Unforgettable: The Complete Series (A Sexy Cinderella Standalone Love Story)

by Nelle L'Amour

  After donning his jacket, Brandon ushers me into the limo and then joins me. He tells the driver to make a stop at Platinum. A disco? I’m confused.

  I’m even more confused when the driver pulls up to a car rental agency just outside the airport.

  “Zoey, this is where we get out.”

  “Huh? Aren’t we going to The Carlton too?”

  “Yup.” He bids farewell to our companions. “We’ll catch up with you guys later.”

  The chauffeur exits the car and comes around it to open the passenger door. Brandon steps out and then grabs my hand to help me out. He asks the driver to drop off our luggage at the hotel and hands him a generous tip.

  Holding my hand, he leads me inside the car rental place.

  “Zoey, have you ever ridden a bike?”

  Jesus. We’re going to bike into Cannes? Pedal down some scenic path along the Mediterranean? Oh shit. It’s like a sixteen-mile ride. I don’t know if I’m up for that. Brandon breaks into my mini panic attack.

  “Answer me, Zoey. Yes or no?”

  My hand grows clammy in his. I gulp. “Yes. I had a two-wheeler.”

  Brandon bursts into hysterical laughter. “Oh, Zoey, Zoey, Zoey. You’re too fucking adorable.”

  “Are you mocking me?”

  Still roaring with laughter, Brandon marches us up to the rental counter.

  Well, naïve me is in for a big surprise. Fifteen short minutes later, my big butt’s on a bike all right. A sleek violet Ducati Monster Bike—a muscular, coiled, ready for action, sexy beast—just like Brandon. My thighs clench the back seat and my arms clutch his waist as we weave in and out of the insane traffic along the Mediterranean.

  “Brandon, you’re going to get us killed!” I shriek, holding on to him for dear life.

  “Zoey, there’s no need to shout. I can hear you just fine.”

  The clarity of his voice inside my helmet is shocking. “There’s a microphone in here?”

  “Yup. Now chill and enjoy the ride.”

  “But, Brandon. Why couldn’t you just rent a car?”

  “Because this is much faster. Easy to park. And way more fun. Plus with these tinted helmets, no one will recognize us, including the paparazzi.”

  He makes good points. Especially the last one. Ahead of us, an accident is cleared from the road and the bumper-to-bumper traffic eases up.

  “Hold on tight.” Brandon squeezes the throttle.

  V-room! On my next breath, we’re zooming down the scenic N98 at over a hundred miles per hour. My heart’s racing at about the same speed. I try not to scream since he can hear me. Instead, I lean in and cling to him, so tightly I can feel the planes and angles of his taut six-pack beneath his sinfully sexy jacket.

  The speed is not the only thing that’s driving me to squeal. The vibration of the roaring motor is stimulating my clit. And the glorious sensation between my thighs is compounded by the fact that my mound’s rubbing against his gorgeous ass. Wetness mixes with sparks of pure bliss.

  “Are you enjoying the ride now?” I hear him ask.

  “Oh yes!” I say breathlessly. The warm air whips under my clothes, and the delicious sensation between my legs permeates every cell. And the truth is I’m finally relaxed enough to soak in the orgasmic view.

  I’m blown away by the scenery. It’s spectacular. On one side of the dusk-lit road, the cerulean Mediterranean laps the rock-filled shoreline while on the other, pastel-colored villas dot flowering hills. It kind of reminds me of Malibu, but it’s ten times more beautiful. For a brief minute, I work up the courage to lift my visor with one hand and inhale deeply through my nose. The air smells divine. A heady blend of lavender and the sea mixes with the intoxicating scent of Brandon’s leather jacket.

  Brandon expertly maneuvers the sleek motorcycle as if he were born to ride it. He removes one of his hands from the handlebar and slips it under his helmet. A sudden blast of techno music fills my ears—stuff I would never listen to at home, but I like it. It feels right. Makes me exhilarated.

  “Are you okay?” Brandon shouts above the thudding music.

  “More than okay,” I shout back. I feel like I’m stoned. On a high. I truly can’t believe I’m here in the South of France with Brandon Taylor. The hottest man on the planet. Attending the gala world premiere of the season finale of Kurt Kussler. Pinch me again. No, don’t bother.

  “Do you like this bike?”

