by Selena Kitt
“Izvinite,” he muttered gruffly without slowing down.
It was Russian for “excuse me.” A chill ran through me at the thought of Boris Borofsky. I pivoted my head, but the rude man, whose back was now to me, was almost at the front entrance. I took a calming breath. I was tired. It couldn’t be him. My mind was just playing tricks on me.
Five minutes later, I was in my beautiful suite, with its plush four-poster canopy bed and regal French furnishings. I quickly shed my clothing, my lingerie the last to go. I could still smell Jaime Zander on me. The memory of him ravaging me on his conference room table replayed in my head. And then the sight of him kissing Vivien kicked that memory out of the ballpark. A mixture of rage and self-loathing coursed through my veins. I shoved all of my undergarments into the waste can by the sink, and then hopped into the shower to wash away the memory of this deceitful man. No matter how hard I scrubbed, his face lingered in my mind.
I towel dried myself and readied myself for bed, slipping into Gloria’s Secret iconic pink and white striped cotton PJ’s—made for sweet dreams. Enfin! I crawled into the luxurious duvet-covered bed and turned off the light. Unconsciously, I rubbed my fingers over my scar as tears leaked from my eyes. The words of my beloved Madame Paulette swirled around in my head. It eez better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. In my heart, I mourned the loss of my cherished mentor and scorned the loss of Jaime Zander. My heavy, teary eyes couldn’t fight gravity. At last, sleep triumphed over sorrow, but sweet dreams were not to be had.
* * * *
My wake-up call sounded at six forty-five the next morning. As in any hotel I stayed at, a subsequent knock at my door, signaling the arrival of my coffee, forced me out of bed. I was groggy, a victim of a restless toss and turn sleep and jetlag. After unlocking the door, a jovial mustached waiter set a tray with a pot of steaming coffee along with a pitcher of steamed milk on a small table. It was a welcome blessing.
After draining the strong café au lait, my mind re-activated. I wasn’t looking forward to the sad day ahead. A long, hot shower followed. Under the pounding water, I plotted what I was going to wear to Madame’s burial. I wanted to look elegant and dignified; I owed her that.
Rifling through my neatly packed Louis Vuitton garment bag, I came upon the perfect black dress—an almost knee-length Dior with a scooped neckline and three-quarter length sleeves. It was one of my favorites and was glad that I’d packed it. From my other suitcase, a piece of matching luggage, I pulled out my one-piece black lace merrywidow, designed with an underwire and adjustable garters, and the matching v-string panty. After donning the undergarments, I ferreted through the pocket of the suitcase for a pair of black silk seamed stockings. The ones I settled on were my lucky stockings—I took them everywhere I flew, believing their magical powers could protect me from danger, especially a fatal accident. They came from Paris. Madame Paulette had bestowed them upon me on my eighteenth birthday—the first of many pairs she would send me in the years afterward. As I carefully rolled them up my legs, I heard her deep raspy voice. “Love eez like a fine pair of silk stockings, ma chérie. One snag and it can all unravel.”
The image of Jaime Zander crept back into my mind. Grabbing my purse and an overcoat, I slumped out of the room, tears threatening to fall.
* * * *
The cemetery where Madame Paulette was being buried was located on the outskirts of Paris. Tombstones with both crosses and Stars of David dotted the verdant pasture; many dated back to the nineteenth century. A kindly-looking rabbi, with a graying beard and skullcap, met me at the gravesite and introduced himself. Rabbi Rosenberg. As he took both of my gloved hands in his, my eyes darted to the tombstone of Henri Lévy. My French was good enough to understand the epitaph beneath the etched Jewish star: “Noble hero and devoted husband of Paulette Lévy.” Soon his beloved would be by his side again. A chill in the air shot through me.
“She was a special woman, beautiful both inside and out,” the rabbi told me. He spoke perfect English. “I knew her well.”
I was surprised the rabbi knew her and asked how. It turned out that Madame Paulette attended Shabbat services at his synagogue on Friday nights on her buying trips to Paris.
