Hooked Up: Book 2 (31 page)

Surely they wouldn’t hound a married man?

Little did I know, at that point, that Laura’s shenanigans were just beginning.

I found Pearl in bed. I slipped in beside her and needed, oh yes, I really
needed
to be inside her. Her velvet cave was becoming my security. My home. It was where I belonged and where I constantly wanted to be. I felt secure there.

I didn’t fuck her hard and ravage her as I’d threatened to in our Skype call. No. I held her close, kissing her toothpaste-fresh mouth, my tongue exploring hers with tiny, fluttery movements so I could feel every nuance, every miniscule touch. I entered her wetness, stretching her open, my hands clasped greedily beneath her round ass, bringing her closer with every thrust as she moaned under me.

“Please don’t stop, Alexandre,” she told me, tears sparkling in her eyes.

“I’ll never stop fucking you, baby,” I groaned into her mouth. “Never.”

She’d gotten the hang of it alright. These days orgasms were coming out of her like a string of pearls. I could feel her now, massaging her clit against the root of my thick dick in a rhythmical rocking movement. I sensed the heat build inside her, her pussy clamping around me, owning me. I couldn’t get enough of her. Each time she came, it was more intense, deeper—even more carnal than the time before.

The pair of us were insatiable.

Pearl was truly addicted to me. Couldn’t get enough of me. Or my cock.

Or so I thought.

A rude awakening was about to prove me dead wrong.

A
WEEK WENT BY, both of us busy with work but having lunch every day together and then meeting up later at home, where we usually ordered something in for dinner. In New York City you are spoiled for choice: Thai, Indian, Chinese, Mexican or Japanese—even Ethiopian; you name it, you can get the best of it all in Manhattan. Sometimes Alexandre whipped up something mouth-watering himself. He had a knack with any type of cuisine, but especially French and Italian. His chef, Vincent, was on vacation.

I needed to start getting used to saying things like, “our chef” and “our apartment,” but it was still taking a while for it all to sink in. Also, this was not my money paying for all this luxury so I found it difficult to use the word “we” when it concerned “necessities” that most human beings lived quite happily without.

Alexandre set up a mini movie theatre in the apartment so we got to watch movies on the big screen and eat popcorn. Occasionally Sophie’s stepdaughter Elodie came over, still painfully shy and only just eighteen. Alexandre refused to speak French with her so she was learning fast. He was also paying for her to have private English lessons, so movie night was extra tutoring as far as he was concerned—nothing like a good film to make you absorb a language. With a head on her shoulders for anything technical and frighteningly nerdy, Elodie was being groomed as a future heiress to HookedUp—at least that was how it appeared to me, although it was unspoken. Alexandre even wanted her to spend some time working with me. He’d set her up in a pretty apartment in Greenwich Village. He suspected that she rarely went out, and neither of us had seen any evidence of her making friends, hence the choice of Greenwich Village; he thought it would be the right ambience for her to mingle and meet people. So far, she seemed to keep to herself, though.

Anthony was right. I felt like Kate Middleton must have felt preparing for her big day. The thought of Sophie spending $63,000 on my wedding gown brought goose-bumps to my flesh. She was an old client of the Malaysian-born designer, Zang Toi –a star who dressed stars and who’d been based in New York for the last thirty years or so. I was nervous at first, but then I met him and knew straight away that he was special. He was adorable, with an infectious laugh and a sense of humor that brought out the child in you. Like many Chinese people, he looked way younger than his fifty-one years. The first time I saw a photo of him he was wearing a mini kilt. Now he usually went about in a black suit.

Today I was off for my first fitting at his showroom, an atelier on 57
^th
Street, just a few blocks over from HookedUp Enterprises. He had already promised me that I’d look like a princess on my wedding day. When I saw some of his designs, both vintage and new, I knew that he was right. He was a genius.

I took the elevator up to his floor and was greeted by one of his assistants, a sweet, unassuming girl who could have been a teenager but no doubt wasn’t—those Asian, wrinkle-free genes again. She ushered me into his showroom, where there were floor to ceiling windows overlooking Fifty Seventh Street below, and rows of to-die-for gowns and outfits draped from hangers. There was a large desk in the center of the room, where he was sitting, his blue-black glossy head bent, busy and in deep concentration. I’d heard that he was a shrewd businessman as well as an artist—he’d learned from a young age, helping out in his parents’ grocery store when he was just a boy. He was the seventh child and his lucky number, Sophie told me, was thirteen.

He looked up from his task, raked his eyes over me quickly and smiled, saying, “You’re making my life very easy, Pearl, you’re perfect sample size, so no snacking before your wedding!”

I laughed but knew he was probably serious. This was not going to be the type of dress to favor a last-minute nip and tuck. “Tell me, Zang, what do you envision for me?” I asked, kissing him on both cheeks. Somehow a handshake seemed too formal for such a friendly person.

“I have planned for you a floor length, ivory, silk velvet cape with dramatic train and ice crystal beaded blossoms cascading down from the shoulder, and matching strapless gown with ice crystal beaded blossoms cascading up the dramatic flared hem.”

“Wow, it sounds beautiful.”

“You will be the perfect ice-princess for your handsome French prince,” he said with a giggle.

