He chugged his cocktail and ordered one more. “Can I get you another drink?” he asked, pressing his thigh against mine.
He was making my skin crawl. I edged away from him and shook my head. “I’m fine, thank you.” What I really wanted to say was: “Get lost, you prick.” I began thinking of a way to excuse myself.
He hovered next to me, nauseating me with his foul bourbon and tobacco-tainted breath. His steely eyes glared into mine. “So, Gloria, I understand from my daughter that you’re hiring Jaime Zander and his agency ZAP! to take over advertising.”
“Yes.” I nodded.
His gunmetal eyes darkened. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. I want you to reconsider.”
Still sober, I just couldn’t believe he was still mad at Jaime for outbidding him on Rihanna’s diamond-studded underwear.
“I believe his advertising campaign will bring us to new heights,” I retorted. This was the truth, regardless of how much Jaime’s deceit had hurt me. At the moment, I didn’t know whom I despised more—Vivien or her father.
His face darkened. “Let me tell you, Gloria. Nothing good will come from your relationship with that dilettante.”
As much as I loathed Jaime, he was no amateur when it came to his trade. He was pure brilliance. It was time to stand up for him…and myself.
“Victor, you can control our shareholders, but you can’t control my day-to-day decisions as CEO. Gloria’s Secret is my company, and I make those decisions.”
He smirked. “You’re very sexy when you’re defiant.” He leaned in close to me, his tight lips descending onto mine.
I jerked away. The pig! I forced myself to stay diplomatic. “Good night, Victor. And good luck with your meeting. I’ll keep you in the loop with regard to our new advertising campaign. I think you’ll like it.”
I slammed my martini down on the bar counter, leaving Victor with the tab, and stalked off to my hotel room. I so needed to get some rest.
Once at the door to my suite, I rummaged through my purse for my key card. Where had I put it? My designer bag was so monstrous it could be anywhere. I kept digging. My fatigue made me all the more frustrated.
“I want you, Gloria.”
The familiar drawl made me whirl around. Victor again! The glazed look in his eyes told me he was drunk, and in a breath, he was all over me, his hands groping and squeezing.
“Get off of me, Victor,” I pleaded.
“No, darling. It’s time you and I got to know each other better.”
His muscular body pressed me against the hard slab of my door, and then his mouth crushed mine before I could say another word. Exhausted, I didn’t have the strength to fend him off. The more I resisted, the harder he pressed. He wormed his repulsive tongue into my mouth, and ground his stiff arousal against my middle. The groping and squeezing intensified. I writhed and wanted to scream. Desperately. But his mouth and body held me captive. Painfully, I submitted to his advances. I squeezed my eyes closed, to shut out the ugly sight of him.
“Get your fucking hands off her,” growled another familiar voice.
In a nano-second, Victor was sprawled over a bouquet of red roses on the carpeted floor. My eyes found my hero. Jaime Zander! He’d come to my rescue. My rapid heartbeat didn’t know whether to slow down or speed up. My emotions were in turmoil.
Victor crawled to his knees. He shot Jaime a glaring look, his eyes filled with cold fury. “Be careful, Zander. Don’t fuck with me. You were always a problem child. And you still are.”
Victor’s words rippled through me. He had known Jaime since he was a boy?
Jaime didn’t flinch as the older man collected himself and stood up. He plucked out a thorn from his expensive suit jacket.
“Get the hell out of here, Victor.” Jaime’s voice was at once commanding and threatening.
“I’ll be watching your every move,” snarled Victor. “And yours too, Gloria.” Red with rage, he stomped on the exquisite flowers, crushing the delicate buds. He then staggered down the hall to the elevators and disappeared.
I stared blankly at the tattered roses. Once beautiful, they were now in ruin. Their fragility touched something deep inside me, and tears pricked my eyes. I stood there silently, quivering against the door to my suite. A whirling dervish of emotions and questions assaulted me as my eyes met Jaime’s intense gaze.
“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice soft.
I nodded, words failing me in my distraught state.
