Hooked Up: Book 3 (24 page)

I never had been to Paris. When I was a child we went to the South of France, traveling from Italy by train, and then back to Rome again, where we were based. Everybody should visit Paris at some time in his or her life. I was full of anticipation and prayed it would be as splendid as people said.

While I was in Paris, Alexandre would go to London to visit the dreaded Laura. They’d spoken a couple of times on the phone, arguing, mostly. He had been trying to dissuade her from her mad plan, meanwhile, also hoping to come up with some kind of solution in his head. She was adamant—she wanted him to go to London and produce his seed for her, no matter what. He had even told her that he feared he had a recessive genetic disease, or sickle cell anemia . . . anything to try and put her off, but she was not buying it.

I felt powerless; all I could do was watch the show unravel. Perhaps a double bill. I was on tenterhooks.

Anyway, Alexandre had managed to not commit himself to any promise. One thing I’d learned about him was that he didn’t like lying, and he was, ostensibly, honorable. Okay, he may not have disclosed everything, may have keep things to himself but, basically, he was an honest person. He was not going to promise Laura something and double cross her; it simply wasn’t his style. All those times I had accused him in my head of being untruthful when, in fact, he wasn’t at all. He had never actually lied to me. He may have kept information at bay, but he had never
lied.

He hadn’t told Laura anything concrete, had made no promises except that he would see her face to face and “work something out.” He had told
me,
however, that she wasn’t getting one droplet of his sperm, and that I must stop worrying . . . it was his dilemma and he’d sort it out. I wished I were the type of woman who could sit back and relax, just worry about what shoes I should wear, or what wallpaper to choose. Alas, I could hardly think of anything else except the Laura drama.

I just couldn’t believe anybody would stoop so low, especially someone as proud as she was. I still had this vision of her standing at her front door like some glorious ship’s figurehead, in her blue satin robe, pretending that she’d had afternoon sex with Alexandre. Like a fool, I was gullible enough to believe her. When I later asked Sophie about the phone call (when Laura chatted away to her in perfect French), Sophie laughed and said that Laura must have been talking to the speaking clock. “
At the third stroke the time will be
 . . .” Or perhaps, Sophie said, Laura had programmed a call to come through to her own cell phone at the perfect moment. Whatever, Sophie assured me they hadn’t spoken.

There was no doubt that Laura was a clever, scheming woman and, as she admitted herself, “like a Rottweiler with a bone.” I really didn’t want my fingers chewed off, but at the same time,
how dare she get away with any of it
?
It just wouldn’t be fair
! Finally, at age forty, I had found love and had the chance to start a family, and had Laura barged in with her bacteria-laden, wooden spoon to stir it all up. If Alexandre didn’t manage to get rid of her, I would. I needed to come up with a Plan B.

I wondered if her nature hadn’t always been like that—pushy and scheming—and that Alexandre had been too young, too sweet to see her true colors. I found it hard to believe that she had become this way from the accident or from medication. Her conniving demeanor suited her a little too well—she looked too comfortable in her own slithery skin.

Meanwhile, James was still missing in action. Laura had told Alexandre, “he’s taking a holiday.” I knew I seemed like some foolish amateur super-sleuth (not so super), but Laura was convinced that Alexandre would get back together with her . . . perhaps James was in the way? If she was capable of blackmail . . . what else could she do?

My suitcase was packed. What to wear? I had visions of sophisticated Parisian women teetering about in Christian Louboutins, with chic haircuts, but Alexandre told me that I would be disappointed, that Parisians were no more glamorous than anybody else.

There was so much art I wanted to see in “the flesh:” the
Mona Lisa
,
Venus de Milo,
just for starters. So much
patisserie
I needed to sample, so many . . . of everything, I was feeling giddy with nerves.

ALEXANDRE AND I were ensconced in the George V, one of Paris’s most opulent hotels. It described itself as “located just steps from the Champs-Elysées, with private terraces that command all of Paris, lovingly restored 18th-century tapestries, and a defining spirit of elegance and charm, Four Seasons Hotel George V, Paris redefines luxury in the City of Light.”