We spent the afternoon discussing the design and all the different options for shoes. He had me there like a mannequin, being draped with muslin cloth, pins going here and there; the fabric itself, the silk velvet, would not be touched until later. He loved the idea of a winter wedding in Lapland and asked me a hundred questions about what food and drink would be served, but even
I
wasn’t sure about that yet; this was all stuff I had to decide with the wedding planner.

Elodie, of course, was going to be my maid of honor—she had yet to come in for her fitting, but slim as a pencil, I was sure Zang would love her . . . no chance of her pigging out before December; she was a little waif. With her long brown hair styled with crystal beads, Zang was confident he could transform her into a character from a fairy tale.

I left late, bubbling with excitement and hope—Zang’s giggly demeanor was catching, and I was in the highest of spirits.

That was until the elevator door to his showroom opened: Sophie standing there with a fixed grin on her face.

My heart sank.

She looked ravishing, impeccable—but then Sophie was always impeccable. Her thick, dark hair loose, the cut chic with Parisian perfection. Her pinstripe pantsuit tailored. I instantly felt straggly and unkempt next to her mature sophisticated demeanor, even though she was five years younger than me.

“Pearl,
darling
,” she said in her heavy French accent, and air-kissed me on both cheeks.

“Sophie, what a lovely surprise, how long are you in town for?”

“Didn’t Alexandre tell you I was coming?”

“He must have, but I guess I lost track of time,” I lied. I didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of knowing I feared her and that Alexandre was keeping anything from me. No, he had not let me know she was coming to New York.

I smiled sweetly. I felt like the two of us were in that scene from Oscar Wilde’s
The Importance of Being Earnest
: two women’s saccharine smiles and sweet-talk hiding dagger-like intentions. Although,
my
only intention was to avoid her as much as possible. What her plans were for me, I still could not begin to guess. Except I was sure they included ousting me from her brother’s life, in whatever way possible.

She said excitedly, “I thought I’d pop by and see what Zang has designed for Elodie.”

“Sophie, I can’t thank you enough for this generous gift. I mean, you’re really pulling out all the stops.”

“Pearl, you’re going to be my sister-in-law. Part of my life. If you make Alexandre happy, zat’s all I care about.” She wrinkled her nose cutely and I wondered, for a second, if she could twitch it like Samantha on
Bewitched—
something I’d practiced as a child watching endless re-runs on TV, but never mastered.
I wouldn’t put it past Sophie to be able to come up with a few sorceress tricks, or to cast some sort of wicked spell on me.

Or was I being unjust? Maybe her intentions were good and I was just a jaded, unforgiving bitch.

Time would tell.

I WENT BACK TO the office to work, and when I got home I found Alexandre on the roof terrace with Rex.

“Hi Pearl, darling,” he said, “come and sit on my knee. I’m just finishing up a couple of things.” He was tapping away distractedly on his tablet, making lists.

I ran my fingers through his thick dark hair and told him, “I bumped into Sophie at Zang’s showroom. You never told me she was coming to New York.”

“Sophie’s here, in Manhattan?”

“Yes, didn’t you know? She said you knew.”

“I can’t remember her telling me, no.”

“Oh,” I said, wondering which one of them was fibbing. Sophie, no doubt.

As if the Devil herself were listening in on our conversation, Alexandre’s cell rang. I could tell it was Sophie by the way he talked. Not just because he was speaking French but the easy expression on his face; the relaxed way you speak to an old friend. My French was getting better every day, namely by hearing him chat on the phone. They were discussing dinner. Great. Just when I was feeling more at ease than ever, our lives perfect, Sophie had to nuzzle in on us. I tensed. Was Alexandre now telling her, that yes,
I
would make dinner tonight? Please, God, no. He knew cooking was not my forte. He ended the conversation and looked at me, his slightly crooked smile showing a hint of irony.

“Did I hear right?” I asked him. “Did you just tell Sophie that
I’d
cook supper?”

“She asked especially. She wants to taste typical, homemade, American food.”

“Well, there are a lot of restaurants that do it way better than I do.”

“Nonsense, your cooking is great.”

Little did Alexandre know that it was Dean & DeLuca’s and Zabar’s cooking which was great, or our local delicatessen. Not me.

He brushed a lock of hair from my face. “Make your hamburgers, they’re delicious.”

“Really? You like them?”

“I love them. Or you could do your BLTs—the best this side of New York.”

“But Sophie will be expecting something fancy.”

“No, she won’t. She gets gourmet food in Paris. Give her BLTs.” He pressed his mouth on mine and whispered through his kiss, “You’re my Star-Spangled girl, remember? I don’t care if you don’t cook flashy, haute cuisine. I love you just the way you are. Don’t ever change.”

SOPHIE AND ELODIE arrived at eight o’clock sharp. Needless to say, every second had been spent by me preparing for their dreaded arrival. Patricia helped me lay the table with the best silver and crystal champagne glasses. BLTs, in style, with matchstick French fries and Bollinger Champagne.

Because I was the only native English speaker, the language
du jour
was soon French. Sophie had ways of looking as if she was the most charming person in the world while quietly stabbing me simultaneously. Alexandre didn’t seem to notice, and Elodie was so busy stuffing her face with the BLTs, that she was blissfully unaware.

“So Pearl,” Sophie began. “How is everything going in zee Enterprise’s department?”

“Great,” I replied sweetly.

“She’s just made a deal with Samuel Myers,” Alexandre interjected proudly. “He’s a tough nut to crack, and Pearl got what she wanted, namely a woman for one of the leads in
Stone Trooper
.”