“Enough, Pearl. Stop behaving like a child. Or I’ll have to spank you.”
“Ha, very funny. You are insane, Alexandre Chevalier! Let me down! I won’t marry you. I won’t, I won’t!”
“Yes, you will. Stop playing games.”
“Don’t you dare try and control me, you arrogant French shit!”
“Don’t tell me what to do, Pearl. I know what I want and it’s your crazy ass. You know it, and I know it. You know that we’re meant to be together but you’re just too stubborn to accept it right now. Stop wasting time because in the end I’ll get my way.”
“Ha!” she squealed, still laughing. “You can’t marry me because you don’t have proof of my divorce!”
Pearl had underestimated me. I’d gotten my hands on her divorce papers weeks ago. “All taken care of, baby. All will be quite legal I can assure you.”
I practically threw her into the back of my Mercedes and quickly locked the door. Child safety locks. She couldn’t get out. She was pummeling the windows, and I too knew that I was behaving like a madman. But I didn’t care. I wanted Pearl Robinson—soon to be Chevalier—and I wasn’t going to take no for an answer. I drove off. I could see her through my rearview mirror pouting like a ten-year-old in the back seat. The Sophie topic came up. Of course. Pearl was convinced that Sophie was out to kill her.
She announced, “Laura called.”
Shock horror! The word, “Laura” made my body flush with heat and nausea. Had she revealed all to Pearl? Oh, Jesus. My stomach churned. What is that psycho up to now?
In that second I so wanted to come clean. Tell Pearl about Laura drugging me. Assure her that Laura was making this rubbish up. But I knew that it would make things worse with Pearl. She was on the edge. Admitting that I’d had Laura on top of me, naked, would hardly be the right move—no, Pearl wouldn’t have accepted that for a second. So I said nothing, just kept driving to Van Nuys airport, where the jet would be waiting. The truth was I wanted those wedding bands on our fingers first. Seal the deal. My mission was to marry Pearl and sort the rest out afterwards. Typically male, I realized later. I should have laid all my cards on the table.
But I didn’t.
And it got me into more of a mess than I imagined possible.
PEARL
“Did you hear me?” I said. “Laura called. “She says Sophie tried to kill her.”
There was a long pause, as if Alexandre were thinking about something else entirely. Then he said, “Nonsense.”
“She did! She says it was no accident, and that Sophie owns chunks of Vegas and will have me murdered.”
He didn’t say anything. Just kept his eyes on the road.
“What is wrong with you? Your sister is insane, and you’re too blind to see it!”
“I agree, my sister is a little eccentric, shall we say, but she’s not going to try and have you killed.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I know her. I know how her mind works.”
“Like she stabbed your father in the groin? She is dangerous.”
He turned his head abruptly to me. His lips closed tightly, bitterly—his eyes flashed with rage. “He deserved what he had coming to him. Don’t you dare defend that vicious monster.”
I retaliated, “It doesn’t let Sophie off the hook. She’s out to get me.”
“She’s jealous, Pearl, that’s all. She’ll get used to you.”
“She will not get ‘used to me,’ because I’m bailing, Alexandre. I value my life too highly, however much I love you. I’m not going to marry you with your whack-job sister in the picture.”
“I made some calls tonight. I’m selling her my share of HookedUp. Once and for all. Satisfied? Most men wouldn’t let their girlfriends pussy-whip them the way you have with me about this, but because American women have a history of dominating their men, I’ll forgive you. But just this once. It won’t happen again, Pearl. This is the last time you tell me what to do. Do you understand.” No question mark but a statement.
I was speechless. Pussy-whipped? I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Instead I blurted out, “I got pussy-whipped tonight. Literally.”
He looked around at me with a wry smile, and then back at the road. “Oh yes?”
“Yes, A bit of lesbian S and M.” There, said it. “Surely you don’t want to marry a quasi lesbian who got beaten by your sister’s lover? Oh, and by the way, thanks for letting me in on the fact that Sophie’s gay. Another secret you’ve been hiding from me.”
“I didn’t think it was my place to reveal Sophie’s sexual preferences. It’s something we never discuss—she’s very private. It was up to her to tell you. What do you mean, ‘my sister’s lover?’ ”
“What?? So it’s true then, she is gay?”
