Hooked Up: Book 3 (25 page)

True, this song was written for us.

“What else are you hiding from me?” I whispered into his hair.

“I’m a black-belt in Taekwondo.”

Ripples of excitement shimmered through me. There was nothing sexier that a trained killer who knew how to control himself. “That figures. I always wondered where those thigh muscles came from,” I said, pressing myself even harder against his leg. Can you break blocks in two?”

“I can break a lot of things in two, chérie,” he said, turning me with the rhythm. “I
can,
but I usually don’t.”

“Just so long as you don’t break my heart in two.”

His lips curved upward and he turned me again, leaning me back a little. I arched, relishing the sensation as he locked his mouth on my throat, kissing me there then trailing his lips across my shoulders. I was wearing a thin, cotton tank top, and goose-bumps sprinkled themselves all over my sensitive body. He pulled me close again and nipped my earlobe seductively.

“What other secrets have you been hiding from me?” I whispered.

“That I joined la
Légion Etrangère
.”

The French Foreign Legion
—some of the toughest men in the world. A fighting force designed to make use of prisoners and convicts, offering them a better life, people with no families and nowhere to go: men with criminal records. Nice.

“I thought only madmen joined the French Foreign Legion,” I teased.

He swayed his hips to the rhythm of the music, cupping my butt and murmured, “We came from over a hundred and forty different countries. True, some of the men had very dubious pasts and criminal records, but they were some of the most loyal, trustworthy people in the world. They don’t let axe murderers sign up anymore though. These days, they do screen recruits, but yes, there are some pretty tough characters who join. It offers men a second chance. When you join up you get a new name, a new identity . . . you become a blank canvas.”

“A killing machine,” I said.

He laughed and then nibbled my ear. I got that brain-numbing feeling again, but I wanted to know more about this dark horse who was my husband to-be, so I didn’t let it distract me, which was obviously his intention.
Geez, how many more secrets does Alexandre Chevalier have?

“So, how long were you in the French Foreign Legion?”

“You sign up for five years. I was fifteen but I forged my I.D. and managed to fool the recruiting officer. I was there for just under eighteen months when my mother found out where I was and reported them for recruiting someone underage. In the end, I got sent home.”

“They didn’t realize?”

“I looked older than my years. Maybe they did have an inkling but turned a blind eye, until my mother got on their case. I did well there. I was a force to be reckoned with at that age—I was pretty wild. They wanted me to come back when I was eighteen, but I had other interests by that point.”

“How come you never told me all this about your past?”

“I’m a businessman now, I left that part of me behind.”

I had a feeling it had been gruesome so that was why he didn’t want to tell me. Trying to forget. I wanted to ask him how many men’s lives he’d taken, but I stopped myself. Did I really want to know? Killing obviously ran in his family’s blood; made up his DNA.

I tightened my hold on him instead, “A businessman, huh? You’re my own, private Michael Corleone.”

He snickered. “Is he your secret hero?”

“Al Pacino when he was young playing him. Yes.”

“Very . . . um . . . what can I say? Quite a ruthless figure.”

“He had to be. He had no choice.”

“External forces.”

“Yes,” I agreed. “External forces.”

“Well, we both know about that, don’t we?”

“We do,” I replied, nestling my head against the crook of his neck. He smelled so good and he was mine. All mine.

The song ended. My heart was racing from the measured sensuality of our dance. We were united by the lyrics, understanding each other’s dark passengers who’d traveled beside each of us: our shadows, our alter egos. I liked bad boys, obviously. Anthony was right. Nobody else had been dark enough for me . . . until I met Alexandre. Perhaps, in another era, in other circumstance, I could have been Bonnie to his Clyde. A fantasy, but one that I could almost taste.

“Dinner?” he asked.

“Yeah, I’m feeling a little hungry.” I knew he was taking me downstairs to
Le Cinq
—famous for its delicious cuisine.

“Me too, but I think I’ll have a little snack first.” His green eyes glimmered with irony.

