by Hazel Parker
Pay Back
The Ferrari Mafia Family Series
Book Three
~
Hazel Parker
Pay Back – Ferrari Family Series © 2020 Hazel Parker
All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1: Layla
Chapter 2: Pierre
Chapter 3: Layla
Chapter 4: Pierre
Chapter 5: Layla
Chapter 6: Pierre
Chapter 7: Layla
Chapter 8: Pierre
Chapter 9: Layla
Chapter 10: Pierre
Chapter 11: Layla
Chapter 12: Pierre
Chapter 13: Layla
Chapter 14: Pierre
Chapter 15: Layla
Chapter 16: Pierre
Chapter 17: Layla
Chapter 18: Pierre
Chapter 19: Layla
Chapter 20: Pierre
Chapter 21: Layla
Chapter 22: Pierre
Chapter 23: Layla
Epilogue
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Author Bio
Prologue
Five Years Ago
I sat in the hotel lobby of what felt like my eighth hotel in a three-month span in France. They all ran together to the point that I only cared that the bartender spoke enough English for me to get a glass of wine. This kind of travel was thrilling, exciting, and the most exhausting thing I had ever done.
Around me were the remains of a wine conference I had attended; there were a few attendees doing their best not to look drunk in front of their respective clients, a few catching up on old stories, and even the occasional romantic spark developing between two attendees.
As for me? I had a glass of wine, a cell phone on eight percent battery, and feet dangling from the chair, in need of a massage. In other words, I had the one thing I needed to make up for why the other two were present.
A couple of attendees made their way over to me, wanting to say hi, but I politely—and at one point, not so politely—deflected them away, telling them I’d catch up with them later.
But as life always seemed to go, the only person in the room whom I would actually want to talk to had not only made no move toward me, he had not so much as looked my way.
Pierre Perocheau.
A practical legend on the wine circuit in France, he looked like—and acted like—something out of a cologne commercial for a French-named brand. He had the black beard, the sharp jawline, and the dark, mysterious brown eyes of a man who had done much, seen much, and shared little. He seemed to know everyone, and yet everyone seemed to know nothing of him. I had a tendency to believe men who created an aura around themselves were full of shit, and I enjoyed breaking those down, but in Pierre’s case, it really seemed true.
But it didn’t matter anyway because at the moment, Pierre had a circle of about a half-dozen men around him, regaling them with stories in French. It perhaps was not a great absence on my resume, but I had never learned to speak anything above basic French, so I was left picking up on certain words and reading body language. And perhaps part of Pierre’s mystique was that I had never heard him speak English.
Of course, I’d never heard him speak except at a distance like this, so what did I know?
My phone rang. My brother, Brett, was calling me through WhatsApp.
“What?” I said.
“And a pleasant hello to you too!” Brett said with a laugh.
“Oh fuck off; it’s nine o’clock here, and I’ve been in heels since eight a.m.”
“That bad?”
“Let’s put you in shoes that are like stilts for over twelve hours and we’ll see how bad of a mood you’re in.”
“I see,” Brett said with the kind of tone that made him sound regretful about calling me. I truthfully enjoyed talking to my big brother, because he could dish back the playful banter better than anyone in the family. Nick was too upstanding a guy to get too involved, and Leo...well, bless him, Leo was misunderstood by many, but even those that did understand him had to admit he was difficult. “So I probably shouldn’t bring up the fact that Grandpa Alf is being annoying again.”
“Is he making you go to church? Are you now required to pray before eating lunch every day?”
“No, nothing like that,” Brett said. “But you know how it is. ‘Brett, we’re getting old and we need grandkids.’ ‘Brett, when are you going to set an example for your generation?’ ‘Brett, your grandmother is worried sick she’ll never have a great-granddaughter.’”
“Sounds like a real blast,” I said, rolling my eyes. “You should tell him you’re quitting to become a professional darts player. If Nick is going to be the future left fielder for the Giants, maybe you can be the future darts champ on ESPN Sixty.”
“You’re so supportive, Layla,” he said with a crack.
And that’s when I got the gut feeling someone was looking my way. It was like a sixth sense I had, honed, I guess, from just being a woman, but also from having gone to so many of these conferences where men tried to get my attention ostentatiously for work. I didn’t look around to give myself away, but I did know I needed to wrap things up and get to bed. I had a rare opportunity for the next three days—a chance to enjoy Paris not as an employee of Ferrari Wines, but as a tourist.
“Well, I’ll support you more when I get home,” I said. “We’ll talk about finding you a woman amongst the five hundred you claim to have on speed dial. Talk later!”
