Pearl (The Pearl Series)

by Arianne Richmonde

  I didn’t flinch at the price. It was an old Parisian mansion and I was damned if some Russian oligarch was going to get his hands on it.

  “But no,” Claudine said, “the house isn’t for sale, as far as I know. Just some of its contents—the family needs the money. Meet me there in an hour.”

  I met Claudine outside the gates of the house. She looked less pale than usual, as if she had finally had a good, hot meal. She was dressed in a pair of shorts, her long legs going on forever, her auburn hair hanging down to her waist. She looked happy, for once, less Gothic. Her dark eyes, usually coal-lined, were free of make-up.

  Delphine Aimée’s mansion was even more beautiful than I had remembered. It sat like a giant doll’s house, not attached (a rarity in Paris), with a large garden in front, flanked by a perfectly trimmed hedge and ornate, wrought-iron railings.

  The interior was no less impressive. A grand marble staircase swept up the center of the house. Above was a sort of rotunda: a dome of glass letting in streams of light, with rooms leading off a circular, balconied walkway. The floors were oak herringbone, polished to a high shine. Each room was decorated with antique furniture and great drapes that pooled on the floor in swathes of red, gold or pink damask. There were Persian rugs, and original paintings by Corot, Cézanne, and even Picasso. Delphine Aimée’s daughter, a wobbly woman of eighty with a large hook nose, showed us around. She said little, just smiled and nodded, until we arrived at the great woman’s bedroom. Being a man, I felt it was intrusive to enter this legend’s private quarters. I stood at the doorway, but the old daughter insisted I come in. I gingerly followed her into the spacious bedroom, with high ceilings and Italian mirrors gracing the walls.

  “My mother loved going to balls,” she revealed in an almost inaudible whisper. “Even the most famous jewelers of her day fought to be chosen as her designers. She had the best collection of jewelry in the whole of Paris. My father was hopelessly in love with her, you know. It’s always best if the man is that teensy-weensy bit more in love with his wife than the other way around, don’t you agree?”

  I mulled over what this woman had just said. Had I ever been that in love? No, I hadn’t. So in love that my heart missed a beat, so in love that I thought about the other person while I breathed? It almost brought a tear to my eye just contemplating that kind of passion. Here I was, embroiled with all these different women: Claudine, Laura, Indira (and there were others, too), all wanting a piece of me, yet all I wished for was just one woman, one stable relationship, just one person who would make sense to me.

  The old lady led us to her mother’s dressing-table, topped with old-fashioned perfume bottles, silver hairbrush sets and miniature paintings. On top of the table, sat a black, leather jewelry box.

  “Would you mind, young man, helping me with that box? It’s extremely heavy. You can lay it on the bed for me.”

  I took the box carefully in my grip and laid it on a vast, four-poster bed. The box sank into a silk eiderdown as I laid it down.

  “Some of the best pieces are in the bank vault,” she told us. “The diamonds, emeralds and such. These were some of my mother’s daytime choices, the ones we’re willing to let go. It’s somebody else’s turn to give life to them. Your wife, perhaps, Monsieur Chevalier?”

  She remembered my name. I was about to tell her that I wasn’t married, but stopped myself. Why, I wasn’t sure. Perhaps I didn’t want to spoil her image of me as a happily married, family man. Because I, too, had secret longings to be a happily married family man. With children running about. Walks in the park with my beautiful wife, my little ones, and my dog. So I didn’t correct the lady.

  “Be my guests. Take a peek,” she urged, her hooded green eyes sparkling with excitement.

  “May I?” Claudine asked, taking out an elaborately carved, jade necklace.

  “Of course, my dear.”

  Claudine looked as if she was about to pass out. “My heart’s palpitating. Have you ever seen anything so exquisite in your life? And look at these earrings to match. What a gorgeous set.”

  “Buy it if you like it so much,” I said.

  “Don’t be silly.” And she whispered hoarsely, “Have you any idea how much this would cost? I’m just window-shopping, silly.”

