Gloria gazed up at me. I was chewing my lip. She sensed my distress. “You okay, baby?” Despite her pain, there was deep concern in her voice. Oh my angel! How I loved her!
I nodded and dusted her chin with the tip of her braid. “Yeah.” Gloria and I had promised in our wedding vows never to keep secrets from one another. Well, I had just broken mine. I was the furthest thing away from all right I’d ever been. I was full of remorse and scared shitless. But I couldn’t let Gloria know this. I needed to be strong…strong for her. Everything’s going to be okay, I tried telling myself. Except I wasn’t falling for it. Not one fucking bit.
A sudden halt and another loud screech—this one from Gloria—catapulted me into the moment. Gloria’s body jolted, and I felt her nails dig into my hand. I pressed my lips against her head. Both to comfort her and keep my foul mouth shut.
“Oh, God,” she shrieked as yet another contraction assaulted her. Tears were now leaking out of the corners of her eyes. The contractions were intensifying and coming more frequently.
Fuck. “Angel, hang in there. Remember what your yoga instructor told you. Breathe. We’re almost there.”
Except we weren’t moving. We were at the intersection of Robertson and Beverly Boulevard. The entrance to the hospital was just around the corner off Beverly.
“What the fuck is going on?” I called out to Ty, my voice frantic. I looked out the window. Ahead of us was a police barricade. Dozens of policemen were manning it as a swarm of police cars and black Escalades zipped down Beverly.
Ty put on a headset. “I’m finding out from my network.” He turned to face us. “The President is in town. He and his entourage are heading up Beverly Boulevard.”
I slapped my forehead. “Fucking-A!” I had nothing against the President, but why today of all fucking days had he chosen to come to LA? Stressed out as I was, I just didn’t need this cluster fuck.
Gloria clapped her hands against her belly and let out another agonizing scream. Her pained eyes searched mine. “What are we go—?”
She stopped mid-sentence. Without warning, a sudden gush of warm liquid saturated the fabric of my jeans. My first thought—oh no, Gloria’s bleeding!
She looked at me with a mixture of shock and terror in her duo-colored eyes. All color had drained from her face; she was as pale as a ghost. “Baby, I think my water just broke.”
Shit. This was definitely not in that What to Expect When You’re Expecting book. Maybe I should have read What Not to Expect When You’re Expecting.
My heart was racing and so was my mind. There was only one option. Fuck. This. Shit.
“Tyrone, open the passenger door!”
Wordlessly, he jumped out of the car and yanked open the back door. With Gloria in my arms, I scooted out of the Rover.
“What are you doing?” she gasped.
“What does it look like I’m doing? I’m taking you to the hospital.”
Tyrone’s eyes were frozen wide open.
“Ty, you go back to Gloria’s condo and gather her things. Tilda will help you. And be sure to bring the little red box that’s in my night table drawer.”
“Yes, sir.” Before he could blink, I was running up the street with Gloria in my arms, now sobbing, and our babies on their way. I’m sure onlookers must have thought I was crazy, but I didn’t give a flying fuck. All that mattered was getting Gloria to the hospital before she gave birth.
“Sir, you can’t cross the street right now,” said a staunch, ruddy-faced policeman as I approached the barricade. I was breathing heavily, half from running with the weight of Gloria, half from my state of panic.
“I have to!” I begged, my voice desperate. “My wife is about to give birth.”
The officer shot a quick look at Gloria.
“We’re having twins.” A faint smile curled on her luscious lips. And then she grimaced as another contraction hit her.
The cop quirked a lopsided smile. “Me and my wife have twins. Follow me.”
Was he going to escort us to the hospital by foot or take us in his police car?
The answer was: neither. Gloria let out an ear-piercing shriek and shook in my arms. Every muscle in my body clenched.
“Angel, what’s the matter?”
She clenched her teeth. “I can feel it.”
“Feel what?”
“The babies. They’re coming. Now.”
My heart almost stopped. Holy fucking shit. Right here? Right now? Tell me this wasn’t happening.
“Sir, have you ever delivered a baby?” asked the officer.
“No!” Was he out of his fucking mind?