He lifted up my top, unhooked my bra, pushing it away from my breasts very slowly and deliberately, then sucked my nipples, one by one. Our dance had me already turned on, but this . . . ? My eyelids did their fluttering thing, which meant I was entering “the zone” . . . oh my . . . He held my body steady as he fed on me like a vampire, pressing that strong, Taekwondo thigh hard between my legs. I was on fire. The dance was a prelude . . . making me desirous for more. Lately, I had kept wanting more . . . oh wow . . . his sucking felt incredible. His soft hair tickled my skin—my nipples might as well be my vagina itself. I felt so turned on. This was numbing my brain . . . turning me into a sex zombie . . . oh my God . . . oh wow . . . he was feeding on me and it felt . . . out of this freakin’ world. The next thing I was aware of, in my semi state of unconsciousness, was a rippling orgasm pushing its way through me, crashing in a giant wave. I clung to him and moaned out his name.

“Alexandre . . . oh Jesus . . . aaah.”

He stopped suckling and just flickered his tongue against my nipple as I floated down slowly from my pedestal amidst the clouds.

Déjà-vu, all over again.

T
HE NEXT MORNING Alexandre decided that the best way for me to get a feel of Paris was for us to just amble about and avoid the teeming tourist spots. He told me that Paris was a
emotion
, not just a city. Interesting.

He was already dressed in jeans and a black T-shirt, and I was lounging in bed, propped up with a sinful amount of down pillows, like a princess in a vast, sumptuous throne. We were enjoying a huge spread of breakfast, devouring mouth-watering
patisseries
; breakfast in bed. Half of me didn’t want to leave our suite, ever, even though I’d had a long lie-in that morning and felt well rested.

This pregnancy was definitely making me tired. Luckily, I had only suffered a little morning sickness, but the idea of rushing around the city, cramming in every sight, was exhausting me just thinking about it.

“Don’t worry, chérie, the best of Paris isn’t very big. We don’t have to go anywhere in particular. And if you get tired, we’ll hail a cab.”

I took a long sip of freshly squeezed orange juice. “I’ll be fine; I’m not some fragile egg that’ll break.”

“I don’t want to take any chances. Daisy and her entourage have already set off—they’ll be chomping at the bit.”

“She called?” I still didn’t use a cell phone, so Alexandre was taking all my calls. I felt as if I had some extremely handsome PA.

“I told her you were mine today, and that I didn’t want to share you.”

“Oh.”

“She insists, anyway, that we have our romantic break together, that you get plenty of shut-eye, and she won’t hear of coming along and disturbing the peace with nine unruly children.”

“They were being so jaw-droppingly quiet yesterday, though. Going about open–mouthed, in total awe.”

“Not anymore—they’re rampaging through the streets of Paris. Last night they took a boat trip on the Seine, and today it’s the Eiffel Tower, followed by the Louvre.”

I sank back again into the plumped-up pillows, secretly not wanting to go anywhere. “And what about us?”

“I’m tempted to keep you here as my hostage.”

“I might be all too willing and not very hostage-like.”

He pulled back the drapes and gazed out of the window. “It’s sunny out. A rare treat in Paris in winter. We can meander around the Rive Gauche, along the river, or just pass by La Place de La Concorde and through Le Jardin des Tuileries. Then I thought we could have lunch with my mother.”

My stomach flipped. I’d momentarily forgotten about his mother . . .
the murderess
. Maybe she’d hate me, the way Sophie did at the beginning. I said nothing and smiled. “How lovely.”

“Don’t be nervous, chérie, she won’t bite.”

“You can tell I’m nervous?”

“Yes, Pearl. I usually know what you’re feeling; you’re not very good at hiding your emotions.” His crooked smile edged across his face and his eyes crinkled with mirth.

“I amuse you, Monsieur Chevalier?”

“Yes, you do. You make me laugh. The first time I met you, you told me that you were into classic TV shows, like
I Love
Lucy,
and
Bewitched.
I knew, right then, that you had a silly, self-depreciating sense of humor, and that you were someone who didn’t take herself too seriously. I thought that was very brave of you to lay your cards on the table like that, when it was obvious you liked me.”

“I was trying to play it cool. I felt like a total idiot afterwards, I can tell you. Thought I’d blown my chances.”

He sat at the edge of the bed. He’d been up and dressed for hours. I was still naked, wearing nothing but Chanel N° 5, bathing in the luxurious zillion-count sheets.