“Wait, Layla, you—”
And I hung up on him. Brett would survive. He’d just shake his head, laugh, and then wind up texting one of those girls later on.
I leaned back into my chair, only to feel a hand on the back of it.
“The fuck, man—”
I cut myself off when I looked up right into the face of Pierre.
The very same.
And boy, he either had an abundance of confidence to be as close as he was or a complete disregard for the normal amount of social space Americans wanted.
And yet...there was just something so seductively charming about a man who ignored social customs, who ignored rules, who ignored “how it was usually done” and just got right to the point. His eyes were like missiles, targeted at mine, coming closer and closer.
“Do you mind?” I said, but I didn’t think I’d ever spoken such words so weakly, so pathetically.
He leaned in so close, I swore I thought he was going to kiss me right there on the spot. I mean, there was bold, and then there was just disbelief. Right?
But right when I thought he was, he leaned past me, so close that even though he never touched me, he nevertheless produced an aroused reaction all over my body. He got close to my ear and whispered.
“Tu sens incroyable.”
Fuck...what?
“English?” I said, trying not to sound too ridiculous.
Whatever he’d said, just by the fact that it was in French, was hot as hell. I knew “tu” meant you, but other than that...was he saying I was incredible? For all I knew, he was saying “incredible” like “incredibly hot” or “incredibly stupid”—both were equally possible.
He chuckled as he pulled back, placing a hand on my shoulder.
“You smell amazing,” he said in perfect English. “Allow me to order the next round.”
Not only was his English perfect, it had that charming French accent that meant even the word like “me” was said with such a sexy tone. The man could have said, “I like the color red,” and I would have swooned over the way he said, “color.” It was literally a superpower.
“Uh, sure,” I said, feeling like I was not even fighting a losing battle so much as I was just under the spell of a master wizard that not only made me bend to his will, he made me want to bend to his will. No one does this. No one! “But, uh, I was just sipping—”
“I understand,” Pierre said. “I only meant to order a round believing it would relax you. I did not mean to stress you further. I simply saw your eyes, your soulful, majestic eyes, across the room while you were on the phone, and I felt I had no choice but to come to a woman as beautiful as you.”
Oh, God, yes. I bit my lip. Men did not have this effect on me. I saw through bullshit too easily. And yet, here I was, like a teenager before her pop musician crush…
“Well, thank you,” I said, so self-conscious of all my words that I was sure Pierre would soon grow bored and just leave. “And you are rather handsome yourself.”
He smirked.
“I merely do what I can to make myself presentable,” he said. “I am but a flower which is pruned once a day. You, on the other hand, are like a garden of roses. Every part of you reflects beauty.”
Oh my God, this is too much.
“Why did you come over here?” I said, starting to feel emboldened.
“To talk to you,” he said. “To—”
“That’s not why you came here.”
Pierre paused and chuckled, perhaps enjoying taking a taste of his own medicine.
“I cannot look at you, as beautiful as you are, and not think about how wondrous your body must be,” he said. “It would be like playing an instrument to see how your body would work. It would give me great delight to see how one could tune you.”
All right, fuck it. I didn’t do this. I never did this with anyone.
I finished the rest of my wine in one gulp.
“Come on,” I said, grabbing him by the hand.
By the time we got to the elevator, we were kissing with fire.
By the time we got to the hotel door, we were touching each other with passion.
And by the time we got to the bed…
Let’s just say Pierre and I were eagerly tuning each other’s bodies.
* * *
Two Days Later
“Oh, my God,” I said, collapsing onto the bed, cuddling against Pierre after what was...goodness, who knew how many times we’d gone at it by this point.
The bedsheets were somewhere at the base of the bed after we’d kicked them down a couple hours before. On the table that was supposed to be a work desk, food from yesterday morning sat uneaten. The whole place looked like a college dorm, but in some respects, I liked that analogy, because I was with the most handsome man in all of Paris for what had felt like the most blissful time of my life.
There was never any concern about Pierre living up to his romantic ways, but in fact, he had surpassed all my expectations. I had long had my doubts about men like this existing before, but Pierre was not just a charmer, he was a giver. Oh, and the things that he could give me.
“You are simply incredible, Layla,” he said as he leaned over to kiss me on the forehead. “What could be better than a long weekend in Paris with a woman such as yourself, with champagne and food made by the finest chefs around us?”
“I don’t think there is anything better,” I said with another kiss. “You should come with me to America.”
Pierre laughed.
“My dearest, I would certainly consider such a thing, but let us not be so bold as to be stupid.”
