Please remove all your personal belongings from my premises as quickly as possible. Good luck with your future endeavors.
—Brandon Taylor
The words collide in my head like bumper cars, my emotions coming at me from every direction. So out of control, I hyperventilate. It takes all I have not to faint or vomit. I feel like someone’s taken an ax to my heart and hacked it. Oh the pain! The guilt! I did it to myself. I fell for him! No, I fell for his fucking act! The bastard! I hate him! But I hate one person more. No, not Katrina. Myself. Self-loathing mixes with self-pity. I allowed him to make me his fuck toy. I submitted. How naïve and gullible could I be? All along, there was never anyone except Katrina. Devastation devours me in a single gulp. I hit delete. Finally, another, more powerful emotion sets in. Sorrow. The tears finally fall. My greatest love has become my greatest loss.
Five numbing minutes later, my bag is packed. That’s because I’m taking virtually nothing with me. All the stunning outfits, including the lingerie and accessories Brandon bought me, are staying behind. Maybe some hotel housekeeper will find them and enjoy them. Play dress-up in them and have her own Prince Charming fantasy that I hope will come true.
Battling my tears, I arrange for a flight home. The ticket is ridiculously expensive, but I don’t care. I put it on my credit card. It’s departing at eight a.m.
My hotel phone rings, and the voice of the concierge lets me know my driver is here. Do I need help with my bags? I tell her no and that I’ll be down in a few minutes. My mind and heart distraught, I decide to write Brandon a note. It’s more for me than for him. I need closure and some semblance of dignity. Sitting down at the desk, I take a sheet of the hotel’s signature écru stationary and put a pen to it. Tears blur my vision.
Brandon~
This is goodbye. Thank you for giving me the opportunity to work with you. The guesthouse will be cleared out by the time you get back to LA. You can be sure I will honor our non-disclosure agreement and treasure our time spent together.
I will always remember you. You’re unforgettable.
~Zoey ♥
By the time I add the heart, a regrettable afterthought, sobs are wracking my body. With quivering hands, I fold the letter and slip it into an envelope before my tears blotch it up. I cannot bear to write the words again.
With my roller bag in one hand and the letter in the other, I stagger out of my hotel room. At this wee hour in the morning, the elevator comes quickly and descends without stops to the lobby. While last night it was bustling, the lobby at this hour is all but deserted. Wheeling my bag, I trudge to the front desk. The lovely lady who checked us in is still there. This must be the end of her long shift. She’s as cheerful as ever.
“Ah, bonjour, Mademoiselle Hart. Can I help you?”
“I’m checking out.”
“Oh? Was everything okay?”
“Y-yes.” I stammer, thinking of something that will explain my puffy, bloodshot eyes. It comes to me quickly. “I have a sudden emergency at home.”
“I am so sorry to hear that. Would you like me to call a taxi to take you to zee airport?”
“Thank you, but I’ve arranged everything through the concierge.”
A smile of approval curls on her face as I set my letter to Brandon on the counter. “Would you be kind enough to get this to Monsieur Taylor?”
“Bien sur. I’ll have someone leave it under his door.”
“Thank you very much.”
With relentless, pulsing pain, I head to the hotel entrance.
Au revoir, Cannes.
Au revoir, Brandon.
Au revoir, forever.
FADE TO BLACK
END OF BOOK 2
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PRAISE FOR UNFORGETTABLE 3
“WOW! I absolutely love this series. I may have my best series for 2016 already read in January.”
—Mollien Osterman, Alpha Book Club
“A totally epic love story! I’ve screamed, cried, and laughed out loud. Suspense, mystery, passion (loads by the way!), and plenty of drama. This series is definitely the best I’ve read.”
—Jeanette Book Reviews
“When I got this on my kindle, I didn’t move until I devoured it. Character development has never been better, and it’s action packed.”
