Hooked Up: Book 2

by Richmonde, Arianne

  When you left, my heart broke in two. The Spanish describe their soul mate as ‘media naranja’—the other half of the same orange. And that is what you are to me, the other half of me, the perfect half that matches me. I have never felt this way before about anybody. Ever.

  You think I betrayed your trust. No, I would never do that. Sophie snooped at my iPad and saw my personal notes. They were written in English so I never imagined she would bother to translate them. Call me a jerk, call me a nerd for making notes concerning you. But here they are. (I have copied and pasted this). This is what she saw:

  I printed out the nerd-notes I had on my iPad (how shameful, how embarrassing!) and attached it to the hand-written part. It was the only solution. Better for her to think me a geek who wrote everything down than a liar:

  Problems to be solved concerning Pearl:

  Needs to reach orgasm during penetrative sex. (My big challenge).

  Needs confidence boosted – age complex due to American youth worship culture.

  Need to get her pregnant ASAP due to clock factor. (Want to start a family with her.)

  I scribbled on:

  I feel embarrassed showing this to you, but it is the only way I know how to explain myself. I write lists and notes – I write them for everything – you know that.

  When I first set eyes on you in that coffee shop, I was smitten, instantly. I remarked to Sophie how beautiful you were. Sophie commented on how easy American girls are, how they jump into bed with anybody at the drop of a hat. I told her, that in your case, I thought I stood very little chance – that you looked sophisticated and classy. (Given that I had never been with an American woman, I had no idea if what she said was true). It was disrespectful of me to discuss this in French with her while you were standing right there before us, when we were all waiting in line. I apologize. But that was then.

  This is now.

  Now I have found my Pearl I do not want to let her go.

  I will fight for you. I want you in my life.

  I have made a decision. I am giving over HookedUp to Sophie. I’ll still keep shares but will no longer be involved in the daily decisions of running it. I’d like to start up a new enterprise – a film production company and I’ll be looking for someone to run it (production skills mandatory). I wondered if you would consider yourself for the job?

  Here is the necklace. It belongs to you, and only you.

  A squadron of kisses,

  Your Alexandre

  P.S Rex has arrived and wants to meet you.

  P.P.S For the present time my family members will no longer be staying at my apartment when they visit New York.

  I decided I’d deliver this to Pearl’s apartment myself. I called Sophie. I knew she’d still be having her “power nap,” six hours ahead, Paris time, but I didn’t care; she owed me one.

  She picked up but didn’t even speak, just shuffled about, breathing into the receiver.

  “It’s me,” I said curtly.

  “What is it? Is Elodie okay?” she asked in a weary voice.

  “Fine. Just fine. Listen. I know you did all that super-sleuthing about Pearl so I’m assuming you know everything there is to know about her.”

  Sophie groaned. “I told you I’d get off her case, and I will, Alexandre. I’ve even been thinking of ways to make it up to her. Just to keep you happy.”

  “I appreciate that. Sophie, I need her best friend Daisy’s phone number or contact address. The redheaded British girl who lives in New York. Do you have it?”

  “Somewhere, I guess,” she replied in a bored drawl.

  “I need it now.”

  “Can’t you find it yourself?” she said with a long noisy yawn.

  “Yes, I could but I thought you were trying to make things right, Sophie.”

  “Okay, okay, I’ll call you right back, I’ll need to locate it.”

  I went into the kitchen, opened the fridge, which suddenly struck me as being absurdly large, especially for a bachelor, as I now hopelessly was. Would I be living alone forever with this massive thing, stuffed with enough food to feed several families? With no family of my own to feed? It didn’t matter how much money I had. It didn’t—as Hélène had once pointed out—matter how big my dick was, if I didn’t have the right person to share it with, to create a family with.

  I brought out a bowl from the fridge, and Rex wagged his tail, expecting a treat. Would it be just Rex and me, then, if Pearl decided she’d had enough? Two, tough, single males roaming Central Park at night, daring anyone to fuck with us? I dug my hand into the bowl of blueberries and stuffed a handful into my mouth. Rex seemed to be interested in the blueberries, too, so I threw him a couple, which he caught mid-air. My cell buzzed. It was Sophie, with Daisy’s home phone and cell phone numbers. Even her address. Christ, my sister was such a stalker. I was glad to have her on my side and not as my archenemy.