  “I love it! Does it shoot missiles and lasers?” Seriously, it’s the Aston Martin of motorcycles, and in my head, I imagine Brandon as James Bond driving a decked out one.

  Brandon laughs. “No. But maybe the one I’m going to buy will. I need to protect you.”

  A shudder runs through me. For the first time in days, I think about Donatelli. There’s no way he can be anywhere here in France. I quickly shove his ugly face to the back of mind and refocus my attention on Brandon.

  “You’re really going to buy a Ducati?”

  “Yup.”

  “You’re going to have to annex your garage.”

  “Nah. I’m going to get rid of the Lambo. Been there, done that.”

  I wish he would dump the Hummer. The memory of driving the monster flashes into my head. Not. Good. I’ve lost count of how many times I crashed it. I sure as hell hope Brandon doesn’t make me drive this beast with him on the back seat.

  As if reading my mind, he gives my thigh a little squeeze. “Don’t worry, Zo. You’re never going to touch this baby.”

  I mentally sigh with relief and go back to enjoying my Bond-girl ride. Along the way, Brandon points out several sights, including Nice’s iconic Negresco Hotel, and later on, Gregory Peck’s former majestic villa, and as we enter Cannes, a sign saying: “Cannes: Sister City to Beverly Hills.” There’s one just like it on Santa Monica Boulevard; I’ve passed it countless times.

  “You remember being here before?” I ask him as we drive past the famous sign. He was actually here last Spring, a trip I helped plan.

  “Yeah. Totally. I know this area like the back of my hand.”

  Lately, he’s been having a lot of memory breakthroughs. I wonder if he’s remembered anything more about the day of his accident. I’m dying to ask him, but don’t want to break this euphoria with dark thoughts. Instead, I just let myself enjoy the scenery, the music, and my breathtaking companion. Timeless beauty comes in many forms—be it a magnificent landscape, a high-powered bike, or a panty-melting man.

  The Carlton is Cannes’s grand dame of hotels. I’m in awe of it as we bypass a line of limos and pull up to the paparazzi-swarmed entrance. Built in 1911, it’s a sand-colored palace in the center of La Croisette, the busy palm tree-lined boulevard across from the Mediterranean. Its big claim to fame is that it was prominently featured in To Catch a Thief, starring Grace Kelly and Cary Grant, one of my favorite movies, and where the actress later met her future husband, Prince Rainier of Monaco.

  “Keep your helmet on,” Brandon says as he scoots off the bike. Balancing it, he gives a hard kick to the kickstand while I dismount.

  It’s far from a graceful move, and I’m not standing steady. From squeezing the Ducati so hard, my legs are like Jell-O. And to top it off, my clit’s still throbbing. I’m not sure if I can walk. I take a step and I wobble. While I can’t see Brandon’s expression beneath his tinted helmet, I can feel his smirk on me. Cocky jerk!

  A valet jogs up to us. Extending his thumb and forefinger, Brandon makes his signature Kurt Kussler finger gun gesture and aims it at the man. With a big smile, the uniformed attendant responds with recognition written on his face.

  “Get eet. Got eet? Good…Bienvenue, Monsieur Taylor.”

  “It’s good to be back, Alec,” replies Brandon, handing him a substantial tip in Euros. His memory has indeed come back.

  Taking me by the crook of my arm, Brandon brushes past the smarmy paparazzi, who don’t recognize him, and escorts me into the bustling hotel lobby to check in. I take in my surroundings. There’s a large bar an
d a restaurant, decorated in opulent Belle Époque furnishings and filled with beautiful bronzed movers and shakers. I recognize some stars from other TV shows, but none of them are as big as Brandon. The chic woman at the check-in counter also recognizes Brandon despite the fact he’s incognito and is equally happy to see him. I shudder thinking how close he came to not making it back here and wonder again if he’s recalled anything about his accident. I’m sure he’d tell me as well as Pops.

  There’s no need to leave credit cards or passports as Conquest Broadcasting has handled everything. We’re told our bags are already in our rooms. My room is a single on the fifth floor while Brandon’s got one of the movie-star penthouse suites two floors above me. The Sean Connery suite, named after Brandon’s idol because that’s where he’s often stayed. How fitting! Brandon drops me off at my room and flips me around before I can insert my key card. His hipbones dig into me, pressing me tight against the door. He’s dangerously close to me, his hardness grazing my middle.

