“It’ll be fine. It’s just a sprain. You can tape it back up afterward.”
A few minutes later, we’re in my sunken tub. Scented candles lit. The Jacuzzi jets on. Soothing every muscle of our tired bodies. Skye sits between my legs, her back to me, her head against my chest, as I gently sponge her. Running the soft object over her bruised flesh and scattered scars. Relishing every sensuous inch of her body.
Dropping the sponge into the bubbling water, I rub my hand over her belly, knowing there is a life form growing inside her. “Skye, the doctor told me,” I whisper against her neck.
Her hand meets mine as the other toys with her gold locket. “Baby, we’ll need to add a new photo.”
For the first time in over twenty-four hours, a smile lifts my lips. On my next heartbeat, I draw her in flush against me, kissing her everywhere I can. Focusing on the here and now. Knowing there will be a tomorrow, tonight I will just hold her in my arms. Never let her go. Kissing the nape of her neck, I hum a Springsteen song.
“Don’t Look Back.”
The future is ours.
EPILOGUE
Six Months Later
Paris
“Maman! Papa! Regardez-moi! Je danse sur le pont!”
The sweet raspy voice calls out to us, the French accent perfect.
My heart warms as I watch my pigtailed daughter frolic across Paris’s majestic Pont Royal, swinging Kangy and her baby Joey. She’s wearing the big yellow hat and royal blue coat that I bought her for her fifth birthday. My Madeline! The coat, which hung on her then, now fits her perfectly. My little girl is getting big!
Finn squeezes my hand as we trail her. “She’s something,” he says, love and pride brimming in his voice.
“Yup.”
“Just like her mother. Smart, beautiful, and brave.”
I feel myself blush. “And artistic like her daddy!”
To my joy, Finn’s career has continued to soar. Without Kayla, who’s disappeared from the art scene. His first show in Paris at a prestigious Left Bank gallery sold out, each painting commanding six figures. Later this year, we will be going to Art Basel in Switzerland, the premier art show of Europe that brings together the who’s who of the art world, and then to Hong Kong where Finn’s work is in high demand among wealthy Chinese art collectors.
As we walk across the bridge hand in hand, our fingers entwined, I take in the magnificent City of Light and think how lucky I am to be here with my family. I almost lost my life—not once, but twice. One tragic night I may never completely remember; the other I will never forget. As I look down at the Seine, a tourist boat cruises under the bridge. People of all ages are clamoring on the two decks, enjoying the sights of the city and the mild spring weather. I shudder. Six months ago I was hanging over the deck of a yacht in the Pacific Ocean, facing a dark, stormy sea. And a more tumultuous future. Possibly none. With Sheldon Greenberg pinning me against the railing, holding a gun to the base of my neck, I was minutes away from being shark chum. To my horror, the squad of police boats, which had come to apprehend my assailant, retreated. Unbeknownst to me, it was all part of a carefully executed but risky plan. The helicopter that I’d heard overhead earlier didn’t fly off. Rather, while the distracting bellow of police sirens sounded below, it stealthily landed on the yacht’s helicopter pad. Inside it was LAPD’s infamous homicide detective, Pete Billings. And my husband. Both armed and wearing bulletproof vests.
About to say adieu to my life, I heard a gunshot. Cold and nauseated, I couldn’t understand why I felt no pain. Perhaps death was numbing. In my last moments of consciousness, the night of my near-fatal car crash flashed into my head. I wasn’t even going to take the fleeting memory to my grave because I knew my body this time would never be found. I’d never see my husband or daughter again. Nor would I ever see Greenberg rot in hell.
Darkness claimed me. It wasn’t until I came to in my husband’s arms moments later that I learned that Billings had nailed Greenberg with one shot. A bullet to his lower back. No, it didn’t kill him. Death was too good for him. Instead, the bullet shattered his spine, leaving him a paraplegic, paralyzed from the neck down and confined to a wheelchair for the rest of his sorry ass life. It was a perfect punishment for the predatory monster. Groping women and forcing them to have sex with him will never happen again. Impotent, his dick is as useless as tits on a bull.