He placed his strong, beautiful hands on my shoulders. I should have been running away from this man, but instead I craved to sink into him. His tender touch made the anger, pain, and confusion of the last twenty-four hours fade.
“I’m sorry about the flowers,” I finally managed.
“Don’t be. I’ll buy you three dozen even more beautiful roses.”
His words made my heart flutter. “What are you doing here?”
He fisted my braid and traced my face with the wispy ends. His denim blue eyes never left mine. “I owe you an explanation. What you saw with Vivien is not what you think.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, anger creeping back into my voice. My eyes hadn’t lied. Fighting back tears, I turned my head away from him.
He cupped my jaw in his hands and gently turned my head to face him. His eyes bore into mine, and in a heartbeat, his lips consumed mine in a deep, passionate kiss I couldn’t resist. I so wanted and needed it. Heat pooled in my belly before he pulled away.
“Come on, angel. Let’s get the hell out of this place. We need to talk.”
I did something I needed to do all day. Against his chest, I sobbed.
Twenty minutes later, we were on the Left Bank, in a small but elegant hotel on the Boulevard Saint-Germain, soaking in a deep copper bathtub with champagne flutes on a tray table, an arm’s reach away. I was seated backside to him, my knees bent between his outstretched muscular thighs. The hot, sudsy bath was just what my body and soul craved. The tension that had built up inside me began to melt away as Jaime massaged and washed me. His touch was gentle, treating every part of my body reverently, including my breasts. He softly nuzzled my neck, and after tenderly nibbling my earlobes, he breathed into my ear, “We need to talk…but after I make love to you, my angel.”
The L-word stunned me into silence and submission. My shoulders heaved as he lifted my hips and inserted his rock-hard cock into me, inch by delicious inch. The fullness of him inside me made me moan with pleasure.
“Oh, Gloria, you feel so fucking good. Work with me and trust me.” He slowly slid his shaft back down and when he pushed it back up, I met his thrust, enhancing the pleasure for both of us. He let out a sultry sigh.
He was different with me this time. The strokes were smooth and measured, and his soft lips pressed all over the nape of my neck and upper back. The only restraints were his hands, which gripped my hips. Actually, they were more like anchors than restraints, holding me up and helping me ride him as his glorious cock worked me up and down.
He whispered into my ear. “Play with yourself. It’ll make it even better for you.” It was a sweet command, not a barking order.
Still gripping a hip and not missing a stroke, he used his spare hand to place my right hand on the soft folds between my inner thighs. His hand stayed on top of mine as he guided it up and down along the sensitive tissue. No stranger to masturbation, I quickly found my clit and circled my fingers around it. His hand returned to my hip and he intensified the grinding between my legs. He was right. Right as usual. I arched my head as the intense pleasure I was giving myself mingled with the extreme pleasure he was giving me. Whimpers spilled from my lips. Oh, God! I wanted to come!
“Don’t come yet,” instructed Jaime, a hint of his controlling behavior seeping into his sultry voice. “I want to enjoy this for as long as I can.”
“Please,” I panted out. I didn’t know how much longer I could hold on. The waves of ecstasy had begun to crest, the inevitable not far away. Crav
ing my moment of release, I dug the fingernails of my free hand into his thigh as I tried to restrain myself.
“Now, angel,” he finally said. “Fall apart for me.”
On cue, my whole body shook as I combusted with a scream around his pulsating cock. His own orgasm came seconds later with a roar of my name. My head fell back against his taut chest. I could feel it rise and fall, the movements slowing as his breathing stilled. His heartbeat sang in my ear like a love song. He wrapped a brawny arm around my shoulder, coiling my damp braid around his hand, and nuzzled the side of my sensitive neck. His other hand caressed my quivering clit. Bliss. Pure bliss. I don’t know how long we stayed in that position when I heard him say, “Gloria, turn around. Face me. We need to talk.”
