“I’ll wait over there,” he said, awkwardly handling my bag as if it were a bomb. Why is it men find a woman’s handbag so embarrassing? But he seemed relaxed now, getting out his cell phone as he made a call.
I raced into the ladies room, making a dash to the window. I climbed on the toilet seat trying not to make any noise, and raised my leg up, twisting and contorting myself into yogi-like positions until I was able to squeeze myself through the window. Better this than dead in Vegas, I thought. It was dark out there and hard to tell where I was going to land. All I had was the wad of dollar bills in my front jeans’ pocket with the car key, my passport in the back pocket. My cell and everything else was in my purse, with him. There was no point bringing any of it—he’d be able to trace the movement on my credit cards and cell phone—and would. My heart was pounding in my chest. I fell headfirst and managed to twist my torso back around so I landed on my feet the other side. My eyes darted about to fix my location. Luckily, this airport was fairly small, and I spotted the position where we’d parked the Mercedes. I sprinted like crazy until I reached it.
I leaped inside, turned on the ignition and drove like a bat out of hell.
ALEXANDRE
I WAITED FOR PEARL. And waited.
I stood there like a fucking lemon, holding her handbag. At first I wasn’t paying attention because I was so busy talking on my cell, organizing our wedding. What a fucking joke. I called the car rental people to ask them to come and pick up the Mercedes key from me. Hang on a minute . . . where’s the bloody key? I fumbled in my jacket pocket . . . no key. Did Pearl have it? No, why would she? That was the first alarm bell. When I saw that the coast was clear and no other women were in the ladies room, I sneaked in.
“Pearl? Hurry up, baby. Are you done?” She had told me that she needed to change her tampon. Nothing. The place was empty. I peered into all the cubicles. What the fuck? Then I saw . . . I looked up and there was a tiny window, wide open. I dashed out of the room, through some double doors, and onto the tarmac to the spot where I’d parked the Mercedes.
Gone.
She’d done a bloody runner! I looked in her bag and she had even left her phone behind. And her credit cards. She was that desperate to escape from me. A woman on the run. As if I were a wife-beater or something—she wanted nothing more than to get the hell away from me. Tears prickled my eyes. This woman does not want me. I felt as if a hole had been scooped out of my gut. Now I knew the British expression of ‘feeling gutted.’
The jet was waiting.
But without Pearl, I had nowhere to go.
SIBLING REUNION
PEARL
ANTHONY’S APARTMENT was up on a hill, in a beautiful tree-lined street in Pacific Heights. He and Bruce lived in part of a stately Edwardian house which had been divided into three condos. His was the first floor, sporting huge bay windows that looked out over the city of San Francisco. It was light and roomy, decorated impeccably with graceful feminine furniture and walls painted in robin’s-egg blue and whites that were not white but tinged with subtle tints of ivory, worthy of a spread in a designer magazine. There were two large fireplaces, and detailed crowned moldings that ran around the ceiling. Dead center, an elegant crystal chandelier hung like dripping jewels, a “souvenir” that he and Bruce had brought back from Venice, Italy. Which was where my eyes were fixed now, as I lay on the sofa in the living room, contemplating what I should do next. It was nine a.m.—the morning after the night before, and I still hadn’t gone to bed yet.
Bruce, thank God, was visiting his parents in Napa Valley so I didn’t have to make small talk with him. I was not in the mood to make an effort with my brother’s other half and was exhausted from last night’s long drive. I looked like hell, too.
I had driven without stopping. At every moment I half expected to hear a helicopter above me searching with headlights for a Ms. Pearl Robinson, “belonging to” a certain, Mr. Alexandre Chevalier. But I made it through the night. I guessed he would have suspected that I got on a plane to Kauai. Sorry, Dad, next time. Besides, Sophie would be expecting me to be there and I was too freaked out to risk it—I want to stay out of her radar. Alexandre had called here, of course, but Anthony did a great job of sounding shocked and worried. I felt terrible, thick with guilt, but what else could I do? Anthony seemed to be enjoying all the drama but thought I was nuts not to have snapped up the wedding opportunity in Vegas. That’s what he said, but his ironic sense of humor could have you easily fooled sometimes.
Anthony minced into the living room in his pink silk pajamas. I was still in a trance, staring at that flickering crystal chandelier, which was catching beams of morning light flooding through the bay windows. He brought in two large mugs of steaming drinks: coffee for himself and cocoa for me.
He set the mugs on the coffee table, on top of a thick book about Renaissance Art. “Just rent a bodyguard, Pearly. Get the marriage over and done with,” he said, carrying on with this morning’s no-sleep conversation. I still hadn’t got any shut-eye at all.
I covered my yawning mouth. “Dead in a dumpster somewhere with a ring on my finger? What good would that do?”
“As long as I’m your next of kin and can inherit half of Alexandre’s empire,” he joked.
I scowled at him.
“Seriously, Pearl, he’s behaving like a total control freak asshole. Of course you can’t go through with this union as things are right now. He can’t just abduct you into marriage, that’s insane. Even I get that.”
“Yes, well, he’s a man who’s used to getting what he wants.”