—Jennifer Pierson, The Power of Three Readers
“I have been waiting for this finale and I’m not kidding the minute this book hit my Kindle, I opened it and by the next day, I was reading the last line and thinking to myself, “Wow, that story was AMAZING! Brandon and Zoey are definitely one of my favorite book couples.”
—The Erotic Book Blog
“WOW! Ms. L’Amour has done a remarkable job with this series. I am definitely putting this one on my top read for 2016 because I absolutely adored this series!”
—Brittany’s Book Blog
“The conclusion to a magnificent series! Talk about hopping, popping, twisting, and raucously driving to an ending that will thrill you! This is a non-stop rollercoaster ride you cannot miss. Be prepared to laugh, cry, and swoon!
—Gloria Herrera, As You Like It Reviews
“The characters in this book are amazingly written, and the chemistry between Brandon and Zoey was wild and hot. Their story truly is beautiful and amazing.”
—Nerdy Bookworm
“Of course, until the big reveal at the end, I was left biting my fingernails in suspense, hoping that Brandon and Zoey would find a way to be together.”
—Romance Between the Sheets
“Loved every second of it. The book has a lot of OMFGosh!!! moments; you’ll suffer from whip lash!”
—JA Sweetheart
Unforgettable
BOOK THREE
Nelle L’Amour
Copyright © 2016 by Nelle L’Amour
All rights reserved
First Edition: January 2016
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to events, locales, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is purely coincidental.
No part of this ebook may be reproduced, uploaded to the Internet, or copied without permission from the author. The author respectfully asks that you please support artistic expression and help promote anti-piracy efforts by purchasing a copy of this ebook at the authorized online outlets.
Nelle L’Amour thanks you for your understanding and support.
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Cover by Arijana Karcic, Cover It! Designs
Proofreading by Mary Jo Toth
Formatting by BB eBooks
Dedication
To the late great Nat King Cole and his daughter, Natalie, whose unforgettable song inspired the story of Brandon and Zoey.
And to Jeanette Sinfield, my muse, who inspired me to keep going when I wanted to give up. Your love and support will always be unforgettable.
“Perfect moments can be had but not preserved, except in memory.”
—Leonard Nimoy
Chapter 1
Brandon
The flicks of a warm, wet tongue graze my neck. The Gooch. I slowly peel open my eyes, one at a time. They feel like they’ve been super-glued together and the lids are made of cement. The pup wags his tail. I can’t say the same for the one that’s hung between my legs. It feels like a dead weight.
Squinting, I glance down at my watch. It’s six a.m. The darkness of night has morphed into the light of day though the sky’s a depressing gray. I must have nodded off. Still on the couch, draped in a thick towel, I feel sick to my stomach. And it hurts to think. Last night’s events come at me like a rockslide. My head aches, my heart aches, and my cock aches.
Everything’s gone wrong. My romantic getaway with Zoey here in Cannes has ended up a total nightmare. Fucking Katrina showed up and fucked up everything. I know she’s crazy enough to follow through with her threat—to tell the media I physically assaulted her and threatened her life. My insane fiancée staged the whole thing right down to slashing her arm with a jagged piece of glass and pulling out clumps of hair from her head. But she’s right. The media will believe her. She even took photos. God dammit. She’s blackmailing me. Holding a virtual knife to my chest to cut off my balls. Giving me no choice but to marry her and go along with her absurd wedding plans. I don’t love her. I don’t like her. I loathe her. There are bitches. Fucking bitches. And psycho bitches. She belongs in a category all of her own. Fucking psycho bitch.
Burying my head in my palms, I squeeze my burning eyes shut for a moment’s reprieve. Hoping the blackness behind my lids will give me clarity to find a way out of this horrific mess. I breathe in and out of my nose as I search my chaotic mind. My thoughts are like bumper cars, colliding into each other, knocking any semblance of rationality off the track. It’s futile. I can’t think straight. Or think of a solution.