Every word was true. Alexandre couldn’t have picked a more stunning place.

So far, I wandered around with flutters in my stomach, not so different from the first time I set eyes on Alexandre. The hotel, in itself, was a feast for the senses, let alone the rest of Paris. We were staying in the Presidential Suite. I dared not even imagine the cost, but Alexandre insisted that I experience Paris in all its glory.

He didn’t care to stay with his mother, as he wanted us to be completely free and not feel obliged to hang out with them if we didn’t feel like it. I had mixed emotions about meeting her. I couldn’t shake off the fact that she was a
murderess
. I was partly in awe that she had the guts to go through with it, but also horrified. Surely, there could have been another way? Why couldn’t she have escaped in the dead of night and hidden in a small village in South America somewhere? But murder? I looked forward to meeting her, with both trepidation and wonder.

Daisy insisted on staying with the group. Alexandre rented an apartment for them, replete with kitchen and plenty of room for everyone to run around and make a mess. The girls had all been rendered speechless and were less wild than I had imagined; a lot of them never having left New York, let alone visit another country. One of them asked if French Fries came from France—a good question and it made me laugh. Although we’d be spending time with them, I was primarily here to be with Alexandre and meet his family, except for when he was to go to London.

The first evening Alexandre and I were alone for a romantic dinner. As we walked into the foyer, a smell of flowers invaded my nostrils. The floral arrangement of purple orchids was breathtaking. Bunches of blue hydrangeas, orchids and delphiniums were balanced on the edge of tall vases. Red dahlias used sparingly for contrast. Indigo-blue, purple, mauve—all these matching tones complemented each other in a harmonious dance of color. I was in a daze.

“You know why I always pick this place?” Alexandre asked me without waiting for an answer. “Because of the famous flower arrangements here, designed by the florist extraordinaire, Jeff Leatham. I can always be guaranteed to walk into another world when I arrive at the George V. After a tense meeting, it’s what I always crave.”

“So you never stay at your mother’s or with Sophie?”

He handed over his credit card to the concierge. “Not often. I like to be free to do my own thing. Not be beholden to anyone. Besides, here it’s perfect. If I need to borrow an umbrella it’s there. Fluffy towels, can order room service when I want, the suite comes with my own private gym. The spa’s relaxing, the massages exquisite . . . you get the picture.”

“You’ve become a spoiled businessman, with a penchant for luxury.”

“Yeah, I’m guilty. Sue me.” He gave me a sly wink.

“Bonsoir, monsieur Chevalier.” The concierge rattled away to Alexandre in French while I surveyed the beautiful surroundings. Our bags had already been whisked away from us, and we were free to meander.

We wandered through the lobby, to an inner courtyard open to the elements, and I noticed that these same, stunning orchids in the floral displays had been suspended in the air by seemingly invisible threads, covering the expanse as if they were floating in the air. Instead of a carpet of color, it was like a
cloud
of color and reminded me of Alexandre’s lavender fields at his house in Provence.

When we arrived at our suite, our bags had been delivered ahead of us. It was stunning. The walls were decorated in China blue and white brocade. The place was the size of a generous apartment, with two bedrooms, a living room, a dining room, a private gym, and three bathrooms. The rooms boasted antique, Louis XlV furniture, crystal chandeliers, huge sofas, a dining room, with table and chairs, and even a marble fireplace overhung with a vast, Italian, gilt mirror. The master bedroom had a sumptuous king-size bed majestically backed with swathes of the same blue fabric. The oversized, marble bathroom included a steam room, sauna, bidet, and a private walk-in dressing room, plus a guest powder room, no less. We could have fit Daisy’s entire entourage in here but had it all to ourselves. Really, it seemed a shame that we had to leave this hotel for even five minutes. We were in
Paris
—that in itself was enough of a treat—a broom closet would have been enough . . . but this? This was sinful.