“Well, you’re about to.”
CHAPTER 7
Jaime
Clad only in my oversized white shirt that at least shielded her with a modicum of modesty, Gloria was spread out on the pavement, seated on my jacket. We had set her up outside a storefront so she could lean against the building. Her bare legs were steepled wide, and she was screaming at the top of her lungs in god-awful pain. A small crowd of pedestrians had gathered around us, more interested in watching Gloria give birth than the President drive by. A couple of good Samaritans had volunteered to get some hot water and clean towels from the nearby Starbucks at the officer’s request. With Cedars so nearby, why couldn’t one of them be a doctor?
Gloria’s frantic screams got louder.
“Relax, baby. Breathe.” I don’t know how I managed to get the words out. I was a total basket case. A twisted bundle of nerves.
Harsh pants spilled from her lips. Blood was pouring out between her legs. Fuck. I’d never seen so much blood before. Not even with my father’s fatal self-inflicted gunshot to his head. Was this normal? I hoped this cop knew what he was fucking doing because I sure as hell didn’t.
“Push!” he told Gloria.
“I’m trying!” she sobbed out. Tears poured down her face and mingled with beads of sweat clustered on her cheekbones. Her manicured hands pressed into the cement, helping to anchor her.
Her misery was eating me alive. This was certainly not how we’d planned it. We had actually scheduled a date for Gloria to be induced. Hence, it was more along the lines of a leisurely breakfast, packing an overnight bag, and checking her into the luxurious suite I’d booked on Cedar’s exclusive eighth floor—reserved for Hollywood celebrities and power moguls. And then having a nice calm delivery with an epidural. Followed by selfies. Gloria, me, the babies in our arms. Smiling. Happily ever after.
But now, happily ever after was an elusive dream. “Officer, can’t we get her to the hospital?” I had to shout out to him to make myself heard above Gloria’s frantic screams.
“Push, ma’am,” he said again before answering my question. “Someone on the force has called for an ambulance, but it’s not going to be easy crossing the barricade.”
“Can’t you tell them my wife might die?”
Sheer terror flickered in Gloria’s eyes. Her lower lip quivered. “I-I’m going to die?”
Jesus fucking Christ. Why did I say that? Why? Because I was totally losing my mind. And that better be all I was losing. A terrifying afterthought.
Full of remorse, I gently held Gloria in my arms. “No, my beautiful angel. You’re not going to die. Everything’s going to be okay. You’re going to be a mommy. And I’m going to be a daddy.”
Seriously, if anyone was going to die, it was me. I was close to having a heart attack. She shot me a faint smile before screaming out in agony yet again.
“Push!” repeated the officer.
Gloria grunted, her face turning as red as the soles of her Louboutins. “I’m trying.”
I let her squeeze my hand. Her clammy grip was forceful. Clawing me with her long nails, she pushed again to no avail. Panic gripped me by the balls.
“Why won’t the babies come out?” my wife cried as blood pooled on the lining of my jacket. She was as debilitated as she was terrified.
“You need to relax,” responded the officer. He turned to
me.
“Sir, can you do something to distract her? Maybe entertain her?”
I shot him a puzzled look. What did he want me to do? Perform a song and dance number? Do a magic trick—abracadabra, make our babies magically appear? Recite nursery rhymes—which I actually could do because I’d memorized all of them over the last eight months? I could also whistle, but this wasn’t the time for that.
“You know her. She’s your wife,” murmured the cop, his patience wearing thin.
Yeah, I knew what she liked for sure. Caviar. Netflix. Handcuffs. And Chanel. But the only thing that ever distracted by beautiful control-freak wife was my big-ass dick. I seriously contemplated freeing it from my jeans and letting her hold on to it as she pushed. But the thought of being arrested for indecent exposure stopped me. Damn it. Think, Zander, think.
Gloria’s eyes grew wide as my mind raced. “Jaime, please don’t leave me. I need you!”
I gripped her hand and stroked her damp hair. “Angel, trust me, I’m not going anywhere.”