Zoey, Zoey, Zoey, Zoey. Her sweet name rings in my ears, silencing the cacophony. She’s made for me. I love every ounce of her. Inside and out. The irony—it took amnesia to make me realize that the girl of my dreams was right there in front of me all along. Last night was the best, most powerful, and most sensuous one of my life. I couldn’t get enough of her. She rocked my world.
Then goddamn Katrina showed up. The timing couldn’t have been worse. A bitter cocktail of guilt and remorse courses through me. I shouldn’t have let the fucking psycho bitch throw those demeaning insults at her. My beautiful Zoey kept her head up high and weathered the storm like the trooper she is. And I love her all the more for her courage, strength, and pride. My loyal little soldier. I’m the one who’s the coward and should hang my head in shame.
Shit. I promised to text her, but I didn’t. My poor Zoey. Knowing her, she must have stayed up all night waiting to hear from me. Confusion gives way to anguish. I owe her an explanation. It’s all too convoluted to explain in an email. Let alone a text. An ugly conversation awaits me. I hope she’ll understand. Maybe have a solution. Help me grow some balls and still love me for the powerless asshole I am.
I need to see her so fucking badly. I long to take her in my arms—smother her with kisses and love her as hard as I can. My fear of losing her holds me back. I sink my head deeper into my palms. The throb in my temples is nothing compared to the throb in my heart or the ache in my cock.
Finally, I will myself to face the inevitable with the remote hope of salvation.
Taking Gucci off my lap, I set him on the cushion next to me.
“Wish me good luck, Gooch,” I mutter under my breath. Good luck for what?
He barks.
“Shh!”
My legs unsteady, I rise from the couch.
“OW!” A sharp pain shoots up my leg. Holding onto the arm of the couch, I bend up my foot. Shit. It’s bleeding. I’ve stepped on a small shard of glass, an unswept remnant of Katrina’s insane rampage. A painful reminder I just don’t need right now.
Lifting up my heel, I hobble to the closest bathroom with Gucci trailing behind me. Not the one Zoey and I shared last night that’s adjacent to the master suite where Katrina’s sleeping. The last thing I want to do is wake the bitch, though with her earplugs and sleeping mask, she’d probably sleep straight through a terrorist attack. I rinse my foot in the bidet, washing off the blood, while the memory of Zoey having an exquisite orgasm from the jets swirls around in my head. My limp dick twitches. I can’t fight my need for her. The open wound is just another physical manifestation of my unwavering ache. My relentless desire.
I exchange the towel wrapped around my bare body for a fluffy bathrobe. I would have preferred putting on a fresh pair of sweats or some jeans, but my entire wardrobe is in the master bedroom as is my cell phone. Belting the robe, I head for the door to my suite. My injured foot hurts, but I can walk on it. My chest tightens with every painful step and my pulse accelerates. I don’t know how I’m going to face Zoey without making her mine again. I want to chain her to me, then jump off the edge of the earth and hear her roar my name one last time… so loud the whole world will need hearing aids.
My pulse spikes while my cock sinks. Wishful thinking. In the bar area, I find a bowl that was spared in Katrina’s wake of destruction and fill it up with water. I set it down on the floor, and Gucci immediately laps it up before cocking his head and gazing up at me with a “what’s next” expression. With a firm hand command, I tell Gucci to stay and he obeys. I slink out of my suite and an envelope meets my feet.
One scripted word captures my attention.
~Brandon~
As elegant as the hand that wrote it. I’d recognize that handwriting anywhere. Zoey’s.
Snapping up the envelope, I tear it open and read the contents. My eyes fly from the first line to the last.
Brandon~
This is goodbye. Thank you for giving me the opportunity to work with you. You can be sure I will honor our non-disclosure agreement and treasure our time spent together.
I will always remember you. You’re unforgettable.
~Zoey ♥
My stomach clenches and so does my heart. Not wasting a second, I dash out of my suite as fast as I can and run down two flights of stairs to her hotel room. Breathless, I bang on the door.
“Open up, Zo.”
No response.