Alexandre eyed me up with amusement. “Don’t tell me you’re feeling guilty?” He knew me so well—funny how he could read my thoughts just by my expression.

“Not guilty, just . . . well, this is overwhelming. Just coming for a cocktail to the George V would be enough, but this is—”

“You’re not allowed cocktails, chérie.”

“Don’t I
know
it! Not allowed anything I yearn for.”

“Only three more weeks, baby, till your trimester is up, and then you can have what you want most.”

The Weapon of Mass Destruction
or, as I now saw it, the
Tool of Creation.

He stepped closer and laid his arm around my shoulders, drawing me into him, inhaling me as if I were one of the sweet-smelling floral arrangements.

“You know how much I think about fucking you?” His eyes lit up, then narrowed into lascivious slits.

“Sometimes you frighten me,” I said, the way Little Red Riding Hood might have said to the Big Bad Wolf licking his chops.

“I’ll go slow, but boy, am I going to do things to you the moment I can.”

“You could now,” I suggested, gripping the collar of his shirt and pulling him toward me.

“I wouldn’t trust myself. Anyway, waiting makes the prize all the sweeter, chérie. I’m a patient man.”

His face met mine and he kissed the corner of my mouth, letting his lips trail even softer kisses along my jaw-line. I tilted my head up and he ran his lips down my neck, making little nips as he pulled me tightly to him, as if he never wanted to let me go. I felt his erection pressed up against my belly, and I parted my mouth, my eyes closed.

“You smell so good,” he breathed. One of his hands gripped my waist, and the other caressed my stomach, sketching his fingertips over the curves. “Nice, I can feel that there’s life inside of you.”

“It’s too early to feel a heartbeat though, isn’t it?”

“Not a heartbeat, but I feel a little belly growing. Very sexy. There’s nothing more erotic than a pregnant woman. Well, a pregnant woman carrying
my
child, anyway.”

My jaw suddenly clenched; his words made me remember something extremely unpleasant. “When are you going to London?”

He winced. “I don’t want to think about Laura right now. I just want to enjoy this evening with you, and savor every second with the woman I’m in love with.”

He parted my lips with his tongue and began a demanding but slow kiss, probing his tongue inside my mouth and then clasping his teeth gently on my lower lip. A deep growl stirred somewhere deep inside him. He let go and murmured, “Sorry, that was a bit rough . . . you bring out the beast in me, Pearl.”

“I bring out the
best
in you,” I whispered against his perfect mouth, and then returned his kiss, clinching my hands around the back of his neck and pulling his head to mine so there was no space between us. Our tongues began their erotic tango of tease and pull, tantalizing and coaxing, hot and sensual. I could feel my nipples harden, my stomach pool with desire. I stroked my tongue along his, and he moaned into my mouth. “I’d do anything for you, chérie. I’d kill for you. I’d do anything to protect you, my precious Pearl.”

“Me too,” I replied. “I’d do anything. And I swear, I’ll never run from you again, no matter what.”

“Dance with me.”

“I didn’t know you liked dancing.”

“There are a few things about me you’ve yet to find out,” he told me in a soft, enigmatic voice. He took out his iPod and put on a song a slow, sexy salsa beat, sung in French.

“What’s this?”

“
Mon Ami,
by Kim. Listen to the lyrics—the words are perfect for us, chérie—they tell our story.”

He placed his hands around the small of my back and languidly moved his hips in time with the music. He pressed his thigh in between my legs and kept up a sweet pressure as he rocked his groin with the rhythm of the beat, leading me around the room in slow circles. He was a great dancer. I relaxed into him, letting him guide me. My French wasn’t perfect but I got the gist of what Kim was singing about.
Mon Ami
—my friend. I listened to the words, catching snippets of bits I understood . . .
nobody can separate us . . . I’d do anything for us . . . I would do anything for you . . . I’ll be there for you . . . you need me . . . you can count on me . . . only you can enter my secret garden . . . I want to share everything with you . . . the good and the bad.