CHAPTER 8
Gloria
Another razor-sharp contraction attacked me. I’d been shot once in the chest—the unforgettable pain excruciating—but nothing compared to the white-hot pain of the contractions I was experiencing now. At least with Boris’s gunshot, I’d passed out, but these contractions were like sharp knives jabbing at my core, and each brutal stab was more agonizing than the one before. They were coming faster and faster, just mere seconds apart.
The only thing that kept me from falling apart was Jaime’s hand. My lifeline.
“Don’t leave me,” I pleaded again, squeezing it hard.
“Angel, I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”
“Tell me you love me.”
“I love you, angel with my heart, my body, and my soul.”
“I love you too,” I whispered before another excruciating push.
Another person—an attractive, well-dressed, middle-aged woman joined us. She was carrying a large Chanel shopping bag. She squatted down beside me and smoothed my hair.
“I work down the street at Chanel; I’m the new manager. When one of our customers told me about what was happening, I grabbed two cashmere shawls…they’re brand new, right out of the stock room…you can use them to wrap up the babies.” She lifted the two shawls—one pale pink, the other pale blue—out of the bag and placed them on her lap.
For the first time since this ordeal had begun, a smile ghosted on my face. “Thank you,” I rasped, my throat parched. Well, at least, our babies were going to start their lives off in style. Chanel was my favorite designer.
My peace of mind was short-lived. Another fierce pain tore through me as I grunted and gave one more hard push. Tears leaked from my eyes. The officer looked again at Jaime.
“Sir, she really needs to relax,” he repeated, tension now thick in his voice and etched on his face.
My eyes searched Jaime’s. My poor baby looked so lost, so helpless, so desperate. And then suddenly his eyes lit up. I knew that look. It was the telltale sign of my creative genius coming up with a brilliant idea.
“Gloria, look at me.” His voice was virile, velvety, and deep. The yummy voice I fell in love with the minute I’d met him on the elevator of The Walden. “Let me help you” were his very first words. Please help me now, baby! Trying to breathe away the pain and still gripping his hand, I bore my eyes into his.
With his other hand, my beautiful husband lovingly brushed the sweat off my forehead and then dusted the tip of my now damp braid across my chin.
“Angel, I want you to think about our honeymoon. That afternoon…”
Leaning into my ear, he began to sing to me in Italian in his sexy, raspy voice…
“Gloria, manchi tu nell’aria
Manchi ad una mano
Che lavora a piano
Manchi a questa bocca
Che piu no tocca…”
The original Italian version of my song, “Gloria.” As Jaime’s soft sexy voice drifted into my ears, I closed my eyes, half because of the pain, half because I needed to transport myself to that place, that time, that moment. Relive it.
We’re in Tuscany. I thought we were going back to Paris, but I should have known better. My creative genius would never do the same thing twice. He’s rented a private villa—stocked to the gills with the finest Italian gourmet foods and a full-time staff—that sits amongst the hills, overlooking endless green pastures, olive groves, and grapevines. When the sun rises and sets, it’s like God creating the world before my eyes. And a sex god is the divine man with whom I’m sharing this dream. This dream that is reality. Mine.
We haven’t stopped making love since our arrival last night. After sharing a delectable dinner on the candlelit terrace, he swept me into his arms and carried me off to the bedroom where we fucked every way we could on the plush four-poster bed that’s fit for royalty—and Jaime’s royal cock.
“Come on, Mrs. Zander, let’s go for a drive in the countryside,” he breathes into my ear after a late breakfast. My heart thuds at the words, Mrs. Zander. It’s all so new to me yet it feels so right. He gives me a passionate, all-consuming kiss that warms my blood.
A short fifteen minutes later after one more quick fuck, we’re ready for our outing. The early September weather is mild, so we’ve dressed accordingly. I’m wearing a floral sundress that gently flows over my little baby bump and a pair of sparkly flip-flops. My hair cascades over my belly in a loose, long braid. Mr. Sexy is clad in one of his casual, panty-melting uniforms—a hip-hugging perfectly ripped pair of jeans, a soft white V-neck T-shirt, and a pair of expensive Italian loafers. As usual, no socks. Just as usual, a tingly rush of heat coils through me at the sight of his sexy bare feet. They always have that effect on me. Perhaps, because his sockless feet were the very first part of him I set my eyes on during our first fateful elevator encounter.