He stroked my face with the back of his fingers. “You’re not afraid to show your girlish side—that’s unusual. You’ll make a great mother, Pearl.”

“You think so?”

“I know so.”

“What? Because I act like a little girl myself? Connect so well to my inner child?” I joked.

“Don’t laugh. That’s what Picasso achieved with his art. People spend years of therapy trying to achieve that.”

I sighed. “Therapy . . . that’s something I’ve never even dared try.” I knew I really should have seen someone after my nightmares about the rape but . . . I guessed I was too chicken. I used swimming to let it all out, instead.

He pouted and blew his mouth, the way the French do when they’re discussing politics or something important (food, sometimes), and said, “We’re all fucked up, one way or another. At least you and I are in this together. We make a good dysfunctional team.”

I giggled. “You’re right, we’ve met our match, the pair of us.” My eyes strayed from his intense gaze to the classic paintings in the room, and the elaborate décor, and I said almost in a trance, “You know, some people assume you have everything all neatly worked out as you get older. It’s true you become a bit wiser, yet I’m still the same person inside as when I was seven years old. Certain things never change. You can put on makeup and heels. You can have a kick-ass job, but if you’re a sensitive soul you’re still a child inside, no matter how hard you try to hide it.” I thought back to our meeting in the coffee shop and added, “You saw my girlish side but you were meant to find me sophisticated and
glamorous
, Alexandre, and the height of . . .
je ne sais quoi.
I was wearing a suit!”

“The suit didn’t fool me—which, by the way—I wanted to rip off the second I saw you and get my hands on that sexy ass underneath.” He put his warm hand under the bedclothes and gave me a little pinch on my butt.

“You don’t think my ass is too big?”

“Why do women always ask that question?”

“Ah, caught you! Avoidance. You don’t want to answer. So you
do
think I have a big butt.”

He laughed. “There should be a Barbie doll with a wind up key that says,” –and he imitated a robotic, high-pitched squeak—“ ‘Do you think my butt looks big in these jeans?’ Your ass is perfect, Pearl. And you
know
it.”

I wanted to say,
Laura doesn’t think so
, but I stopped myself. I didn’t want thoughts of that witch to spoil my reverie in Paris.

“What else did you think of me when we met?” I asked, waving my fishing hook about.

“In English, when you’re describing something or someone really special you have that expression, ‘gem.’ Like, when I bought my apartment, the real estate agent described it as a ‘real gem.’ Well, in France we say a ‘rare pearl.’ So when I met you and you told me that your name was Pearl, it confirmed everything.”

“What did it confirm?”

“That I wanted you. I decided, then and there, that I must have you.” He winked at me and ran his finger along my neck.

“You were subtle about it, though. Pretty slow.”

“Buying a woman a string of Art Deco pearls, after you’ve only been on one date together, is subtle?”

“No, you’re right—that was pretty intense, but . . . well . . . you didn’t jump my bones straight away—you wouldn’t even come in for a night cap, a ‘
knight
’ cap,” I said, emphasizing the word knight—his last name, Chevalier, ha ha ha).

“The ‘wham bam, thank you ma’am’ method isn’t my style, Pearl. I knew you needed time. Needed to be wooed gently. I had a sense that you were damaged and vulnerable on the inside, but fancied yourself as some tough-nut New Yorker. I wasn’t mistaken.”

“I
am
a tough-nut New Yorker! You should see me doing deals—I can be mean.”

He pressed his lips to my nose. “You can pretend to be mean but you don’t have a mean bone in your body.”

“I can be a bitch, trust me.”

He laughed. “You and Sophie have a lot in common, funnily enough.”

“Will Sophie be at lunch today?”

“If she is, she’ll only be there to see us. As I said, she doesn’t visit my mother so often.”

“I guess I’d better get out of bed. What should I wear?”

“Sneakers, as we’ll be walking. Jeans. You really don’t need to make an effort.”

“Are you sure? Your mother’s Parisian.”

“Actually, she’s not. She’s originally from the Alsace region in the east.”

“German stock.”

“Yes, well, many Germans like to think of that region as theirs still. After all, that part of the world did once belong to them.”

“So that’s where you get your height from? And your penchant for being organized and making lists,” I teased.

His lips curved slightly. “Amongst other things.”