His confession—all of it—was caught on tape via the smart watch Billings had given me. Both his attempt on my life and his sexual assault of Nicole Farrell. I, who reported news, was now headline news. Soon after my Pulitzer-nominated story appeared on the cover of Vanity Fair, women came out of the woodwork like termites and told the media of how Sheldon had harassed them and/or assaulted them. The first was actress Zoey Taylor, who shared how Sheldon had once propositioned her when she was a masseuse. Then, another after another and not just actresses. The list ranged from writers, directors, and assistants to a FedEx driver, a hotel waitress, his housekeeper, and even his proctologist’s nurse. And the charges ran the gamut from Sheldon masturbating in front of them to forcing them to have anal sex with him . . . and everything revolting in between.
All of us testified at his trial, all of us sitting together in the courtroom and wearing black in solidarity. The world had to know about the atrocities we’d suffered at the hands of this monster. The shame and pain we’d endured. The #RememberMeToos we called ourselves. Clad in an ill-fitting orange jumpsuit, a dissipated Sheldon sat in the front in his wheelchair with his lawyer, his head bowed down the entire time, unable to face us. When the no-nonsense female judge read him his sentence—one hundred seventy years in prison with no chance of parole—he looked up briefly and muttered, “I’m sorry.” The bastard couldn’t even say the two words to our faces. In unison, we gave him the finger.
Sheldon’s two guards, who’d attempted to shoot me, were also tried. Pleading guilty, they were each given twenty-five years.
The shitstorm didn’t stop with Sheldon. Within days of my exposé, other women spoke out about sexually abusive Hollywood moguls. Top directors, producers, agents, executives, and writers, who thought they were entitled to squeeze a tit or stick their dick in a pussy as a favor for furthering a bright, talented woman’s career. The stories were ugly. Among those implicated was my former boss Jim Hartley, who thanks to his strong defense team, got off being tried as an accessory to murder. But he got his due anyway. Several of my colleagues came forward and accused him of unwanted sexual advances, a few sexually molested against their will. Settlements were made and Jim lost his job. Plus, his wife and two kids. Sentenced to ten years in prison with no parole, the cowardly womanizer wept on the air. I almost felt sorry for him.
And it didn’t stop with Hollywood or with women. Blatant accusations of sexual abuse quickly spread to other industries around the world, many of them male-dominated, including technology, politics, fashion, sports, and the arts. Male and female fashion models spoke out about several top photographers, who forced their penis on them during shoots. Gloria Zander, the founder and CEO of Gloria’s Secret, came forward and told the press that the former Chairman of the Board of her company, already behind bars for stock manipulation, constantly harassed her. And Willow Rosenthal Madewell, a beautiful ballerina on her way to the top, exposed her ballet master to be a cold-blooded tyrant who tried to rape her. And finally, Jennifer Burns, the wife of Blake Burns, Conquest Broadcasting’s chief executive, who tearfully shared her almost rape-murder by a sick game show producer. The stories were harsh, vivid, and horrifying.
Nicole and I, however, weren’t done with the pig after he was sentenced. Nor were the other #RememberMeToos. Collectively, we filed a class action civil lawsuit for physical and emotional damages. Another victory! We won and were awarded in excess of ten million dollars plus the proceeds of his art collection once it was auctioned off. None of us needed or wanted the money, so we pooled it and started a #RememberMeToo Legal Defense Fund to aid other victims of sexual abuse. My words—Sp
eak Out!—became our credo.
As we near the end of the bridge, my joyful daughter shouts out again, cutting into my reminiscing and bringing me back to the present. Our beautiful here and now.
“Maman, je veux une glace!”
Standing by a vendor, she wants some ice cream.
“You want some too?” asks my husband.
I can’t pass up his offer. He knows how much I love ice cream—especially the French kind. He jogs ahead of me to catch up with Maddie and then returns with two cones, a noisette for me and a chocolat for him. After he hands me mine, I get to work, licking the creamy cold treat with my tongue. I roll it around and then lick up and down. It’s so, so good!
“Jeez. You’re giving me a raging hard-on,” laughs Finn.
I take another long lick. “Maybe I can solve your big problem when we get back to our hotel suite.” The thought of licking and sucking his sublime cock sends a rush of wetness smack between my thighs. Hot tingles spiral through my body. Then, without warning, a sharp pang shoots through my abdomen. Grimacing, I put my free hand to my tummy.
