Hooked Up: Book 3 (19 page)

“You’ll have to. At least, to get your hands on her passport. Or do you have a connection at the British Embassy?”

“I don’t work for the MI5, Pearl.”

I took another long swig of juice. Thinking about all this was making me thirsty. “Then you need to swipe her passport and find out which bank holds the evidence. Then find the safe deposit box key.”

He raised his eyebrows. “And then you’ll go personally to the bank masquerading as her?”

“It’s the only thing I can think of. If I get arrested, though, you’ll need to find me the best attorney in the world. O.J. Simpson’s lawyer would be perfect,” I joked.

He shook his head. “Too risky.”

Another idea flashed into my brain. “Laura hacked our phones, you need to hack hers; get all the info you can, keep us abreast of what’s going on.”

“That part’ll be a piece of cake.” He squeezed my wrist as if he were afraid I’d run off and do something crazy without him by my side. “Pearl, I don’t want you to put yourself in the middle of this. You’re pregnant, this is insane, there has to be a better way. In fact,
no
, there’s no chance I’ll let you do something so crazy.”

“Then pay someone. Pay an actress to be Laura for an hour or so.” I bit into another mouthful of croissant.

“If the impersonator got caught she’d let the cat out of the bag, though.”

“That’s why we’d need to keep who we are a secret, not show our faces. Pay the actress in cash. Half up front, half later.”

He chuckled. “This is beginning to sound like some crazy suspense movie. Worse, a Woody Allen film that could go laughably wrong.”

I didn’t say anything, but in my mind I thought,
What Alexandre’s mom did was pretty nutty.
Not the killing part, so much. I could see how that could happen in a state of black desperation, fearing for your life. But not getting rid of every scrap of evidence? Not such a bright move.

As if Alexandre could read my mind he said, “I know it seems as if my mother did something really dumb, but for her it was a reminder that my father was dead and gone, that he couldn’t hurt her anymore.”

I bit my lip. “I understand,” but I thought to myself secretly,
What a nut-job family I’m marrying into. And, worse, what a mad person I must be myself to identify with a murderess as much as I do.

“Tell me about your father,” I probed—a question I had been trying to ask for ages, without any definitive answers.

“I think you can read between the lines.”

“Alexandre, I’m going to be your
wife.
I need you to open up to me, to share your pain and your past. I shared mine with you.”

“True,” he admitted. He took a deep breath as if he needed an extra dose of oxygen to remember the worst. “The scariest thing about my father was that he wasn’t always a monster.”

“I figured, or your mother wouldn’t have stayed with him so long.”

“They had a connection . . . very physical. He was extremely handsome. She was sort of . . . hooked on him.”

I didn’t respond, but I could imagine. After all, Alexandre was his son.

“He was witty, charming, very charismatic. Clever too. He could walk into a room and everyone would pay attention. People wanted to please him, be loved by him.”

“But he was violent.”

“Not at first. They had several happy years. He was Bipolar, you know, what they used to refer to as ‘manic-depressive.’ Everyone is affected differently. Some Bipolar people lead almost normal lives and are pussycats, never show an aggressive side at all. Others . . . well. When my father was nice he was great, very loving. But when he was in a manic state, he became a complete monster.”

“A real Jekyll and Hyde?”

“He was violent and very sexual if he drank. Drinking sent him over the edge.”

“And that’s when he sexually abused Sophie?”

“Yes.”

“And you, too?”

Alexandre lowered his head and nodded. Pain was wavering between us, filling the room. “That’s when Sophie knew she had to take me away. She could deal with him, but when he started on me, she lost it. That’s why she stabbed him in the groin. She was outraged that he could sink so low.”

I laid my hand on his. “It must have been hell for you, I’m so sorry.”

“I blanked it out mostly. The same thing happened to me as to you . . . just blacked my mind from the whole ordeal.”

But I knew what he was telling me was not completely true. Muscles have memories. When we’d first started spending nights together, when Alexandre was fast asleep, I would cuddle into him in the spoon position, me behind. A couple of times he woke in a panic, elbows and knees crashing everywhere, flailing his legs and arms about. Someone edging up behind him still meant only one thing: sexual abuse. My heart ached for him so badly. What happened to me was horrific, but at least it wasn’t
betrayal
of the first degree.

