However, my guilt is alleviated as our plane will be full. We are taking a posse of people with us. Daisy and Amy, and some underprivileged twelve year-old girls from the Bronx, along with two of their teachers with whom Daisy has been working. They are planning a sightseeing trip; Alexandre is paying for everything; the accommodation and all expenses. Five days.
That’s one of the things I love about him so much. He shares his wealth. He believes in waving magic wands for people – one kind gesture, one experience of a lifetime for a child could change their outlook on the world, forever. That’s what he believes, and I agree. Yes, we could both be sitting in our private jet (did I say ‘our’??) sipping champagne and feeling gloriously glamorous, but giving something back is the biggest buzz of all. It may be chaos, though, eight kids (nine, including Amy) screaming and squealing with excitement. The Eiffel Tower, Montmartre, Notre Dame, The Louvre, La Place Vendôme (where my beautiful pearl necklace came from), and all the other delights and secrets of that magnificent city; whatever we can squeeze into five days.
I never have been to Paris. When I was a child, we went to the South of France, traveling from Italy by train and then back to Rome again where we were based. I imagine that everybody should visit Paris at some time in their lives; I hope it will be as splendid as people say.
While I’m in Paris, Alexandre will go to London to visit the dreaded Laura. They’ve spoken a couple of times on the phone, arguing, mostly. He has been trying to dissuade her, meanwhile, also trying to come up with some kind of plan in his head. She’s adamant – she wants him to go to London and produce his seed for her, no matter what. He even told her that he feared he had a recessive genetic disease or sickle cell anemia - anything to try and put her off - but she’s not buying it.
I feel powerless; all I can do is watch the show unravel. Perhaps a double bill. I’m on tender hooks.
Anyway, Alexandre has managed to not commit himself to any promise. One thing I’ve learned about him is that he doesn’t like lying and he is, ostensibly, honorable. Okay, he may not disclose everything, may keep things to himself but, basically, he’s an honest person. He’s not going to promise Laura something and double cross her; it simply isn’t his style. All those times I had accused him in my head of being untruthful when, in fact, he wasn’t at all. He has never actually lied to me. He may have kept information at bay, but he has never lied.
He hasn’t told Laura anything concrete, has made no promises except that he’ll see her face to face and ‘work something out’. He has told me, however, that she isn’t getting one droplet of his sperm and that I must stop worrying – it’s his dilemma and he’ll sort it out. I wish I were the type of woman who could sit back and relax, just worry about what shoes I should wear, or what wallpaper to choose. Alas, I can hardly think of anything else except the Laura drama.
I just can’t believe anybody would stoop so low, especially someone as proud as she is. I still have this vision of her standing at her front door like some glorious ship’s figurehead in her blue satin robe, pretending that she’d had afternoon sex with Alexandre. Like a fool, I was gullible enough to believe her. The other day, I asked Sophie about the phone call (when Laura chatted away to her in perfect French when I was sitting right there in her living room). Sophie laughed and said that Laura must have been talking to the speaking clock. ‘At the third stroke the time will be…’ Or perhaps, she said, she programmed a call to come through to herself from her cell phone. Whatever, Sophie said they hadn’t spoken.
There is no doubt that Laura is a clever, scheming woman and, as she said herself, like a Rottweiler with a bone. I really don’t want my fingers chewed off, but at the same time, how dare she get away with any of it? It just wouldn’t be fair. Finally, at age forty, I have found love and have the chance to start a family and Laura comes along with her bacteria-laden, wooden spoon to stir it all up. If Alexandre doesn’t manage to get rid of her, I will. I need to think of Plan B.
I wonder if her nature wasn’t always like that, and Alexandre was too young, too sweet to see her true colors. I find it hard to believe that she has become this way from the accident or from medication. Her conniving demeanor suits her a little too well – she looks too comfortable in her own skin.
Meanwhile, James is still missing in action. Laura has told Alexandre ‘he’s taking a holiday’. I know I seem like some foolish amateur super-sleuth (not so super) but Laura was convinced that Alexandre would get back together with her – perhaps James was in the way? If she’s capable of blackmail…what else could she do?