So relaxed, all I wanted to do was stay curled up in his arms and close my eyes. But he was right. We needed to talk, and he had traveled far to have a serious conversation. There were so many burning questions that needed answers. I shifted my body so that my longs legs were spread over his, and we were facing each other. His expression was intense, his lush lips pressed tight, and his blue eyes piercing. He looked anxious. I’d never seen this side of him. My heart pounded with anticipation. Maybe I wasn’t going to like what I was about to hear. Taking a deep breath, I braced myself and began.
“How did you know I was here in Paris?”
“Gloria, you should know this about me by now. Where there’s a will, there’s a way. I had to see you.”
“You didn’t answer my question,” I fired back at him.
“I found out from your PR guy. Are you here on business?”
“Personal business.” I wasn’t ready to tell him about Madame Paulette. It was all too complicated. And I didn’t want to get all choked up. Steeling myself, I instead asked the question that most needed an answer.
“Are you fucking Vivien?” I could have said “involved with Vivien,” but it just came out that way. I held my breath waiting for his response.
He sucked in a gulp of air between his teeth.
My heart skipped a beat. He was!
He blew out the air. “Vivien is my stepsister.”
Dead silence. Shockwaves coursed through my body. I struggled to process the information. Victor’s earlier words, “you were always a problem child,” echoed in my head. “Victor Holden is your father?”
“No, my stepfather. My mother was his second wife.”
With that, Jaime launched into his life story, unconsciously rubbing his thumb over the raised scar that marred my chest.
Jaime’s mother, a raven-haired beauty named Delilah, I learned, married his real father, Payton Anthony Zander, a struggling artist, when she found out that she was pregnant with his child. A painter’s model, they had met when the young beauty had posed for him. For Payton, it was love at first sight. Eighteen-year-old Delilah was the muse and lover he’d always dreamt about. The child only added to his infatuation.
Unbeknownst to Payton, the beautiful but impoverished Delilah was an opportunist. She’d agreed to marry Payton, not because he’d fathered her child, but because he had the potential to become a billionaire breakout painter in the league of Jackson Pollack. She dreamt of a life of riches and glamour. And he was the gateway. Except life didn’t turn out as she’d hoped.
Living in a decrepit loft in Venice Beach, California, the young couple struggled to make ends meet; years went by. Jaime’s father remained convinced that each painting would be his first masterpiece, his ticket to fame and fortune. Delilah grew angry and frustrated with Payton’s delusions and resented the love child they’d created because it was just another mouth to feed. More desperate to dress in designer clothing than to keep a roof over their heads, she took on a temporary job as the assistant to a mega-wealthy CEO, a recent divorcee. Victor Holden. Her sensual beauty, even at the age of thirty-two, was irresistible. Their relationship blossomed into something more permanent, both professionally and personally. Six months later, Delilah Zander was the next Mrs. Victor Holden. And thirteen-year-old Jaime was living under the roof of their Beverly Hills mansion along with Victor’s daughter from his first marriage—Vivien.
“My father was devastated. He never stopped loving my mother. We were his whole world.”
His voice hoarse, Jaime took a break to sip some champagne. I followed suit, eager to hear more. I’d already learned so much about him. His father’s portrait of him as a baby that hung in his office flashed into my head. His good looks must have stemmed from his beautiful mother and his creative talent from his artistic father, who I suspected was physically attractive as well.
“Why didn’t your father fight for custody of you? Even joint-custody?” I asked.
Jaime took another sip of the champagne and set the glass back onto the tray table next to the tub. Pain filled his eyes. His fans of thick lashes lowered. “He didn’t have a chance. He was stone broke and stoned out.”
I’d seen Jaime cocky-confident and I’d seen him angry-mad. But sad was something new. I ran my fingers through his silky, damp hair and met his forlorn eyes. I could feel them reach out to me. He inhaled a deep breath.
“Three months after my mother married Victor, my father took his life. He shot himself.”
With a gasp, I clapped a hand to my mouth. The explosive sound of a gunshot filled my head. Reliving my own gunshot, I shuddered.
Jaime tenderly cupped my face between his hands. “Are you okay?”