Alarm washes over Finn’s handsome face. “Baby, what’s wrong?”
I twitch a pained smile. “The baby . . . it just kicked! Feel!” I place Finn’s hand on my swollen belly. The baby, a miracle child like Maddie, kicks again.
Finn’s face lights up. “Holy shit! I felt it!” He laughs. “It kicks like a girl!”
I laugh back. I know for sure it’s a boy. I accidentally found out when I went for my last ultrasound before leaving for Paris, but didn’t tell Finn. He’s due in three months. And in three months someone I know is going to be sporting another tattoo on their ass. *Wink* It’s not me!
My eyes return to my darling Maddie, skipping ahead of us and licking her ice cream cone. She’s still too young to understand my complicated story. One day, when she’s older, I will tell it to her. I want her to know what happened to me and how a brave group of magnificent women bound together to stand up against adversity. To stand up for themselves. And I will also tell Emmet, her future brother, and raise them both to respect their co-workers and peers—women and men alike—and never turn a blind eye to corruption and injustice. To tyrants and victims, secrets and lies.
Time’s up. We no longer have to endure silence. But the fight for our rights is not over. There will always be the next monster, who will try to abuse us. Ready to strip away our dignity and confiscate our souls.
Wherever there’s a story, I’ll be there. Dig deep, then dig deeper. I will never stop uncovering the truth. It’s the most powerful tool we have.
Six months later
Los Angeles
“Welcome to Skye’s the Limit. On tonight’s show, five brave, outspoken individuals will join me. Three of them are women; two are men. One is under the age of eighteen. Each claims to have been sexually assaulted by the President of the United States.”
“Stay tuned for their stories . . . ”
Dearest Reader~
Thank you from the bottom of my heart for reading Remember Me. It means so much to me as it is by far the most important book I’ve ever written. And in my humble opinion, the best. It took me two years to make it what I really wanted it to be. And to make me feel proud of it.
The story germinated from an idea I had years ago for a television series I called Ghostwriter, about an investigative reporter who gets totally disfigured from a terrorist’s bomb attack and tries to resume her previous life with her husband and daughter. I thought about this concept forever but couldn’t make it work until sexual abuse became headline news. I had a new terrorist—a sexual assaulter, Sheldon Greenberg. Believe it or not, he made a brief cameo in my Unforgettable trilogy several years ago and I had no idea at that time he’d reappear. Or inspire a book.
Both my own personal experiences in the male-dominated entertainment world and those of more affected victims went into the writing of this story. A lot of research and many tears shed! I became obsessed, read everything I could, and even spoke to victims.
Sexual abuse is just a NO!—for women and men alike. I hope I’ve encouraged all of you to value your rights and to speak up. Male victims should not stay silent either. For those in need, here is the number for the National Sexual Assault Hotline: 800-656-HOPE (4673). Please don’t hesitate to reach out. You can read more about it here.
RAINN
I’m sure there are local hotlines and centers in your area, but unfortunately, I can’t list them all.
Additionally, for those who have experienced sexual harassment in the workplace and are in need of legal and financial assistance, please read about the TIME’S UP Legal Defense Fund.
TIME’S UP
If you loved reading Remember Me as much as I loved writing it, I hope you will leave a review on Goodreads and at the retailer where you purchased it as well as on BookBub. It can be as long or as short as you wish. Regardless of the length, reviews help others discover my books. And PLEASE tell your friends and reader groups about it. In this very difficult and crowded book world, there is still nothing like word of mouth.
Next up is another sizzling romantic suspense. Tentatively called Butterfly, it’s an older man/younger woman story and features my most tortured alpha hero ever. I so love it. Add it to your Goodreads TBR.
GOODREADS
To have the opportunity to get an ARC, be sure to sign up for my newsletter and join my Facebook reader group, Nelle’s Belles. Keep scrolling for the links.
In the meantime, if want to read more of me (YAY!) and love romantic suspense, I highly suggest you read my trilogy, Sex, Lies and Lingerie—Gloria and Jaime Zander’s rollercoaster love story. A preview follows. All my highly rated, bestselling books, including my romcoms, have an element of jeopardy and suspense, so I’m sure you’ll love them.