“She spoke highly about you. You were like a daughter to her.”
“Merci,” I said in French, tears welling in my eyes. From the corner of one of them, I saw a dozen or so men transporting her casket toward us. My breath caught in my throat.
“A minyan from our congregation,” said the rabbi, knowing I wasn’t Jewish. “They will help us bury her in her final resting place.”
The men laid the casket on the grass beside the tombstone of Henri. It was made of pinewood and in the center was a carved Jewish star. It was pure understated elegance —just like her.
One of the men, who was carrying a shovel, began to dig into the earth. They took turns shoveling until a hole that was big and deep enough was made. Using a pulley system, they worked together to lower the casket into it. Then, as the rabbi prayed in Hebrew, each took a turn with the shovel, refilling the hole. I fought back tears as I watched the casket disappear from sight and the large hole fill in. Warm memories of our years together floated in my head along with our final day together. A member of the minyan offered me the shovel to cover her with the last mound of dirt. As I scooped up the soil and hurled it onto the grave, the dam holding back my tears burst. The rabbi’s melodic Hebrew saturated my mind and soul. I recognized the prayer—The Kiddush. Madame would recite it once a year on the eve of Yom Kippur over the memorial candle that burnt for Henri through the night. The final words, Oh say, Shalom, Amen, echoed in my ears. Peace. Rivulets streamed down my face. Madame Paulette was gone…now, in her final resting place…reunited with the man she loved.
I squatted down and retrieved the bouquet of flowers I had brought along—long stemmed white roses—Madame’s favorite blooms. I gently laid several on her grave and the remainder against the tombstone of her husband. Au revoir, Madame. May you rest in peace and with your true love.
* * * *
I returned to the hotel, drained and exhausted. It was mid-afternoon.
Before heading up to my room for a much needed nap, I made a stop at the bar. Perhaps, a drink would quell the sorrow that filled my soul. Unable to find an empty table, I settled in at the crowded bar. An international mix of beautiful people, on the make, surrounded me.
Usually just a wine drinker, I ordered something stronger from the young, twinkly-eyed bartender. A vodka martini with extra olives. The very drink I’d ordered with Jaime at the Gloria’s Secret after-party. The drink arrived quickly. The cold velvety liquid washed down my throat and was soothing. Just what I needed. The images of Madame Paulette and Jaime Zander faded in my head. I amused myself by observing the eclectic mix of movers and shakers.
Half way through my martini, I felt a warm breath on the nape of my neck. A familiar voice sent a chill spiraling down my spine.
“Why, Gloria. How uncanny! We meet again.”
I spun around, almost knocking over the remains of my drink. Victor!
He was wearing one of his custom-tailored three-piece slate gray suits. In his hand was a tumbler filled with his favorite drink. Bourbon. I knew because I recognized the smell, emanating from both the glass and his breath.
He leaned in close to me. “So, Gloria, what brings you to Paris?”
“Personal business.” He had no need to know. “What about you?”
“Business. Pure business. I’m meeting here with someone whose global organization could be a potential strategic partner. If the meeting is successful, I’ll invite him to LA to meet you.”
Dealmaker Victor was always looking for ways to expand Gloria’s Secret. While GS was not the only retailer in Victor’s vast empire, it was his most profitable. The more money Gloria’s Secret made, the more money Victor made.
He chugged his cocktail and ordered one more. “Can I get you another drink?” he asked, pre
ssing 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 card key. 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 grinded 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 that I couldn’t resist. I so wanted and needed it. A rush of heat rose to my core 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 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 length down my center, 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 to 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. 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.”
I didn’t know how much longer I could hold on. The waves of ecstasy had begun to roll through my core, the inevitable not far away. My breathing grew ragged with his. Craving my moment of release, I dug the fingernails of my free hand into his thigh as I trie
d to restrain myself.
“Now, angel,” he finally said. “Fall apart for me.”
On cue, my whole body shook as my core splintered around his pulsating member. 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.”