“Yes, she’s gay. She kept it quiet from me for years, but I always had my suspicions. What do you mean, ‘my sister’s lover?’ Are you talking about Alessandra Demarr?”
“Yes, I found a photo, which I stole for evidence, as I’m fed up with you telling me I’m imagining things. They’re lovers. At least that’s what the photo is spelling out loud and clear.”
He changed the music. Leaving on a Jet Plane. How apt. “Interesting,” he mumbled.
“What?? Why do you not seem shocked by this?”
“Sophie must have gotten together with her, when we went backstage that time at the theatre, when we saw her in that play.”
“What? Alexandre, why didn’t you tell me this?”
“I did. I told you we saw a play of hers in London. Sophie wanted to congratulate her, so we went backstage afterwards, to the green room, but I got bored waiting so I left. Sophie stayed, though. She never told me the two of them had anything going on, or that they’d even met. I had no idea. And you had a little fun with Alessandra, too? Oh well . . . keep it in the family.” He laughed.
“Stop it!” I yelled, leaning forward, still riding in the back seat. “I am disgusted! I feel used and dumb and a total freaking idiot. Why did I not see this? She seduced me, Alexandre, and I let her. My ass is so sore I can hardly sit. She whipped me, she made me come, she . . . she . . . ” I found myself wailing through angry, shameful tears.
He turned the music down. “Ssh, now chérie, it’s so not important in the great scheme of things.” But he still had a slight smile on his face as if the whole thing tickled him somehow.
“Why the hell do you want me anyway?” I sniffled. “I had a threesome with two guys that went all wrong. I’m a quasi lesbian. I can’t do a work deal without being totally screwed over. I can’t look a penis in the eye, excuse the pun . . . I’m a basket-case. I am a disaster. This is all wrong, Alexandre, this is all screwed-up. I’m screwed up. Really, I’m not the person you thought I was. I’m not Miss Sweetie-Pie, Star-Spangled American Cutie, Golden Girl. Look at me, I’m all over the place.”
He changed gear again. “I know.”
“No, you don’t know! You thought I was perfect.”
He threaded his arm to the back seat and held my hand. “Perfect for me, chérie. You think I want Miss Goodie-Two-Shoes? That I could relate to someone like that with my fucked-up past? I know who you are, Pearl, maybe even better than you know yourself. You’re a contradiction, a paradox, a mix of all things messy and delightful. We’ve only known each other four and a half months but you are my media naranja—my soul mate—I knew that the second I laid eyes on you.”
“The other half of the orange?” I sniveled, grabbing some Kleenex from my purse and blowing my runny nose. “That Spanish expression you wrote me in your love letter?”
“That’s right. We fit perfectly together. We’re two separate orange halves that make up one whole.”
I exhaled with frustration but climbed forward and maneuvered myself into the passenger seat so we could have a more normal conversation. All Alexandre’s love and forgiveness still didn’t solve the Sophie problem. This was exasperating. I felt as if I had been left to bubble and boil in Sophie and Al
essandra’s witches’ cauldron. With Lucifer purring away, observing the whole crazy scene.
“Well this is all a big shock for me, I can tell you,” I said, buckling up, remembering Bette Davis’s line in All About Eve, ‘Fasten your seatbelt, we’re in for a bumpy night.’ “I mean . . . finding out about Sophie being gay, being Alessandra’s girlfriend and, oh yes, P.S., Sophie’s married.”
“So? You think she’s the first gay person to be married? It helps her social status, not to mention fiscal benefits. In France, being single’s expensive. It’s way more cost-effective to have a spouse.”
I glared at him. “Is that why you want to marry me, to save on tax?”
“I file in America, chérie. My primary residence is New York, in case you haven’t noticed. And no, I would never marry for financial reasons, you know that. Sophie’s different—she’s obsessed with money, as you are well aware.”
“I feel grossed out. I might as well have had sex with Sophie herself. I kissed Alessandra. I let her whip me!”
He looked at me for a second, still vaguely amused. “And are you over it now? Cured of your bondage curiosity? Because don’t ask me to get the handcuffs out and spank you.”
I shuffled in my seat, trying to find a comfortable position that didn’t chafe my tender butt. “Yes, I’m over it. It hurts. No more, thank you very much, my derrière is really sore.”