My suitcase is packed. What to wear? I have visions of sophisticated Parisian women tottering about in Christian Louboutins with chic haircuts, but Alexandre tells me that I may be disappointed, that Parisians are no more glamorous than anybody else.
There are so many paintings I want to see in ‘the flesh’; the Mona Lisa, Venus de Milo, just for starters. So many pastries I need to sample, so many…of everything, I’m feeling giddy with nerves.
***
Alexandre and I are set up at the George V, one of Paris’s most opulent hotels. It describes itself as ‘located just steps from the Champs-Elysées, with private terraces that command all of Paris, lovingly restored 18th-century tapestries, and a defining spirit of elegance and charm, Four Seasons Hotel George V, Paris redefines luxury in the City of Light.’
Every word is true. He couldn’t have picked a more stunning place.
So far, I am wandering around with flutters in my stomach, not so different from the first time I set eyes on Alexandre. The hotel, in itself, is a feast for the senses, let alone the rest of Paris. We are staying in the Presidential Suite – I dare not even imagine the cost, but Alexandre has insisted that I experience Paris in all its glory.
He didn’t care to stay with his mother, as he wants us to be completely free and not feel obliged to hang out with them if we don’t want to. I have mixed emotions about meeting her; I can’t shake off the fact that she is a murderess. I am partly in awe that she had the guts to go through with it, but also horrified. Surely, there could have been another way? Why couldn’t she have escaped in the dead of night and hidden in a small village in South America somewhere? But murder? I look forward to meeting her, with both trepidation and wonder.
Daisy insisted on staying with the group. Alexandre has rented an apartment for them, replete with kitchen and plenty of room for everyone to run about and make a mess. The girls have all been rendered speechless and are less wild than I had imagined; a lot of them never having left New York, let alone visit another country. One of them asked if French Fries came from France – a good question and it made me laugh. Although we’ll be spending time with them, I am primarily here to be with Alexandre and meet his family, except for when he goes to London.
This evening, Alexandre and I will be alone for a romantic dinner. As we walk into the foyer, a smell of flowers invades my nostrils – the floral arrangement of purple orchids is breathtaking. Bunches of blue hydrangeas, orchids and delphiniums are balanced on the edge of tall vases. Red dahlias are used sparingly for contrast. Indigo-blue, purple, mauve – all theses matching tones complement each other in a harmonious dance of color. I’m in a daze.
“You know why I always pick this place?” Alexandre asks me without waiting for an answer. “Because of the famous flower arrangements here, designed by the florist extraordinaire, Jeff Leatham. I can always be guaranteed to walk into another world when I arrive at the George V. After a tense meeting, it’s what I always crave.”
“So you never stay at your mother’s or with Sophie?”
He hands over his credit card to the concierge. “Not often. I like to be free to do my own thing. Not be beholden to anyone. Besides, here it’s all perfect. If I need to borrow an umbrella it’s there. The towels are fluffy and plentiful, I can order room service when I want. The suite comes with my own private gym. The spa is relaxing, the massages exquisite – you get the picture.”
; “You’ve become a spoiled business man with a penchant for luxury.”
“Yes, I’m guilty. Sue me.” He gives me a sly wink.
“Bonsoir, monsieur.” The concierge rattles away to Alexandre in French while I survey the beautiful surroundings. Our bags have already been whisked away from us, and we’re free to meander.
We wander through the lobby to an inner courtyard open to the elements, and I see that these same, stunning orchids in the floral displays have been suspended in the air by seemingly invisible threads, covering the expanse as if they are floating in the air. Instead of a carpet of color, it is like a cloud of color and reminds me of Alexandre’s lavender fields at his house in Provence.
