Shimmers of Pearl (The Pearl Trilogy, Part 3) (21 page)

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

“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 tease.

He sways his hips to the rhythm of the music, cupping my butt and murmurs, “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 any more, 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 say.

He laughs and then nibbles my ear. I get that brain-numbing feeling again, but I want to know more about this dark horse who is my husband to-be, so I don’t let it distract me, which is 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 have a feeling it must have been gruesome so that’s why he didn’t want to tell me - trying to forget. I want to ask him how many men’s lives he’s taken, but I stop myself. Do I really want to know? Killing obviously runs in his family’s blood; makes up his DNA.

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

He sniggers. “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 agree. “External forces.”

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

“We do,” I reply, nestling my head against the crook of his neck. He smells so good and he is mine. All mine.

The song has ended. My heart’s racing from the measured sensuality of our dance; we’re united by the lyrics, understanding each other’s dark passengers who travel beside each of us – our shadows, our alter egos. I like 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 can almost taste.

“Dinner?” he asks.

“Yeah, I’m feeling a little hungry.” I know he’s 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 glimmer with irony.

He lifts up my top, unhooks my bra, pushing it away from my breasts very slowly and deliberately, then begins to suck my nipples, one by one. Our dance has me already turned on, as it is, but this…? My eyelids are doing their fluttering thing which means I’m entering the zone…oh my…. He holds my body steady as he feeds on me like a vampire - pressing that strong, Taekwondo thigh tight between my legs. I’m on fire. The dance was a prelude…making me desirous for more. Lately, I keep wanting more…oh wow…his sucking feels incredible. His soft hair is tickling my skin, my nipples might as well be my vagina, itself. I feel so turned on. This is numbing my brain…turning me into a sex zombie…oh my God…oh wow… he’s feeding on me and it feels…out of this freakin’ world. The next thing I’m aware of, in my semi state of unconsciousness, is a rippling orgasm pushing its way through my hot, moist kernel crashing in a giant wave. I cling to him and moan out his name.

“Alexandre….oh Jesus….aaah.”

He stops suckling and just flickers his tongue against my nipple as I float down slowly from my pedestal amidst the clouds.

Déjà-vu all over again.

T
he next morning, Alexandre decides that the best way for me to get a feel of Paris is for us to just amble about and avoid the teeming tourist spots. He tells me that Paris is a
feeling
, not just a city. Interesting.

He’s already dressed in jeans and a black T-shirt and I’m lounging in bed, propped up with a sinful amount of down pillows like a princess in a vast, sumptuous throne. We’re enjoying a huge spread of breakfast, devouring mouth-watering
patisseries
– breakfast in bed. Half of me doesn’t want to leave our suite, ever. I’ve had a long lie-in this morning and feel well rested.

This pregnancy is definitely making me tired. Luckily, I have only had a little morning sickness but the idea of rushing about the city, cramming in every sight is 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 take a long sip of freshly squeezed orange juice. “I’ll be fine; I’m not some fragile egg that will 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 don’t use a cell phone so Alexandre is taking all my calls. I feel as if I have 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. They were 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 sink 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 pulls back the drapes and gazes out of the window. “It’s sunny out. A rare treat in Paris in winter. We can meander through 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 flips. I’d momentarily forgotten about his mother –
the murderess
. Maybe she’ll hate me, the way Sophie did at the beginning. I say nothing and smile. “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 edges across his face and his eyes crinkle 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 comes and sits at the edge of the bed. He’s been up and dressed for hours. I’m still naked, wearing nothing but Chanel N° 5, bathing in the luxurious zillion-count sheets.

He strokes 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 joke.

“Don’t laugh. People spend years of therapy trying to achieve that.”

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

He pouts and blows his mouth the way the French do when they’re discussing politics or something important (food, sometimes), and says, “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 giggle. “You’re right, we’ve met our match, the pair of us.” My eyes stray from his intense gaze to the classic paintings in the room and the elaborate décor and I say, almost in a trance, “You know, some people assume you have everything all neatly worked out as you get older. It’s true that 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 make-up 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 think back to our meeting in the coffee shop and add, “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 puts his warm hand under the bed clothes and gives 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 laughs. “There should be a Barbie doll with a wind up key that says,” (imitating 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 want to say,
Laura doesn’t think so
, but I stop myself. I don’t want thoughts of that witch to spoil my reverie in Paris.

“What else did you think of me when we met?” I ask, 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 winks at me and runs 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 say (pun on 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 presses 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 laughs. “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 be organized and making lists,” I tease.

His lips curve slightly. “Amongst other things.”

“What other things?”

“Ah, that would be telling. You’ll have the rest of your life to find out.”

“What? You have
more
secrets? I thought you’d told me everything!”

“It would be a bit dull if you knew
everything
about me, wouldn’t it?”

“Something tells me, Alexandre Chevalier, that life with you will never be dull.”

***

The sky is mostly blue and clear but the air crisp. I pull up the collar of my coat and link my arm tightly with Alexandre’s. I don’t say much as everywhere I turn there is some spectacular building saying ‘look at me, how proud and stunning I am’ and I amble along in a daze. Paris does not disappoint but it’s hard to put it into words – Alexandre is right, it’s a feeling. A feeling of majesty, grandeur and pride.

We come across the
Grand Palais
, a magnificent
Belle Epoque
landmark and museum with Greek-style columns and a glimmering, glass domed roof supported by heavy cast iron beneath. It looms ahead of us. The
Petit Palais
is nearby, arranged around a courtyard and garden – manicured and laid out symmetrically. I see that Paris is highly structured, nothing left to chance, nothing abandoned, at least, not here, where everything is neat and tended. The buildings face a beautiful arched bridge that crosses the Seine, the artery of Paris.