His lips curved very slightly. “Good. Now can we get on with our relationship, or do you have some more sniffing around to do?”
“Are you pissed at me?”
“What I had envisioned in my obviously very boring male imagination was a little kissing between two beautiful women, some light sexual entertainment, not my fiancée being beaten with a whip by my sister’s lover.”
“Yeah, well, I regret it now, that’s for sure.”
I suddenly remembered all the dirty details that Alessandra shared with me about her “ex” liking hairy underarms. The “ex” obviously being Sophie, the “tigress in bed.”
“It was an experiment,” I said, excusing myself. “I wanted to beat out those nasty memories of that fateful night . . . wipe out my past.”
Alexandre took in a deep breath, as if to say, Good luck.
“What, you think that’s crazy?”
“Revenge is a dish best served cold,” he replied ominously.
“What are you trying to say, Alexandre . . . what are you telling me?”
“Nothing, just quoting a rather fitting line from Shakespeare, or maybe not Shakespeare at all; perhaps it’s some old Sicilian proverb.”
Sicily. Alessandra. Yes, come to think of it I’d heard that expression in The Godfather – Michael Corleone talking about how his father gave him that very same advice: Revenge is a dish that tastes best when served cold. I remembered what Alexandre had said to me on the phone, earlier, about the football players—that he’d “track those fuck-heads down” –and then I wondered, was that what he did with his father—serve him up a cold dish of revenge, years later? His father’s “disappearance” . . . a cold payback dish that Alexandre might have taken out of the freezer, thawed and served up when his dad was least expecting it? I was dying to ask but every time I mentioned his father he got riled. Now was not the moment to press him.
The car glided smoothly to a halt. I could see the private jets clustered together a way off–Van Nuys Airport wasn’t a maze like LAX. “We’ve arrived,” Alexandre let me know in a serious voice.
“I’m not going to Vegas.”
“Yes you are.”
“I’m not getting out of this car.”
He laughed. “Do you want me to carry you in a fireman’s lift again?”
“I’ll scream and attract attention so you’ll let me go.”
“Not a chance. I’m keeping a firm grip on you until you’ve got that ring on your finger. I’ll gag you if I have to. You want a bit of rough play, a bit of bondage? –you’ve got it, baby.”
“What good will a dead wife be to you?” I shouted. “Sophie will have me ‘topped off’ as Laura put it. Yes, that was the expression she used.”
“Laura and Sophie get on fine—this is all ridiculous, I can’t believe Laura called you and said that.”
I fumbled in my handbag for my cell. “Right, if you don’t believe me, I’ll play you the message!” I squealed.
He pretended he hadn’t heard. “Where shall we go for our honeymoon? Anywhere in the world . . . you name it, baby, we can go. Kauai or Bora Bora. We can leave straight after the ink is dry on our marriage certificate if you don’t fancy hanging around Vegas.”
I wanted to scream. Why is he ignoring me? I grappled about for my phone in my oversize bag. Where is it? “Alexandre, why are you not listening? Your nutcase sister is going to kill me and all you’re doing is laughing and in total and utter denial! She tried to kill Laura! Where is my goddam phone?”
“Calm down, Pearl.”
I tried to unlock my car door again but he grabbed my wrists. I stamped my feet on the floor. “I will NOT calm down!” Then I fished around in my bag again and finally located my cell. Suddenly, a brilliant idea flashed into my brain like a flashlight. I took a deep breath and said, “Okay, fine, Alexandre. I’m coming along. I’ll be quiet and behave, but please keep an eye on me until we have gotten the hell out of Vegas. I’m scared.”
“Good girl. And don’t worry, I won’t let you out of my sight. Ready now?”
“I think my cell fell out of the side pocket of my handbag,” I lied.
“What a bummer, there’s nothing worse than losing your phone. I’ll buy you another. That one was outdated anyway.”
“Never mind,” I grumbled.
He got out of his side and quickly dashed around to open my door. I generally loved that about Alexandre; he had such gentlemanly manners; always treated me with such respect, opening doors for me—except for now, throwing me over his shoulder like I was a little girl—ignoring my plea. He was so dominating, it worried me. Did I want to marry this man? As things stood at that moment, no, I didn’t. I could just see myself lying dead in a ditch somewhere in the suburbs of Vegas, or in a dumpster with a bullet through my brain, or covered in liquid cement like some Jane Doe in a CSI Las Vegas episode. Alexandre admitted Sophie was “eccentric” but he still wouldn’t stop her mad games. And now he was putting my life in danger! I glared at him furiously.