  I suddenly felt ashamed. This kind old lady was opening up her museum of a house to us, her heart to us, and Claudine was admitting to just window-shopping? I knew I had to do something. Fast.

  “I’d love to buy something,” I said, glaring at Claudine. I turned to the lady. “What else do you have?”

  “What’s your wife’s name?” the eighty-year-old asked.

  I hesitated. I’ve never been fond of lying, but not putting the facts straight wasn’t a lie exactly… just a little…white lie. “Her name is Pearl,” I blurted out without even thinking, and in that second, crazy as it sounds, I had another premonition—one day, Pearl, would indeed, be my wife.

  The lady grinned, her wrinkly mouth revealing a naughty yellow fang, and she said, “I have just the piece for you, Monsieur.” She shuffled back to the dressing table and opened a drawer. She brought out a pale blue leather box which was scuffed and had seen better days, but still, was obviously once from one of the best jewelry houses in Paris. “This is from one of the jeweler’s in La Place Vendôme,” the lady said. “Open it.”

  I carefully opened the box. Inside, was an unusual-looking, double-strand of pearls. The pearls graduated subtly in size. It was more a choker than a necklace, with a diamond and platinum, Art Deco-style clasp. It was beautiful. I had a flash of it around Pearl’s elegant neck, her blonde hair setting off the golden-pink, honey-colored pearls. I had just planned on getting Pearl some little thing, just a token gift from Paris—I didn’t want to come on too strong—but the second I saw the choker, I knew that it had Pearl’s name written all over it. Pearls for Pearl. Perfect. “I’ll take it,” I said without hesitating.

  “It will be expensive, Monsieur,” she warned.

  “I don’t care about the price, I’d like to buy it, please. If that’s alright with you, of course, madame.”

  “My father had them especially designed for my mother. It was her wedding present. There are eighty-eight pearls. They brought her good luck whenever she wore them.”

  “Eighty-eight is a lucky number,” I said. “The number of infinity, the double directions of the infinity of the Universe, the period of revolution—the days it takes for Mercury to travel around the sun.” Only a nerd can know these things. I smiled to myself, wryly, thinking back to my schoolboy years when I spent hours reading the encyclopedia, memorizing whole chunks by heart of facts that interested me.

  “It’s the number of keys on a piano, too,” the woman replied. “My mother played so, so beautifully.”

  “It’s an untouchable number,” Claudine added. “Whoever this Pearl chick is, I’m envious of her. She’s gonna flip out when she sees that choker.”

  4

  But Pearl didn’t flip out. She didn’t even call. I’d had the pearl choker delivered by hand to her apartment; the box within another box, within a huge box with her name on it. It couldn’t have gone missing. Nothing. No reply. Not a word.

  I began to ponder the reason for her silence. My interest was piqued. It should have been a warning sign, telling me, She’s an ungrateful, ill-mannered brat. But it made me wonder about her. Did she have a boyfriend? Worse, maybe, she was married. Shit, that possibility hadn’t occurred to me. The husband was probably having a jealous fit! Maybe, he’d found the box first and chucked it away. Fuck, I should have thought of that. Duh! On our date and at the coffee shop, I had never actually ascertained whether Pearl Robinson was attached!

  My mind flipped back to all our conversations. Yes, I remembered her asking me if I had a girlfriend. But did I ask her if she had a boyfriend or husband? NO, I DID NOT!

  It was obvious by that point. This woman, whom I was fantasizing about, was bloody well married!

  That’s wh
y she freaked out about spending the night at a hotel with me! That’s why she looked terrified of having sex. A little flirtation, fine. But cheating on her husband? It obviously wasn’t her style. He must have been out of town on business and she was up for having a little fun. That’s why she accepted going on a date. My mind wandered back again to our conversations. I did remember asking her about her family and she didn’t mention a husband, but had I asked her directly, Are you single? No, I had not!

  I thought of one of my golden rules: Don’t fuck another man’s girl. I felt like a fucking idiot.