Returning to the moment, I nodded. I now understood what made Jaime Zander who he was. Why he needed money, power, and control. He was afraid of falling into a dark abyss in the footsteps of his poor, struggling father. By controlling women and shunning commitment, he could avoid being hurt the way his father had been by his mother. I also understood why he hated Victor Holden. Victor had destroyed his parents’ marriage and brought his father to the ultimate jumping off point of despair.
“Were you close to your father?” I asked softly, suspecting the answer.
“Very. Even with his downfalls. He was loving. Creative. Fun. He taught me to open my eyes and see the world. To use my imagination. I was a lot like him.”
The look on Jaime’s face grew melancholic. In his mind, he was traveling back in time. Reliving nostalgic memories with his beloved father.
A pang of sadness shot through me. It wasn’t hard for me to imagine how difficult it was for a beautiful, confused thirteen-year-old boy to lose his father, the person he loved the most in the world. Kevin, in a way, had gone through that tragic journey with his homophobic father; a different kind of loss, but nonetheless the loss of a cherished parent.
I gently rubbed my hand along the side of his face, relishing the soft layer of unshaven stubble. “I’m sorry about your loss.”
Jaime quirked a ghost of a smile. “My father’s always been my inspiration. A day doesn’t go by without thinking about him. I still miss him.”
I now saw Jaime differently. Behind the confident, cocky façade was a sensitive, wounded soul. With my own narcissistic, negligent mother and broken childhood, there was a new, profound connection between us. I circled his face lightly with my fingertips. Though I already knew the answer, I asked, “Do you blame Victor for destroying your father?”
Jaime stiffened. His eyes blazed with fury. “I blame him for destroying my father and my mother.” He paused. “And for almost destroying me.”
My eyes widened. “What do you mean?”
“He abused me.”
The web of fine scars along his back flickered in my head. He was being very open, so I dared to ask him, “Did Victor physically hurt you?”
Jaime’s blue eyes narrowed and his lips clenched. He sucked in a sharp breath. “The bastard beat me. He liked using his riding crop.”
“Oh my God,” I cried out. My loathing for Victor spiked and consumed me. A mixture of rage and sorrow coursed through my blood. I had the burning urge to run my lips over every one of Jaime’s scars. I’d read once that scars tell you the hurt is over.
That you’ve healed. That was pure bullshit. They always reminded you of the past and the pain. My own above my heart never stopped.
Jaime continued. “Victor hated me. I was just something in the way. And I was not his blood…unlike Vivien who he adored.”
Vivien. The sound of her name made me cringe. “How old was Vivien when you moved to Victor’s house?” I asked.
“Twelve going on twenty.”
I did the math in my head. That meant she was older than the twenty-nine years she claimed to be; in fact, we were probably the same age. The lying bitch!
“How did you and Vivien get along?”
“Vivien was a manipulative, spoiled brat who had a crush on me. I was a vulnerable, insecure, fucked up kid. One night when she was fifteen, she raided her father’s liquor cabinet, and we both got drunk.”
I knew what was coming next and braced myself.
“She got me to fuck her.”
I inhaled air through my nose. “Do you still fuck her?”
“No, but she still wants to fuck me. What you saw at the bar was another one of her manipulative attempts to get me into bed. I was trying to ward her off without creating too much of a scene when you passed by.”
Deep inside, I knew he was telling the truth. I lowered my eyelids, suddenly feeling bad that I’d mistrusted him. “I’m sorry I ran off.” My voice was small.
Jaime tilted up my chin and gazed into my eyes. “Angel, you don’t have to apologize. You had no idea.” He paused. “There’s something else you need to know. Vivien’s not my type. I could never be with her. She’s a dominatrix.”
The news of Vivien’s sexual preference didn’t surprise me, given her brazen personality and fashion sense. In my head, I could easily imagine her in a black leather corset, fishnet stockings, and thigh-high leather boots, wielding a whip. Victor’s riding crop? Had she ever used it on Jaime? I inwardly shuddered; I didn’t want to know.
Trainwreck 2 (Trainwreck #2) Page 29