“To me it screams insecurity. A man who is so hooked-up on you, HookedUp, pardon the pun—so obsessed with you that it’s scary. Like you’re his possession. It won’t be long before he arrives here, or sends someone. I could tell by his voice on the phone that he didn’t quite believe me when I said you weren’t here. There’s probably someone watching the front door as we speak, waiting to pounce on you. Lucky the rental car is parked in the underground parking, anyway. I’ll warn the neighbors not to say a word.”
“He’ll think I’ve gone to Hawaii.”
“Nuh-uh, he’s already checked all the flights out of LA and has people on the case. He said so on the phone.”
I sighed. “I feel mean and guilty. I should call and tell him where I am.”
“I bet he already knows where you are.”
“How?”
“He has a whole team of private detectives working around the clock—that’s what he told me, or warned me, more like. If you stay here, he’ll be on the front doorstep any minute now throwing you over his shoulder again and riding off into the sunset with you on his galloping black stallion.”
“You make it sound so romantic.”
“Well, it is romantic in a way. Who wouldn’t dream of a guy so in love with you that he’s willing to take you hostage? Especially one as drop-dead gorgeous as Alexandre. However, this psycho sister shit is no joke, and I totally see, Pearly, where you’re coming from.”
“You do?”
“Yes, she sounds like a total fruitcake. And a dangerous one at that.”
“But he just doesn’t get it. He refuses to take it seriously, just tells me that she’ll ‘get used to me.’ The fact that she wheedled her way into Samuel Myers and my movie deal doesn’t faze him at all. Alexandre acted like I was over-reacting and P.S., he forgot to let me in on the fact that he knew about it.”
“It sounds as if he and Sophie are so close after what happened when he was a child that no matter what she does he will always forgive her and make excuses for her until the day he dies. Blood is thicker than water, and I’m sorry, Pearl, but you are the water and she is the blood. He’s obviously crazy about you, but he wants to have his cake and eat it too. He wants you both in his life and is juggling everything to keep it so.”
“Yeah, well, I won’t be in his life much longer if she has her evil way—I’ll be dead.”
“You really believe she could try
and kill you?”
“I told you, Laura called to warn me. She sounded really kind. Really concerned. She ‘supposedly’ tripped down some stairs because the next door neighbor’s child had left some toys there. But she ended up in a wheelchair because of it. She could have died. The whole scenario sounds suspicious to me.”
“She’s still in a wheelchair?”
“No, apparently she’s all better now. Just has a vague limp. But it was a miracle that she was able to walk again. Poor thing.”
“What’s she like?”
“Very nice, I think. Does a bunch of stuff for disabled charities. Despite what happened she hasn’t felt sorry for herself in any way. From photos she looks like a supermodel. Legs that reach up to her armpits, about five foot ten tall, a body to die for, a face like an angel, long blonde hair, and sporty. At least she was sporty once before the ‘accident.’ I think she’s doing round the clock physical therapy and is doing really well. Alexandre mentioned that she wants to sail again. To compete, so she’s dedicated to getting a hundred percent better. So brave. She sounds like a really admirable person.”
“They’re still in contact?”
“Yes, they’re still friends. He still cares for her.”
“Does that make you jealous?”
“It would, but she’s happily married with a husband who dotes on her. Her childhood sweetheart whom she knew before she met Alexandre. Of course, that pang of envy is there, knowing how in love Alexandre was with her once and, as I said, she really is beautiful, but you know, it was a long time ago.”
Anthony took my hand in his and said softly, “You’re beautiful, Pearl. And the fact you are so sweet about your boyfriend’s ex just shows what a beautiful person you are inside too.”
I looked at him in shock. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve said to me for years.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I owe you a big apology. I’ve been a total ass for so long. I’m really sorry, sis, I guess I must have been envious of you, and holding in a lot of anger about John.”
“Envious? Of me?”
“I always felt that Mom loved you more. She always confided in you, not me, especially toward the end. It made me resentful inside and I blamed you for all sorts of things. I now realize I was wrong. Will you ever forgive me?”
My eyes prickled with tears, and I felt a lump in my throat. “Thank you, Anthony for that. It means the world.” I hugged him, his bear-like body now trembling as his tears came gushing out. “Pearly, I feel like such a big, fat failure. When Bruce nearly died, it knocked the wind out of me. I thought I was going to be alone forever and it was then I stopped and thought about you. Really took responsibility for the way I’ve been acting towards you. I’ve been unfair and snarky and bitchy and you’ve . . . you’ve been so patient with me.” He was blubbering now, his large body shaking with emotion. My heart went out to him and I, too, started to cry.
I stroked his pale hair and said, “Because I knew that it wasn’t really you saying all those negative things. That you were hurting after John died, and then Mom, and all that guilt you felt inside. You were taking it out on me because I was the closest person for you to lash out at.”
“How come . . . ” he asked between sobs, “you’re so wise?”