  He unfastens the buckle of my chinstrap, his fingers brushing the sensitive crook of my neck. It must be one of my erogenous zones because flutters go flying to my core, igniting a fire between my thighs.

  Rather than taking off the helmet, he lifts up the tinted faceplate and then does the same with his. We’re a whisper away. His warm breath skims my exposed flesh. A hot tingle spirals through me like an uncoiled spring.

  “Do you feel jet-lagged?” he breathes into my parted lips.

  “No, I feel great.” Is he kidding? I feel more than great. Totally exhilarated and turned on. Every cell in my body is buzzing with need and desire.

  His smoldering violet eyes bore into me. They’re radiating heat on my cheeks. I feel myself flushing. Growing weak in the knees.

  “Good. I want to take you out for dinner. I know a great little place in The Old Town overlooking Le Vieux Port that the paparazzi don’t know about. We can sneak out the back way.”

  “Sure.” I can barely manage the word. “What should I wear?”

  He smiles seductively. “Any dress that has a zipper.”

  “Are we biking there?” I ask, running my memory through my new acquisitions for something that’ll let me straddle my legs. The pickings are slim. Most of my new Chaz wardrobe is skintight.

  “I’m not sure.”

  He releases me, and I turn to insert the card into the key slot. My fingers quivering, I have to slide it in and out several times before the door unlocks. I can feel his amused smirk on me.

  “I’ll pick you up at eight thirty. Be ready.” His tone is bossy.

  “I will be.” Without saying another word, I slam the door behind me and, after catching my breath, bang my helmeted head against the slab of wood. So hard I could have knocked myself out had it not been for the protective gear. I remain plastered against the door like a shell-shocked zombie. Holy shit! Did Brandon Taylor just ask me out on a date? My heart is about to beat out of my chest and ricochet straight through my leather bomber jacket. I try to contain and convince myself it’s just a business dinner to go over his MIP schedule, but it’s impossible.

  The enchanting restaurant Brandon takes me to is located across from the water in Le Suquet, Cannes’s “Old Town.” To avoid paparazzi and fanfare, we rode the Ducati here though it’s just a short fifteen-minute walk from The Carlton. The spiffy bike is parked on the street just outside the restaurant.

  It feels like a whole different world. Unlike the glitzy hotel-lined part of the Croisette, charming stone and stucco houses line the hillside terrain along with a towering medieval church. The restaurant overlooks the picturesque harbor. Soft laps of the Mediterranean sound in my ears and boat lights brighten the starry sky. There’s only one word for the setting—romantic.

  “You look really nice,” Brandon comments as we wait to be seated. “That dress becomes you.”

  With a flush of goosebumps, I smile and thank him for the compliment. I’m wearing one of Chaz’s sexy creations—a slenderizing strapless black high-low number. The flowy skirt with its asymmetrical layers of chiffon made it easy for me to straddle my legs on the Ducati. Thank goodness, it was such a short ride because the rest of my outfit was far from ideal—you try sitting on your ass on the back of a motorcycle with strappy stilettos and scanty lace panties. There are wedgies and there are wedgies. But I survived. And I’m grateful my hair survived the helmet. Loose, it falls over my shoulders in soft waves and complements the extra make-up I’m wearing.

  I have to admit I look and feel like a million bucks. Glamorous enough to be seen with the likes of Brandon Taylor. I soak him in. Holy hotness! He looks devastating, dressed in a free-fitting collarless lavender linen shirt that he’s left partly unbuttoned…relaxed faded jeans…and a pair of expensive Italian black loafers. Of course, no socks. The epitome of pure movie star effortless sexiness. Despite the light breeze, heat spirals from my knees to my core.

  “Ah! Great! Here comes Antoine,” my gorgeous companion says brightly, sparing me from saying something stupid or trite.

  A wide grin stretches across the maître-d’s face upon setting his eyes on Brandon. A robust man with a jet-black handlebar mustache, he gives him a kiss on each cheek.

  “Monsieur Taylor, it eez so good to see you again! Comment ça-va?”

  “Très bien, Antoine.” He must also be the owner as the restaurant is called Antoine’s.

  “Fantastique. You gave my wife et moi a great scare with zee accident.”