“Oh, please, we’ve been bold for nearly forty hours now!” I said, though I had to admit I felt a little self-conscious about what I’d said. It was a huge leap from where we were, and it was telling this was the first time Pierre had rejected something of mine. “I just feel so connected to you, Pierre. I have never felt this kind of a physical connection with any man. And there’s certainly more to you than your body, as wonderful as it is.”
Pierre kind of half-grunted and smiled at me, but he didn’t say anything else. I cuddled up against him closer, figuring that the silence would encourage him to say something at some point. But nothing came. He was as silent as a corpse, though certainly as present and noticeable as the most alive of men.
“I suppose you’re just saving your strength for the next round, huh?” I said, the gentlest call-out I could create.
“Darling, for someone as beautiful and exotic as you are, I absolutely must save my strength,” he said. “One would not show up to a Michelin restaurant in street clothes. Likewise, one should not show up to a moment of intimacy with you with nothing less than their best.”
God, this man.
This beautiful, handsome, rugged man.
He could have compared sex with me to removing weeds and I somehow would have found it attractive. Granted, I still had a lot to learn about Pierre, and I was sure there were elements about him that I would not like once the sexual haze had subsided. But for now? Why not let my head remain in the clouds a little longer?
“Well, while you’re getting ready, then,” I said. “Come and shower with me. You know how much I enjoy feeling your clean skin against mine.”
Pierre arched an eyebrow at me as I got out of the bed naked, moving seductively and wagging a finger at him. I giggled on my way to the shower, left the door open, and turned on the hot water before stepping inside. I knew how the game would work—I’d be in here for a couple of minutes, then I’d sense him coming. I’d feel his hand touch my body, and then next thing you knew, the two of us were getting it on in the shower.
I ran conditioner and shampoo through my hair, cleaning myself up as best as I could. I went through the entire cycle, washed my hair out, and then waited.
Pierre hadn’t yet come.
That was odd, but perhaps he really was saving himself. After all, it wasn’t fair to make assumptions on how all of our sex would go just because the shower thing had happened twice. It was incredible the first time; it was perfect the second time. Perhaps switching it up now made sense.
But still, not even a knock? Not even a shout? Not even a peek of the head in to let me know that he was waiting for me and wanted me on top of him?
I told myself to calm down. This man had won me over, but that didn’t mean that life was perfection. I just...I needed to calm down.
After a quick wipe down with some soap, I turned the shower off.
“Pierre,” I said, my voice half-song. “I hope you’re ready for me. Because I am more than ready for you, sexy.”
No response. This better be a hell of a surprise.
“Pierre,” I sang out. “I’m wet and naked. I want you to come and take me!”
But again, no response.
Now I was worried something had happened. Had he suddenly had a seizure? Had he gone to get some ice or food? I had to see if he was there or if a note was left.
I yanked on the closest towel, which was one I’d used the day before, wrapped it around my body, and walked back to the bed.
“Pierre—”
He wasn’t there. OK, probably just went to get some ice real quick. I looked for a note but didn’t see anything. Then again, if he was just
getting some ice, then he’d be back momentarily. I sat on the edge of the bed and waited.
And waited.
And waited.
And please, please, I hope, please just be lost getting ice.
Five minutes passed. He wasn’t there. Maybe I had failed to notice a note he’d left somewhere. I looked all over the room for something, anything.
Not only was there nothing, all of his clothes, all of his possessions, anything that he had brought into the room was gone.
This...this was just part of the act, right? For all the wild sex and chemistry we’d had the last two days? This was just a setup for a surprise burst out of the closet, or a surprise reveal when I got outside...right?
He really didn’t just leave me without a word, right?
No way.
No...no way?
I bit my lip, trying to fight the tsunami of fury that was starting to form in my chest. Every minute that passed turned each “he’s coming back” to “that fucking asshole.” I still held out a sliver of hope that this was just some misguided role-play that I’d tell him never to do again, but…
Fifteen minutes passed.
He was not coming back.
I had to accept that.
He’d left without a note. Without a cell number. Without an address. Pierre was as real now as a ghost, a part of my imagination, no trace in the real world. If he’d wanted to be a man, he would have at the very fucking least left a note, most likely would have at least said something to me as he left if an emergency had popped up.
But no contact info, no personal info, nothing. He was a legend, but he was also a warning. A warning to never let myself get swept up in love and lust like I had this trip.
Embarrassed. Disgusted. Furious. Ashamed.
Not just with Pierre. In fact, not mostly with Pierre. Mostly with myself.
I packed my bags and called a taxi to take me to the airport, a good six hours before my flight home. I wouldn’t have anything to do at the airport, but at least the airport wouldn’t constantly remind me of being fucking abandoned after fucking. That was, if the whole fucking country of France didn’t do that for me.