He helped me out of the car and put both his hands around my waist. “Christ, you’re beautiful,” he murmured with hooded sex-eyes, raking me up and down as if he wanted to eat me alive.
“Thank you,” I mumbled, bowing my head to stop his burning gaze—loathing him and loving him simultaneously.
“C’est normal,” he said in French and then took my face in his large hands, tilted my chin up and planted a firm kiss on my mouth. My heart was racing. His devastating good looks, his flashing green eyes, his soft, dark red lips . . . but more than all that, the adrenaline rush of what I was about to do . . .
I broke the kiss. “I really need to go to the bathroom.”
“You can go when you’re on the plane.”
“Don’t we need to go through some sort of security though?”
“Lately they’ve got a little picky—sometimes they frisk you with the metal detector thing before you board.”
“That’s what I was afraid of,” I said, thinking I had metal balls inside me jiggling away. But then I remembered that I’d taken them out.
He smiled wryly. “Why, have you got a pistol on you?”
“No, just . . . well, I’ve got my period. I’d really like to use the bathroom now, before we board.”
“You’re just saying that. You’ll try to do a runner.”
“That’s one of those British expressions you picked up from Laura, isn’t it?”
“I have a feeling you’ll try and slip away, Pearl.”
“Don’t be silly,” I assured him, holding his hand and leading him to the building where some double doors were.
“I just want to freshen up a bit and those airplane toilets are so squished—even on private jets—you can hardly turn around. Anyway, we have to drop the rental car keys off, don’t we?”
“All I have to do is make a call and someone will come and pick them up.”
“But I need to use the bathroom to clean up.”
“Alright, but don’t dawdle. This is already taking far too long.”
We found the ladies room.
“Why don’t you drop off the car keys while I go to the toilet?” I asked, knowing he’d say no.
“Some chance. I’ll wait here.”
Alexandre hovered outside the door, watching me suspiciously as I went in. I rushed inside to have a scout about. No windows.
I came out again grimacing. “It stinks in there—half the toilets are blocked up. I need to find another.”
“Come on, this is ridiculous, just go on the plane.”
“I have blood all over me,” I hissed at him.
I marched ahead, desperate to bring my plan to fruition, but it looked as if I’d be getting on that jet, like it or not. I found a new bathroom and did a quick check over. Bingo, there was a tiny window, high up. I went over to see if I could open it. Just. It would be a real squeeze but I’d try. I searched in my bag and got out what I needed. All my cash and my passport. I stuffed it in my jeans’ pockets. I casually came out of the ladies room. Alexandre was standing there, legs astride in his Alpha male stance, watching my every movement. I smiled nonchalantly.
I edged up close to him, fingering the expensive material of his sharp, charcoal-grey suit. “You look so handsome. How come you’re wearing a suit today?”
He stroked the knuckles of my hand. “I didn’t get a chance to change. I double-backed on that meeting in Montreal, remember? Chasing about after you, Ms. Pearl Robinson. But not for much longer though,” he glanced at his watch, “before I make you mine. You won’t be Robinson any more. Pearl . . . ” he said, rolling his tongue around the R of Pearl . . . “Chevalier. Sounds good, doesn’t it?”
“Can’t wait,” I answered sweetly. “Hold my purse, will you? There aren’t any hooks on the back of the doors in there. Disgusting, I hate putting my handbag on the floor with all those germs everywhere.” I gave him my bag and hugged him closely, slipping my hand surreptitiously into his jacket pocket until I found what I needed. I distracted him meanwhile with a kiss, gliding my teasing tongue along his lower lip and then I nipped him there with my teeth. I locked my eyes with his. “I love you, Alexandre Chevalier, whatever happens, remember that. You’d better call the pilot and tell them we’re on our way. I’ll be a while in there, though. I need to change my panties.” I held a ‘fresh pair’ up at him (which was, in reality, a bunch of Kleenex scrunched in my hand with his car keys inside) . . . but it did the trick.
Hooked Up: Book 2 Page 36