  I called Daisy, my heart inexplicably racing.

  “Hello?” Daisy said guardedly.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you, to call so early—”

  “Look, I’m not interested in buying your product, please don’t call this number any—”

  “It’s Alexandre Chevalier,” I interrupted.

  “Oh.” There was a weighty silence and then, “How on earth did you get this number, is Pearl okay? I just had breakfast with her, I—”

  “You just had breakfast with her?” I said with hope.

  “Excuse me, Alexandre, I’m not sure why you’re calling me.”

  “Can we meet up?” I asked, and then instantly regretted my question. She must have thought I was hitting on her. Great. That’s all I bloody needed.

  “No, we can’t meet up. I’m busy. If you want to see Pearl, she’ll be at work by now. Call her.”

  “Listen, Daisy, that’s why I’m calling you. I’m sorry to impose, but I need to talk about Pearl. I just want to know if she’s alright. She won’t answer my calls, my emails, my texts.”

  “Good girl,” I heard her whisper under her breath. Was she talking to her daughter or referring to Pearl?

  “And I don’t feel inclined to barge my way into her office when I know she’s busy and too furious to see me right now,” I added. Not only was that true but I wasn’t feeling my greatest, with the surge of Foreign Legion memories battering me, bashing my self-worth to a pulp, my raison d’être. Right now, I felt Pearl deserved better than me, but still, I couldn’t let her go.

  “Look, Alexandre, I’m not Pearl’s keeper. I can’t help you. You really shouldn’t be calling me in the first place.”

  “I know. I’m sorry, but I just want to know if she’s okay. We had an argument. About my sister. I won’t go into it but I assume Pearl—you two being best friends—has already told you everything.”

  There was a measured beat of silence and Daisy said languidly, “No, I don’t think she even mentioned you, Alexandre. I mean, in passing, yes. Said she just got back from France but . . . you know, Pearl is a very busy, in demand woman. She doesn’t have time for any nonsense.”

  I paced up and down the kitchen, blood roaring in my ears. Pearl hadn’t even mentioned me to her best friend? Or only did so in passing? So . . . she really didn’t give a fuck, after all. She would just get over me in a flash. Shit!

  Daisy went on coolly, “Look, Alexandre, Pearl is the kind of woman who has men queuing up to date her. Literally. Men go crazy for her. Extremely wealthy. Important. Interesting. Men. It won’t be long before someone snaps her up. I mean, men propose marriage to her all the time.”

  Marriage proposals? Yes, well . . . that would make sense. She was forty. Wanted a family. She wasn’t going to hang around and watch opportunities pass her by.

  Daisy carried on, “She’s beautiful. Clever. She’s a catch. She’s extremely busy with work, too. You know, she has a project about child traffickers, and another one concerning arms dealers—both in the pipeline. Important, life-changing stuff, that the world needs to know about. She doesn’t
have time for silly games, or people who dick her around.”

  Those two words—arms dealers—sent a bolt of fury through my gut. That fuck Mikhail Prokovich would be moving in on Pearl any moment.

  Daisy talked on, “If you want to catch a woman like Pearl Robinson, Alexandre, you’d better pull your socks up. I know it’s summer and you probably aren’t even wearing any socks—” she snickered at her joke.

  She was right . . . I looked down at my flip-flops. My bare chest. Apart from taking off my T-shirt, I still hadn’t changed out of last night’s clothes. I had a five o’clock shadow, dog hair all over me, and apart from brushing my teeth that morning, I felt pretty grungy. I probably looked like a backpacker about to set off for a round-the-world trip. I imagined Pearl at her office; elegant, suited-up, heels. Legs smooth and golden. Cool and relaxed, talking on the phone to clients, or in the editing room. A mover. A shaker. And me? I had lost the plot. So much so, I was calling her best friend for clues. This whole situation was ridiculous.