I bang harder; I shout louder. “C’mon, Zoey. Open up!”
Bang! Bang! Bang!
An early morning housekeeper passes by me. Just in time before I knock down the door.
“C’est ma chambre. I’ve lost my key. Can you let me in?”
“Mais, monsieur, il n’y a pas de personnes là.”
“What do you mean?”
In broken English, the perplexed woman responds. “La madame…she check out.”
What? She’s gone? Panic grips me by the balls. I sprint to the elevator and pound the down button. The elevator doesn’t come. I pound and I pound and I pound. Goddamn elevator. I’m about to dash down the emergency stairs again—all five steep flights—when a car finally arrives.
To my relief, it descends quickly to The Carlton lobby without a stop. As soon as the doors part, I dart to the front desk. Thank God, there’s no line.
The attractive young clerk on duty is more than pleased to see me. She’s the one who checked us into the hotel.
“Ah! Bonjour, Monsieur Taylor. Eez everything okay?”
“Oui.” I nod. “Have you by chance seen my assistant?” I try to hide my panic.
“You mean, Mademoiselle Hart?”
“Yes, yes. I mean, oui, oui!”
The clerk smiles. “Mais, oui. She checked out an hour ago. She went back to zee States. Pauvre petite! Some kind of emergency.”
“Get me a fucking cab right now!” And pardon my English.
The early morning rush hour traffic along the scenic N98 to Nice International Airport is impossible. Why does everyone and their mother have to be going there? It’s like some kind of mass exodus from the South of France.
“Can’t you go any faster?” I yell at the mustached cab driver.
“Je ne parle pas anglais.”
Fuck. “Plus rapido, s’il vous plait.” My French sucks.
“Pas possible.”
Fuck again. I wish I had the Ducati. But after crashing it, the bike almost didn’t make it back to the hotel last night. I should have taken a helicopter. At this point, by foot would be faster.
The traffic may be at a crawl, but my heart’s beating a gazillion miles an hour. A toxic mixture of angst, frustration, and regret consumes me. I wish I had my cell phone so I could call her. The thought of borrowing the cabbie’s phone crosses my mind, but I don’t know Zoey’s number since I have it on speed dial. I slum
p against the backseat lost in defeat.
Finally, we make it to the airport. What should have taken twenty minutes has taken over an hour. I slip the driver a hundred Euros and fly into the busy terminal. Jostling the crowd, still in my bathrobe and barefoot, I sprint up to the departures and arrivals board. There are two flights departing for Los Angeles in a few minutes—one, Air France; the other, American. Shit. Which one would Zoey be on? I opt for American for only one reason. Because it’s how she prefers her Starbucks. Caffè Americano. Just like me. And because last night we shared a cocktail that also bore that name. My heart hammers. I hope my hunch is right.
My heart in my throat, I bolt up to the American Airlines ticket counter, cutting in front of the long line. Assorted grumbles in French and English go in one ear and out the other. Yeah, I’m a fucking asshole in both languages.
The ticket agent is a very attractive brunette in her early thirties. The name on her badge is Jeanette. Her eyes widen at the sight of me.
“Mon Dieu! You’re zee big Hollywood star. Brandon Taylor!”
“Oui. I need a big favor, Jeanette. Can you tell me if a passenger named Zoey Hart is on Flight 216 heading to LA?”
The agent bites down on her full red lips. “I am so sorry. I cannot do that. It eez against airport rules and regulations.”
“Please! It’s an emergency!”
“What kind of emergency?”
Think, Brandon, think…Got it! “She’s my assistant and she’s on meds. She left them behind. If she doesn’t have them, she may create an incident on the plane. She’s very bipolar. If she doesn’t take her meds hourly, she gets extremely violent.”
The attendant listens intently while my eyes glance at the clock. 7:45. Shit. The flight’s departing in five minutes.
Unforgettable: The Complete Series (A Sexy Cinderella Standalone Love Story) Page 41