s way more cost-effective to have a spouse.”

I glared at him. “Is that why you want to marry me, to save on tax?”

“I file in America, chérie. My primary residence is New York, in case you haven’t noticed. And no, I would never marry for financial reasons, you know that. Sophie’s different—she’s obsessed with money, as you are well aware.”

“I feel grossed out. I might as well have had sex with Sophie herself. I kissed Alessandra. I let her whip me!”

He looked at me for a second, still vaguely amused. “And are you over it now? Cured of your bondage curiosity? Because don’t ask
me
to get the handcuffs out and spank you.”

I shuffled in my seat, trying to find a comfortable position that didn’t chafe my tender butt. “Yes, I’m over it. It hurts. No more, thank you very much, my derrière is really sore.”

His lips curved very slightly. “Good. Now can we get on with our relationship, or do you have some more sniffing around to do?”

“Are you pissed at me?”

“What I had envisioned in my obviously very boring male imagination was a little kissing between two beautiful women, some light sexual entertainment, not my fiancée being beaten with a whip by my sister’s lover.”

“Yeah, well, I regret it now, that’s for sure.”

I suddenly remembered all the dirty details that Alessandra shared with me about her “ex” liking hairy underarms. The “ex” obviously being Sophie, the “tigress in bed.”

“It was an experiment,” I said, excusing myself. “I wanted to beat out those nasty memories of that fateful night . . . wipe out my past.”

Alexandre took in a deep breath, as if to say,
Good luck.

“What, you think that’s crazy?”

“Revenge is a dish best served cold,” he replied ominously.

“What are you trying to say, Alexandre . . . what are you telling me?”

“Nothing, just quoting a rather fitting line from Shakespeare, or maybe not Shakespeare at all; perhaps it’s some old Sicilian proverb.”

Sicily. Alessandra. Yes, come to think of it I’d heard that expression in
The
Godfather
 – Michael Corleone talking about how his father gave him that very same advice:
Revenge is a dish that tastes best
when served cold
. I remembered what Alexandre had said to me on the phone, earlier, about the football players—that he’d “track those fuck-heads down” –and then I wondered, was that what he did with his father—serve him up a cold dish of revenge, years later? His father’s “disappearance” . . . a cold payback dish that Alexandre might have taken out of the freezer, thawed and served up when his dad was least expecting it? I was dying to ask but every time I mentioned his father he got riled. Now was not the moment to press him.

The car glided smoothly to a halt. I could see the private jets clustered together a way off–Van Nuys Airport wasn’t a maze like LAX. “We’ve arrived,” Alexandre let me know in a serious voice.

“I’m not going to Vegas.”

“Yes you are.”

“I’m not getting out of this car.”

He laughed. “Do you want me to carry you in a fireman’s lift again?”

“I’ll scream and attract attention so you’ll let me go.”

“Not a chance. I’m keeping a firm grip on you until you’ve got that ring on your finger. I’ll gag you if I have to. You want a bit of rough play, a bit of bondage? –you’ve got it, baby.”

“What good will a dead wife be to you?” I shouted. “Sophie will have me ‘topped off’ as Laura put it. Yes, that was the expression she used.”

“Laura and Sophie get on fine—this is all ridiculous, I can’t believe Laura called you and said that.”

I fumbled in my handbag for my cell. “Right, if you don’t believe me, I’ll play you the message!” I squealed.