“Didn’t your mother realize what was going on?” I asked, tears pooling my eyes.

“She was in total denial.”

“Does that make you angry?”

His face was impassive, although his calm demeanor didn’t fool me for a second. “I was too young at the time to be angry. But Sophie still feels bitter towards her. She has tried; gone through God knows how much amount of therapy, but Sophie will never be able to
truly
forgive her. That’s why I’ve never let on to her about the murder. I couldn’t trust her a hundred percent.”

“Just awful, to have that treachery come from your own father. I can’t even imagine.” I brought Alexandre’s hand up to my face and rested my lips on his long fingers.

He frowned and said, “Have you noticed that whenever they deal with incestual abuse in films or novels they always have a
step
father or
step
brother? Never blood parents or blood siblings. Why? Because it’s such a taboo topic that nobody wants to talk about it, let alone believe it. It’s such a shameful subject. I’ve felt shame all my life. Illogical, but that’s how it is for victims, I don’t need to tell you that.”

“I know,” I said quietly.

“But you know what, Pearl? I’m not the only one. Believe it or not, there are lots of us out there. More than anyone would dare to imagine. Fathers fucking their daughters and sons, brothers, uncles, even mothers doing it to their sons. And within wealthy, privileged families, too. This disease isn’t a class, race, or monetary issue. It’s happening all over the world even in nice, tidy, middle class households.”

I knew he was right, although it seemed impossible to accept, but it was a vicious, insidious truth eating into society, ruining many people’s lives, sometimes forever.

“Why wasn’t your father on medication? Lithium or something?” My question seemed redundant, ridiculous, but Alexandre was discussing this, finally. He was trusting me with his dark, buried secrets, and opening up. I knew how painful that was.

“Oh, he
was
on medication at the beginning, but pride got the better of him. He felt he didn’t need it, that he could fix himself. He couldn’t. When he came out of the manic episodes he could never explain why he’d done what he did, and he’d always feel guilty, sad and remorseful. My mother always used to end up forgiving him.”

A spike of fury stabbed me in the heart.
How could she do that
?
Forgive such a monster
? But I remained calm. Alexandre loved his mom, however sick she made me feel. I asked simply, “So what tipped her scales finally?”

“The violence. He was raping her, repeatedly. His condition got worse and worse. He was beating her up, all the time. Broken ribs. Nose. You name it. That’s when she decided to leave. She tried, once, but she ended up in hospital. He said if she tried again, he’d kill her next time. And us, if he found us—we were in hiding by that point. That’s when my mother hatched the plan to get rid of him, once and for all. But deep down inside? She’s still in love with him, even now. The good side of him. She kept the teeth and stuff to remind her that he was dead, but she also has photos of their happy times, in a secret box in the attic. She sneaks up there sometimes, when my stepfather’s out of the house, or she pretends she’s spring cleaning.”

“Pretty screwed up, huh?”

“You bet.”

As much as I hated her for what she did to Alexandre by not protecting him, I did identify with his mother. Falling in love with someone you think is the perfect man and then he turns? That must be hard. What would I do, I wondered, if Alexandre suddenly changed his colors? Women all over the world face this predicament, especially if they have kids. It’s easy to spot an abusive man as an onlooker, but when he is living with you every day and you love him? Not so much.

I looked at my fiancé and asked myself: what would I do? Because the truth was, Alexandre’s dominance turned me on. It was only in small ways that he demonstrated it, and he had never, ever made me feel scared of him physically, but I did enjoy being beneath him (in more ways than one). I knew it was crazy, but being submissive made me feel sexier and relieved that I didn’t have to make all the decisions—he could take command. But it also caused me to feel frustrated with myself, as if I were putting the clock back on women’s rights by a hundred years.

We sat there in silence. I knew this was he first time he had really opened up to someone about his past. He’d been carrying this all on his own shoulders. No wonder he had been so protective of Sophie. She was the only one who had been through hell and back with him. She truly
knew
him. I thought of how understanding he was about what happened to me, horrified that I’d even considered that it had been my fault.