  “I’m fine now,” Brandon assures him. “Perfectly fine.”

  Smiling, the relieved Frenchman shifts his attention to me. “And who eez this beautiful woman? A girlfriend, peut-être?”

  Brandon laces his fingers with mine. “She’s more than a girlfriend.”

  A shiver skitters down my spine at both his unexpected gesture and words. What does he mean by that? Before I can manage a word, Antoine asks us where we prefer to sit. While it’s only mid-April, the balmy weather is summer-like, easily in the seventies. Brandon chooses a corner table for two outside overlooking the port. We pass a table occupied by a teenage couple goo-goo eyed in love and then several older locals engaged in lively conversation until catching sight of Brandon. Everywhere he goes, he turns heads, whether they recognize him or not. Unleashing my hand, my breathtaking companion helps me into a wicker bistro chair before lowering himself onto one facing me. The table is covered with a red-checkered tablecloth and is candlelit. The flickering candle bathes Brandon’s face in a warm glow, making him appear ethereal. Like a god. With his smoldering violet eyes and lashes so thick they should be illegal, that spiky muss of onyx hair, a parted mouth made for kissing…and let’s not forget that sculpted body…can anyone be more ridiculously beautiful? I’m glad I’m sitting because every bone in my body is liquid.

  “Can I get you some apéritifs?” asks Antoine.

  Brandon answers. “Oui. Two Americanos.”

  “Parfait. I shall be right back.” Antoine scurries off.

  I crinkle my nose. “Brandon, you’ve ordered Starbucks coffees?” An iced Americano is his morning brew of choice and a hot version mine.

  Brandon laughs. “No, Zoey. It’s the original James Bond cocktail. It’s made with Campari, vermouth, and soda water. Antoine makes them with Perrier just the way 007 prefers them.”

  “Oh.” A small voice inside my head tells me I shouldn’t be drinking. It is a business dinner, right?

  “Trust me, you’ll like it.”

  “I think I’m going to pass.”

  “Stop it. I want you to try it.”

  The drinks come in no time. “Let’s toast,” says Brandon, his eyes twinkling.

  “Sure.” Falling under his spell, it takes all my effort to utter one little word. My vocabulary has grown limited.

  “To us,” Brandon says demonstratively and then we clink our tumblers. The sparkling glasses ping like a bell. I follow Brandon and take a sip of the vibrant red cocktail.

  “What do you think?” he a
sks.

  I digest the flavor and swallow hard. The aftertaste is so bitter it makes my toes curl.

  “I like it,” I say, screwing up my face.

  Brandon leans into me and dusts my contorted lips with his forefinger. “You’re so adorable when you lie.”

  Uh oh! He’s caught me in the act. That fateful spanking flashes into my head. He told me never to lie to him again. I could be in big trouble. Yet, I’m strangely excited in a good way.

  His fingertip trails down the side of my face. He traces my jaw until he lands on the tip of my chin. Making little circles, he lets out a sexy laugh. “Don’t worry about it. Campari is an acquired taste.”

  “I’ll get used to it,” I say and bravely take another sip. The liquor courses down my throat and into my bloodstream, warming me. You know what? It’s not so bad after all.

  Antoine brings us two menus. Brandon orders for the both of us, choosing the house special—fresh mussels meuniere and a side of frites (which I learn are French fries) plus a bottle of wine—a local Rosé from Provence. I take a few more sips of the Campari cocktail, the potent alcohol loosening me up.

  “The view is spectacular,” I quip.

  “It is,” agrees Brandon, eyeing my cleavage, which is prominently displayed by the body-hugging bodice of my dress. I cross my legs under the table and pretend I don’t notice.

  “Who do all those boats belong to?” While we passed monstrous yachts docked outside the majestic Palais des Festivals where MIP is taking place, the vessels here are much smaller and hardly pretentious.

  Brandon finishes his Americano and sets the apéritif glass down. “Those are fisherman boats. Before Cannes became a center for Hollywood glitz and glamour, it used to be a small fishing village. Fishermen still make a living here. Many sell to local restaurateurs, including Antoine, who I’m sure got the mussels we ordered straight off a boat today.”

  I take another hit of the Campari cocktail. “Have you ever gone swimming in the Mediterranean?”

  He smiles. “Dozens of times. The water is incredible. If we have time, I want to take you swimming.”