Three months pregnant with our twins, I pack a healthy basketful of assorted cheeses, a loaf of freshly baked bread, and a bucket of the biggest, most gorgeous strawberries I’ve ever seen. Clutching a plaid blanket, Jaime throws in a chilled bottle of Prosecco. Selfish, self-centered husband! He knows damn well I can’t have any of the Italian sparkling wine. But I love him anyway. More than life itself. Grinning fiendishly, he grabs my hand and whisks me away.
The car we’ve rented—a little sage green Fiat convertible—awaits us outside. Jaime helps me inside it and then hops into the driver’s seat. In a heartbeat, we’re off. Zipping down the seemingly endless winding road that leads from our hillside villa to the verdant valley below. Jaime loves speed, but he drives carefully and attentively. With my pregnancy, his fierce possessiveness has morphed into fierce protectiveness.
Wearing my favorite sunglasses, I soak in the scenery. The colorful Tuscan landscape with its rolling hills is spectacular, but nothing compares to the breathtaking view of my husband in his Ray-Bans. His gorgeous manly profile with its strong stubbled jaw and sexy little dimple…his mountainous biceps that flex when he turns the wheel…his muscled thighs that peek out from his shredded jeans…his large, long-fingered hand that curls over the stick shift. He belongs in a museum. A gallery in Florence. Sunglasses and all. The bumps along the road send little jolts to my buzzing core. His gaze focused ahead, Jaime lifts his right hand off the shift and slips it under the hem of my dress and slides it up my thigh. He shoves away the tiny lace thong I’m wearing, and his deft fingers find their way to my slick folds. He caresses them. Squirming, I face front.
“What are you doing?” I ask, secretly loving every minute.
“What does it look like I’m doing? I’m feeling you up.”
I laugh at his words, spoken like a teenager.
“Ah, my angel, you’re already so hot and wet. I can hardly wait for lunch.”
I crank my neck and look at him again. Wearing a delicious smirk, he knows my eyes are on him, but he deliberately doesn’t turn to face me. A sharp curve in the serpentine road forc
es his hand back on the shift. I place my left hand over his. When he changes gear, I gaze down. The two entwined heart-shaped diamonds of my toi et moi ring glimmer in the warm Tuscan sun. A simple platinum band now accompanies the magnificent ring. Inscribed inside are two words: Eternally yours. My heart hammers as if I’ve just met him for the first time. It’s still hard to believe I’m married to this man. Memories of our oceanfront Malibu wedding dance in my head. The crashing waves. Our forever vows. His lips crashing on mine. A once impossible fantasy is now my reality. Another tingly surge of wetness pools between my thighs. I’m excited about lunch.
His eyes stay focused on the twisting road. “Maybe, after we eat, we’ll hunt for white truffles. It’s the season for them.”
“That would be fun.” My voice is lackluster. Confession: I have another activity in mind. Truthfully, the last thing I want to do is go on a treasure hunt for some smelly fungus.
“Gloria, you could be a little more enthusiastic.”
“Mio amore, I’m so excited.” I mentally roll my eyes.
He snickers. “You know, truffles are a natural aphrodisiac.”
My ears perk up. My husband is quite the expert when it comes to aphrodisiacs. My mind flashes back to our first dinner together at a French restaurant in New York and his lecture on the erotic powers of artichokes. Hard on the outside and soft on the inside, the thistled delicacy’s suckable leaves and thorny heart can make you horny, he said. Even bring you to orgasm. I didn’t believe a word until he sensuously fed me one and I came right in my seat. At the memory, my skin prickles.
“Tell me more, Mr. Know-It-All.”
“It’s true. Just say the word. It’s like saying fuck…Truffle,” he says breathlessly.
“Truffle,” I repeat. Holy fuck! He’s right. It awakens erotic sensations deep in my belly. Flutters erupt between by legs.
“The musky scent replicates the male pheromone, androstenone. Napoleon ate truffles to increase his masculine potency.”
Sex, Love & Lingerie (Secrets and Lies Book 3) Page 4