But I got the feeling that he was all talked out. He’d revealed so much about himself, laying his wounds open to the elements. It was time to change the subject. I slipped my hand under his T-shirt, maneuvered myself so my head was on his stomach, looked up at him and said in a soft, seductive voice, “I had an erotic dream about you when I was in Hawaii.”

He narrowed his green eyes, which seemed to be twinkling with amusement. “Oh yeah, you mentioned you had a little secret. Tell me about it.”

“I dreamed you were spanking me.”

He gave me a wry, wolfish smile. “And?”

“I woke up the next morning, wet between my legs, nursing a post-orgasm after-glow. After-shock, more like. Pretty high on the Richter scale, it was. The truth is, what you did in the dream really turned me on.”

He licked his lips. He was the wolf and I was Red Riding Hood. “Is this an invitation?”

“I’m curious,” I whispered, stroking his navel.

“You girls have been reading too many erotic novels. You think you want it but, in reality, it would freak you out.”

“I might. I might love it. I did in my dream.”

“Because it was a fantasy, baby. Some women fantasize about being raped but would be horrified if it happened in real life. I don’t need to tell
you
that, of all people.”

“I enjoyed my little adventure with Alessandra, though.”

“Because she’s a woman. You knew you were equals in strength. Neither was the
dominante
.”

“Oh, I don’t know, she wielded that little whip with
panache
and relish,” I joked, remembering that mad evening of lesbian bondage as if it only happened yesterday, although I realized now that she really had taken advantage of me. She sensed that I was weak and vulnerable and honed in on me.

Alexandre’s eyes scanned me from head to toe and settled on my breasts. I knew this conversation was turning him on, even if he wouldn’t admit it. I added, “I’m just curious, that’s all, about a little BDSM.”

“So am I.”

My eyes widened. “Really?”

“Of course. But I would never
act
on it.”

“It wouldn’t mean that you were like your father, Alexandre. Not if it’s consensual and both parties are up for it.”

He ran his fingers along my collarbone. “I wouldn’t dare, Pearl.”

“Why not?”

“What if I liked it? What then? What if I got a taste for it and it took me over?”

“It wouldn’t.”

“Don’t be so sure,” he told me with a dry smile. “I might develop an addiction for putting you over my knee. Whipping that wet little pussy of yours. Whipping it, then sucking it, then fucking it.”

I could feel moisture flush hot between my legs.

“Enough of this conversation, chérie, it’s dangerous. Although, I have to admit, it’s a good distraction from our dilemma.” He rested his hands on his huge hard-on. “And you’ve got me in the mood again.”

“To fuck me?” I purred, stroking him through his pajama bottoms, feeling that comforting ridge that never let me down.

“No, baby, you know the rules.”

I squeezed him a little. “But my gynecologist said it was fine to have intercourse! Only if I was spotting was it risky. She said—”

“I don’t care what she said. I’m going by the Indian woman’s advice. Delicious sex comes in many forms, it doesn’t have to involve penetration. It’s like martial arts; training with your hands tied behind your back, your footwork gets better, so do your kicks.”

“Do you know anything about martial arts?” I asked, running my hands along up his solid thighs . . . I knew he must have gotten those sinewy muscles from some kind of hard training.

“A little.” He winked at me.

“By the time we have sex, I’ll be desperate.”

“You’ll be like a virgin on our wedding night. I’ll fuck you then. When
is
our wedding, by the way?”

“It’s a surprise. Just make sure you don’t double-book. Keep your calendar open until the end of February, at least.”

“From now on, chérie, you
are
my calendar. You take top priority.”

“What about your business?”

“We’re going to be even richer.”

I raised my eyebrows. “What have you got brewing?”

“You disapprove of video games, so I won’t tell you.”

“
Video
games?”

“You see, I knew you wouldn’t understand.”

“Okay, tell me. You know I’m not a video game kinda girl, but I do respect the creative process that goes into them.”

“As well as that side of things, I’m not selling HookedUp to Sophie, after all. She simply can’t afford to buy me out—she pulled out of our deal at the last minute. We might both sell at a later date, strike while the iron’s hot. You can be a lady of leisure if you like, Pearl.”