  “I’m so sorry Daisy. I haven’t slept all night. I don’t know what got into me to call you. I just wanted some news of Pearl and didn’t want to bombard her with my presence, you know. I’ve kind of been there, done that—don’t want overkill, you know. I just wanted news of her, I guess. I couldn’t bear the silence. Please don’t tell her I called you, though.”

  “Alright, I won’t. But think about it, Alexandre. Think about it carefully. Either fuck off and leave her alone, or do something big. You know what I’m saying? If you want Pearl you’d better step up to the big league and do something to really impress her. I mean, really impress her. We’ll keep this conversation between ourselves. At least for the moment. I’m sure if you get your shit together, I’ll hear about it from her.”

  Tough cookie! “Thanks, Daisy,” I said, making a mental note of never crossing this fiery redhead. “Good to get your take on it. See you around.” I hung up.

  I stuffed another handful of blueberries into my mouth, mulling everything over thoughtfully in my mind. Rex stared up at me, his head cocked to one side, as if to say, Well, what are you waiting for?

  “You’re right, Rex,” I said, patting him on the head. “I’ll impress Pearl, alright. This is it. Make or break.”

  She had teased me, calling me Michael Corleone. I wouldn’t let her down:

  I’d make her an offer she couldn’t refuse.

  ON MY WAY OVER to Pearl’s apartment to deliver the necklace, I decided to call Sophie. I was aware she had an important meeting she didn’t want interrupted. Too bad. Even if busy, I knew she’d pick up her cell. Sophie was one of those people who was bitten by curiosity—couldn’t bear to leave a question unanswered. So even a ringing phone was too much to pass up. And she never left her cell on voicemail in case she missed out on some elusive deal. She had a team working around the clock for her: investors, hedge fund managers, people on her payroll with their noses to the ground, sniffing like pigs for truffles. Not only that, but any country could be calling her at any hour, any second. A president. A mogul. A Russian oligarch. A billionaire Indian. Even the Queen of bloody England. Yes, believe it or not, there were people out there with even more money than us, and Sophie wanted a piece of each and every juicy pie.

  Just as I had announced in my letter to Pearl, I decided that I was getting out of HookedUp. That I couldn’t take the antics of my sister anymore. I’d call her. Put her to the test. I knew what the result would be, but I just wanted to hear the words come out of her mouth. I stopped by a deli and bought some fruit, then dialed my sister’s number.

  “Sophie, I need that big diamond,” I demanded, when she picked up on the second ring.

  “Oh, it’s you again,” she groaned. Are you eating something?”

  “An apple.”

  “I hate the way you can only get three or four kinds of apples these days. You know, there used to be over ten thousand varieties of apples in England alone. Now all we have are—”

  “I need the diamond now. Today,” I told her with my mouth full.

  She hissed into the receiver in a whisper, “Are you fucking nuts? a) the diamond’s the most expensive stone out of the lot of them—we already have a buyer at seven million and b.) it’s in Amsterdam with the jewelers—excuse me gentlemen, I just need two minutes to end this call—” I heard my sister’s clipped footsteps and a door banging closed. She continued, “What the fuck are you doing interrupting this meeting? You know how long I’ve waited for this.”

  “I knew I shouldn’t have let you do all the organizing of the gems yourself. Get that fucking diamond on a plane now! I need it for Pearl’s engagement ring.” I wanted to hear my sister’s reaction just to test her, and I couldn’t have been more spot-on.

  She cackled with laughter like one of Shakespeare’s Macbeth witches. “N-O,” she spelled out. “No. You’re marrying her? Oh my God, she’s really got you by the balls this one, hasn’t she?”

  “That’s all I wanted to hear. Confirmation of how impossible you are. How little you care when it comes to my wellbeing. I’m finished with HookedUp, Sophie. I’m going to start up a new venture. You can buy me out little by little—I won’t squeeze you for all the money at once. Have fun in your meeting with that scheming son-of-a-bitch, Mikhail Prokovich.”

  “How the hell do you know he’s part of this meeting?”