When we arrive at our suite, our bags have been delivered ahead of us. It is stunning. The walls are decorated in China blue and white brocade. The place is the size of a generous apartment with two bedrooms, a living room, a dining room, a private gym and three bathrooms. The rooms boast antique, Louis XlV furniture, crystal chandeliers, huge sofas, a dining room table and chairs, and even a marble fireplace overhung with a vast Italian gilt mirror. The master bedroom has sumptuous king-size bed which is majestically backed with swathes of the same blue fabric. The oversized, marble bathroom includes a steam room, sauna, bidet and a private walk-in dressing room, plus a guest powder room, no less. We could have fit Daisy’s entire entourage in here but we have it all to ourselves. Really, it seems a shame that we have to leave this hotel for even five minutes. We are in Paris - that, in itself is enough of a treat - a broom closet would have been enough – but this? This is sinful.
Alexandre is eying me up with amusement. “Don’t tell me you’re feeling guilty?” He knows me so well – funny how he can read my thoughts just by my expression.
“Not guilty, just…well, this is overwhelming. Just coming for a cocktail to the George V would be enough, but this is—”
“You’re not allowed cocktails, chérie.”
“Don’t I know it! Not allowed anything I yearn for.”
“Only three more weeks, baby, till your trimester is up, and then you can have what you want most.”
The Weapon of Mass Destruction or, as I now see it, the Tool of Creation.
He steps closer and lays his arms about my shoulders, drawing me into him, inhaling me as if I were one of the sweet-smelling floral arrangements.
“You know how much I think about fucking you?” His eyes light up, then narrow into lascivious slits.
“Sometimes you frighten me,” I say, the way Little Red Riding Hood might have said to the Big Bad Wolf, while licking his chops.
“I’ll go slow, but boy, am I going to do things to you the moment I can.”
“You could now,” I suggest, gripping the collar of his shirt and pulling him towards me.
“I wouldn’t trust myself. Anyway, waiting makes the prize all the sweeter, chérie. I’m a patient man.”
His face meets mine and he kisses the corner of my mouth, letting his lips trail even softer kisses along my jaw-line. I tilt my head up and he runs his lips down my neck making little nips as he pulls me tightly to him, as if he never wants to let me go. I feel his erection pressed up against my belly and I part my mouth, my eyes closed.
“You smell so good,” he breathes. One of his hands grips my waist and the other caresses my stomach, sketching his fingertips about the curves. “Nice, I can feel that there’s life inside of you.”
“It’s too early to feel a heartbeat though, isn’t it?”
“Not a heartbeat, but I feel a little belly growing. Very sexy. There’s nothing more erotic than a pregnant woman. Well, a pregnant woman carrying my child, anyway.”
My jaw suddenly clenches; his words make me remember something extremely unpleasant. “When are you going to London?”
He winces. “I don’t want to think about Laura, right now. I just want to enjoy this evening with you and savor every second with the woman I’m in love with.”
He parts my lips with his tongue and begins a demanding but slow kiss, probing his tongue inside my mouth and then clasping his teeth gently about my lower lip. A deep growl stirs somewhere deep inside him. He lets go and murmurs, “Sorry, that was a bit rough - you bring out the beast in me, Pearl.”
“I bring out the best in you,” I whisper against his perfect mouth, and then return his kiss, clinching my hands about the back of his neck and pulling his head to mine so there is no space between us. Our tongues begin their erotic tango of tease and pull, tantalizing and coaxing, hot and sensual. I can feel my nipples harden, my stomach pool with desire. I stroke my tongue along his and he moans into my mouth. “I’d do anything for you, chérie. I’d kill for you - I’d do anything to protect you, my precious Pearl.”
“Me too,” I reply. “I’d do anything. And I swear, I’ll never run from you again, no matter what.”
“Dance with me.”
“I didn’t know you liked dancing.”
“There are a few things about me you’ve yet to find out,” he tells me in a soft, enigmatic voice. He takes out his iPod and puts on a song a slow, sexy salsa beat, sung in French.
“What’s this?”
“Mon Ami by Kim. Listen to the lyrics – the words are perfect for us, chérie – they tell our story.”