Most of my books are FREE in Kindle Unlimited. Whoot! Click on the covers that follow and check them out!
All of my social media sites are listed below. Please follow me everywhere and join my Facebook reader group Nelle’s Belles. And always feel free to get in touch with me. I personally respond to all my messages and emails and I LOVE hearing from my readers.
GAH! This is the longest love letter to my readers ever! Thank you again for taking a chance on Remember Me. I hope Finn and Skye’s epic love story will stay in your heart forever. With my heartfelt message.
You, my Belles, are the reason I write!
With all my love and appreciation~
MWAH!~ Nelle ♥
FOLLOW NELLE!
Please be sure to sign up for my mailing list and follow me on Amazon, BookBub, and my Facebook Reader Group to be the first to know about my new releases, sales, and giveaways.
Newsletter
Nelle’s Belles
Amazon
BookBub
Website
Instagram
Email
Sex, Lies & Lingerie
CHAPTER 1
Gloria
I was running late. I was never late. “Late” wasn’t part of my vocabulary. Damn that breakfast meeting. My guest, the stiff-lipped head of a major Madison Avenue ad agency, showed up forty-five minutes late. There’d been a cab accident en route that had caused a traffic jam. The unexpected had no place in my life. To make matters worse, I had to run back up to my hotel room because I’d carelessly left my cell phone in a different handbag. As the CEO of Gloria’s Secret, one of the largest retail emporiums in the world, I couldn’t be without my lifeline for the rest of the day.
Clutching my briefcase in my right hand, I anxiously pressed the elevator “Down” button several times with the other. I was staying in New York City at The Walden, a recently renovated five-star, twenty-one story Park Avenue hotel that dated back to the fifties. Unfortunately, my favorite hotel, The Ritz-Carlton, was booked up so I had decided to give this new, highly-rated venue a chance. So far, I hadn’t been disappointed. The accommodations were outstanding as was the service.
The eleva
tor, to my relief, arrived quickly. I dashed inside the sleek car, which still retained some of its mid-century charm, and hit the “L” button for the lobby. The polished metal doors slid closed. Just before they met in the middle, a manicured masculine hand flashed between them, preventing them from closing.
In a panic, I fumbled to press the “Open” button, fearing that the doors would slam shut on the hand and crush it. I’d seen this uncanny thing happen once before as a child and had never forgotten the gory scene. Flustered, I lost grip of my stuffed briefcase, and it tumbled onto the floor. In my haste to make it to my next meeting on time, I’d forgotten to zip it. This was just not my day. The contents—dozens of photos of gorgeous supermodels clad in skimpy underwear—scattered around my black stilettos. Damn it! I just didn’t need this right now. I crouched down to gather up the spillage—no easy task in my tight pencil skirt and six-inch heels. As I began to frantically collect the photos, two loafer-clad feet appeared before my eyes.
“Let me help you.” The voice was virile, velvety, and deep.
Before I could blink an eye, I was facing the intruder who had caused me to drop my briefcase. He had bent down to help me gather the loose photos. Our eyes stayed locked on one another. Mine shooting daggers his way. His deflecting every one of my visual assaults. Just a palm’s width apart, I felt his warm breath heat my cheeks and could smell a hint of his deliciously spicy cologne. I recognized it immediately. Homme, which means “man” in French. It was part of our newly launched men’s line of fragrances. The perfect gift for a woman to give to her man this coming Valentine’s Day.
I studied his face and what I could glean of his body. Let’s put it this way: I had seen a lot of male models, but this guy was something else. Manly. Built. Mid to late thirties. He was one hundred percent pure gorgeousness with his broad shoulders, intense denim blue eyes, mop of silky chestnut hair, and strong dimpled chin. A fine layer of stubble laced his olive complexion. Along with sockless suede loafers, he was wearing a battered leather bomber jacket over a white cotton T-shirt that showed off his taut chest, and faded designer jeans that revealed a ridge of muscles along his thighs. I assumed his legs were long, but it was hard to tell in his squatting position. What I could tell for sure was that there was a sizeable package between them. My gaze shifted quickly back to the floor.
Remember Me Page 29