  “Because I’m aware of how your mind works, Sophie, like billions of dollar bills wrapped around each brain cell. I’ve also heard from a source of mine that he’s suddenly become interested in doing deals with HookedUp. Maybe he fancies you, who knows? But he seems to be all over everyone like a rash right now.” I bit an angry chunk out of my apple. “Doing business with that shifty bastard? No thanks. Another reason I’m out.” I hung up.

  I didn’t want that diamond for Pearl. No. I had a better idea—something even more special. A one-off. A piece of history. Something that belonged to a princess. My museum contact, who’d secured me the ancient silver stater (my 550BC coin from Greece that brought me luck), had told me about the most stunning diamond of all: something that was worth far more than seven million dollars.

  That would be my engagement gift.

  But first, I needed to make sure that I gained entry into Pearl’s apartment. I couldn’t do a re-run of last time, when I’d dashed up the back stairs—the doorman would be onto that trick. Pearl still hadn’t returned my calls or messages. The chances of her even letting me up, when she was obviously still pissed at me, were slim. It seemed a lifetime ago that we’d been swimming in the sea in Cap d’Antibes, but less than twenty-four hours had passed. She was playing it cool. Maybe she’d stay that way. She might even feel inclined to send the necklace back, the box unopened. All my plans of asking for her hand, like some knight in shining armor on a quest, could be smashed if I didn’t get to see her face to face.

  I had to come up with something good.

  Something really good.

  FIRE

  PEARL

  WHEN I GOT HOME from work, Luke, the skinny doorman, whom I thought had been fired, presented me with a box. I recognized it. Wrapped with the same type of white velvet ribbon, in the same gray box. My heart was thumping through my chest, adrenaline pumping through my veins as if I were preparing to run from a wild beast. Funny how nature has adrenaline kick in whether we like it or not.

  I had a quick shower to ease the day away, and when I picked up the box again, I was a little calmer.

  Déjà-vu. I set it on my bed and opened it: the pearl necklace wrapped in one of Alexandre’s T-shirts, which I picked up and inhaled. Bastard. He knew just how to get to me. He hadn’t washed the shirt, and I could smell him all over it. Sunshine, salt, the odor of his skin. I inhaled it again and felt a surge of desire sweep through my body. There was a long note in his handwriting, and attached a typed, printed note on different paper. By the time I got down to:

  “A squadron of kisses” (what originality!) I had tears in my eyes. And when I re
ad:

  “P.S Rex has arrived and wants to meet you,” I was actually wailing with emotion.

  I smelled the T-shirt again and went weak. His natural scent was like an elixir of love. Before I had a chance to wipe away my tears, the telephone rang. It was Luke the doorman.

  “Ms. Robinson, did you call the Fire Department?” he asked nervously.

  “No, I didn’t. Is there a fire in the building?” My voice flew up two octaves.

  “Not as far as I know, Ms. Robinson, but a firefighter is on his way up to take a look. Somebody must have called 911.”

  “Well, it wasn’t me. Mrs. Meyer from the eleventh has been known to call emergency services. They came once to retrieve her cat from the fire escape—did you ask her?”

  “I’ll call her now.”

  “Or that guy on the second floor, what’s his name? Oh yes, Mr. Johnson. He’s always burning his food.”

  “Okay, ma’am, thank you.”

  I went to the kitchen and looked out the back door to see if I could hear a commotion. Nothing. All was silent up and down the back stairs. Why only one firefighter? Isn’t that what Luke said? Usually they come in pairs. I heard some clanging outside my kitchen window, and I looked over with a start. The firefighter was right there on the fire escape, peering into my apartment. Was he about to smash my window? I raced over to open it—I didn’t want shards of glass everywhere. I lifted up the window, raised my eyes and could not believe the vision before me. I broke into a huge smile.

  Hot. Hot. Hot!

  But not from any fire.

  “Excuse me ma’am,” the voice exclaimed, “I heard there was fire in this apartment.”

  I observed the sexy outfit, the dark pants with yellow stripes. But the firefighter wasn’t wearing a top. His muscles were ripped, shining with perspiration, his cheeks dark with yesterday’s stubble. Any girl’s fantasy.

  I opened the window wide, and his big black boots jumped down into my apartment, followed by his drop-dead gorgeous body.