“Because I felt angry, too. I felt guilty, crazy guilt about the tough love thing we were doling out to John. Those goddam meetings we were going to that encouraged us to look out for ourselves more and not pander to him, to stop the co-dependency . . . you know, I felt mad at myself because I didn’t call him back that time . . . like if I’d been there more for him he wouldn’t have taken that overdose. I was mad at you because you and he had had that fight . . . and worst of all? I felt mad at Mom for abandoning us, even though it wasn’t her fault. Can you imagine? I felt furious at her for dying—how screwed-up is that?”
Anthony wheezed out a little laugh. “I guess we’re both as fucked-up as each other, huh? We probably need several sessions with a therapist. Can we be friends now? Can you forgive me for being such a jackass?”
I squeezed him tightly and said, “Of course I forgive you, and we’ve always been friends, no matter what. I’ve never given up on you, Ant. Ever.”
We nestled in each other’s warm embrace. I felt the softness of his pink silk pajamas and smiled. What a pair we were. He—the consummate drama queen and I, a basket-case disaster in every possible way. I couldn’t hold a deal together, had hand-picked a stalking Frenchman as my future husband, who had probably murdered his father, and I didn’t even know if I was bisexual or could even ever have sex with a man and his penis again.
Anthony’s breath hitched from his weeping, and he drew back from me asking suddenly, “Well, did you call her back last night and ask for details . . . about her accusations about Sophie? Proof?”
“Call who back?”
“Laura, of course.”
Oh okay, so we are back to that conversation. Heartfelt sibling reunion over. Fine.
“I didn’t have time,” I answered. “The second after I’d listened to Laura’s message, Alexandre and I had that crazy car chase and then he threw me over his shoulder and took me to Van Nuys Airport to catch the private jet to Vegas. I didn’t have a second.”
“And then you escaped through the toilet window.”
“Exactly.”
“Leaving your cell behind with her number on it so you can’t call her back.”
“Yes.”
“Laura could be making it up or accusing Sophie of something she never did.”
“Whose side are you on, Anthony? You sound like Alexandre! I’m going to end up in an asylum like in one of those psychological horror movies where nobody believes the heroine and sends her stark-raving mad!”
“Sorry, just I haven’t met this Sophie but I have to admit she does have a pretty face from photos and looks kind of nice.”
I pounded a feather cushion with my fists to stop myself from smashing my brother in the face. “Shut up!” I yelled.
“Sorry but all this is kind of . . . I mean, Alexandre loves you, right? He must know his own sister. If she were really going to harm you physically, he’d stop her in her tracks.”
“She stabbed her own father in the groin, Anthony.”
“After he’d repeatedly raped her and beaten her—the father had it coming to him.”
“That’s exactly what Alexandre always says.”
“What happened to their dad anyway? Where is he now?”
“Oh, right, get this . . . he just ‘disappeared.’ ”
Anthony laughed. “Wow, you really are entangled in a family affair, aren’t you? You think Sophie killed their father?”
“Maybe,” I replied, secretly thinking that Alexandre was in on it too, but I didn’t dare say that to Anthony. I thought of how Alexandre had mixed rat poison with his father’s food when he was only a small child. Killing him could have been the next step. My mind shuffled through possible scenarios: Alexandre could be capable of anything, especially recently with all his money and power. He could have even paid someone to do it for them. And that’s why Sophie has such a hold on him. They share a guilty secret. I sat there, wondering at what point the father disappeared. Hmm . . . it would be interesting to know that.
Anthony broke my train of thought, “It sounds to me as if, deep down inside, you like the fact that your fiancé could be a killer.”
I stared at him incredulously. “What?” Can Anthony read my mind? How does he know I think Alexandre could be guilty of murder?
My brother raised his pale blond eyebrows. “Who are your favorite movie characters?”
I rolled my eyes. “What’s that got to do with any of this?”
“You love fucked-up tough guys, Pearl, let’s face it. You like bad boys, menacing, unscrupulous men.”
“Alexandre is not bad, he’s sweet and kind.”
“Who are your favorite movie characters?” he sing-songed. “Travis Bickle, and Michael Corleone, aren’t the
y? I think that says it all, don’t you?”
“Okay, I love Robert de Niro and Al Pacino just because they’re great actors, nothing more.”
“No, what you love most is the mysteriously sinister characters they portray, their ice-cold, ruthless interiors mixed with their dark, brooding, panty-melting eyes. The irresistible villain. Well, in The Godfather and Taxi Driver Bobby and Al were in their prime, of course—they’re grandfathers now but—”
“Alexandre’s eyes are green anyway,” I interrupted.
Anthony took a swig of coffee. “Your fiancé doesn’t have me fooled for a second. Oh, he’s Mr. Perfect on the exterior, alright, with his textbook French manners, opening doors for ladies and pulling out your chair at dinner and giving to charity et cetera et cetera, but within him lurks a dangerous man, believe me. Let’s face it, you’ve always gone for the typical bad boy.”
“That is so not true! Brad wasn’t a bad boy.”
“He started fooling around on you and you gave him the perfect out by having that little adventure with those football jocks. Which means, maybe he wasn’t bad enough for you. You sabotaged the relationship because you secretly found him boring.”
My pulse sped up. “How do you know about the football players anyway, I never told you!”
Hooked Up: Book 2 Page 37