He places his hands around the small of my back and begins to languidly move his hips in time with the music. He presses his thigh in between my legs and keeps up a sweet pressure as he rocks his groin with the rhythm of the beat, leading me about the room in slow circles. He’s a great dancer. I relax into him, letting him guide me. My French isn’t perfect but I get the gist what Kim is singing about. Mon Ami – my friend. I listen to the words, catching snippets of bits I understand….nobody can separate us….I’d do anything for us…I would do anything for you… …I’ll be there for you…you need me…you can count on me…only you can enter my secret garden…I want to share everything with you…the good and the bad.
True, this song was written for us.
“What else are you hiding from me?” I whisper into his hair.
“I’m a black-belt in Taekwondo.”
Ripples of excitement shimmer through me. There is nothing sexier that a trained killer who knows how to control himself. “That figures. I always wondered where those thigh muscles came from,” I say, pressing myself even harder against his leg. Can you break blocks in two?”
“I can break a lot of things in two, chérie,” he says, turning me with the rhythm. “I can but I usually don’t.”
“Just so long as you don’t break my heart in two.”
His lips curve upwards and he turns me again, leaning me back a little. I arch, relishing the sensation as he locks his mouth on my throat, kissing me there, then trailing his lips across my shoulders. I’m wearing a thin, cotton tank top and goose-pimples sprinkle themselves all over my sensitive body. He pulls me close again and nips my earlobe seductively.
“What other secrets have you been hiding from me?” I whisper.
“That I joined la Légion Etrangère.”
The French Foreign Legion – some of the toughest men in the world. A fighting force designed to make use of prisoners and convicts, offering them a better life, people with no families and nowhere to go – men with criminal records. Nice.
“I thought only madmen joined the French Foreign Legion,” I tease.
He sways his hips to the rhythm of the music, cupping my butt and murmurs, “We came from over a hundred and forty different countries. True, some of the men had very dubious pasts and criminal records, but they were some of the most loyal, trustworthy people in the world. They don’t let axe murderers sign up any more, though. These days, they do screen recruits but yes, there are some pretty tough characters who join. It offers men a second chance. When you join up you get a new name, a new identity – you become a blank canvas.”
“A killing machine,” I say.
He laughs and then nibbles my ear. I get that brain-numbing feeling aga
in, but I want to know more about this dark horse who is my husband to-be, so I don’t let it distract me, which is obviously his intention. Geez, how many more secrets does Alexandre Chevalier have?
“So, how long were you in the French Foreign Legion?”
“You sign up for five years. I was fifteen but I forged my I.D. and managed to fool the recruiting officer. I was there for just under eighteen months when my mother found out where I was and reported them for recruiting someone underage. In the end, I got sent home.”
“They didn’t realize?”
“I looked older than my years. Maybe they did have an inkling but turned a blind eye, until my mother got on their case. I did well there. I was a force to be reckoned with at that age – I was pretty wild. They wanted me to come back when I was eighteen but I had other interests by that point.”
“How come you never told me all this about your past?”
“I’m a businessman now – I left that part of me behind.”
I have a feeling it must have been gruesome so that’s why he didn’t want to tell me - trying to forget. I want to ask him how many men’s lives he’s taken, but I stop myself. Do I really want to know? Killing obviously runs in his family’s blood; makes up his DNA.
I tighten my hold on him, instead, “A businessman, huh? You’re my own, private Michael Corleone.”
He sniggers. “Is he your secret hero?”
“Al Pacino when he was young playing him. Yes.”
“Very…um…what can I say? Quite a ruthless figure.”
“He had to be. He had no choice.”
“External forces.”
“Yes,” I agree. “External forces.”
“Well, we both know about that, don’t we?”
“We do,” I reply, nestling my head against the crook of his neck. He smells so good and he is mine. All mine.
The song has ended. My heart’s racing from the measured sensuality of our dance; we’re united by the lyrics, understanding each other’s dark passengers who travel beside each of us – our shadows, our alter egos. I like bad boys, obviously. Anthony was right. Nobody else had been dark enough for me…until I met Alexandre. Perhaps, in another era, in other circumstance, I could have been Bonnie to his Clyde. A fantasy, but one that I can almost taste.
Shimmers of Pearl (The Pearl Trilogy, Part 3) Page 16