  By the time a week had gone by, piqued interest had morphed into near obsession. I should have called, should have just said, Hey, Pearl, did you get the necklace? But my pride got the better of me.

  I couldn’t get her out of my mind. Her ass. Her pert breasts which I’d noticed through her light, summertime dress. Just thinking about her was giving me a hard-on. Why hadn’t she called me? She had my business card—I’m sure I’d given it to her. Hadn’t I?

  All these thoughts were spinning about my head. I was trying to concentrate on work, but all I could do was think about fucking Pearl Robinson.

  So by the time, one whole week later, I got a message from her on my voice-mail, saying ‘thank you’ and apologizing for taking so long about it (the doorman had apparently forgotten to give her the box), my dick was behaving as if it had a brain of its own and propelled me to get in a cab and head straight over to her apartment. If she wasn’t single, I told myself, I’d soon find out. Her apartment would give me instant clues.

  If she was attached, I’d walk away.

  But if she wasn’t, I’d fuck her.

  I took a risk and bought champagne and flowers. If I was greeted by the husband.…

  Well, I’d have to cross that bridge when I came to it.

  The doorman opened the door for me and I sauntered into the lobby, trying to look casual but realizing that I was feeling edgy. I gripped the chilled bottle of Dom Pérignon in my hand and tightly held the bunch of roses I’d bought.

  “Good evening sir,” the uniformed doorman said.

  “Good evening. Pearl Robinson, please.”

  “Ah, Mrs. Robinson,” he replied with a knowing smile.

  Mrs? Fuck! So she is bloody married, I mumbled to my dick, which had been, up until now, so cocky, so confident that he was going to score. “Mrs. Robinson?” I repeated.

  “Mrs. Robinson is upstairs, sir.”

  “Is her husband in?” I asked weakly.

  “Husband?”

  “Yes, her husband.” My dick was seriously disappointed. I felt like a fucking fool standing there with flowers and a bottle of Dom Pérignon.

  “No, no husband,” the doorman answered, his thick moustache twitching above his inanely happy grin.

  “But she is Mrs. Robinson?”

  “She was Mrs. Robinson, now she’s Mzzzz. Robinson,” the doorman replied, still smiling. “She is a very modern woman. I call her now.”

  The Ms. Made me feel more relaxed. Although, a lot of American women prefer Ms. even if they are married so that was no guarantee. Or, if not married, Ms. meant Pearl could be dating on a regular basis. But I figured that if Pearl was busy, otherwise occupied with another man, she’d tell me to piss off.

  I waited, trying to look patient while the doorman called on the landline.

  “No answer,” he told me.

  “But you say she’s in?”

  “Yes, she’s definitely at home.”

  I realized that I was about to be just as guilty as the ‘bulldozer’ types I despised. I wanted Pearl Robinson and I wasn’t going to let this go. I called her myself, on my cell.

  She finally picked up. “Yes?”

  “I’m downstairs,” I said, forgetting to say who I even was.

  “I’m in the bathtub,” she replied.

  And my dick (because I swear it wasn’t me) answered, “Good, I’ll join you.”

  “Pass me onto Dervis, the doorman,” she said.

  Uh oh. This is the moment that she’s about to get me flung out of the building.

  Dervis listened, nodded, smiled into the receiver and said, “Okay, Mrs. Robinson.”

  So it was Mrs. Robinson, after all. I turned on my heel to go, but the doorman shouted after me, “Mrs. Robinson’s expecting you. You can go up.” He buzzed open the elevator door for me and pressed the button for her floor. “Enjoy your evening, sir,” he said, beaming.

  When Pearl opened the door, my heart missed a beat. Fuck! She was wearing the choker, and all she had on was a towel draped about her hot, sexy body. She had just gotten out of the tub and smelled like heaven, sweet and tender and…Jesus. She looked so gorgeous, so fucking fuckable. Her eye make-up was slightly smudged, giving her a sleepy, bedroom look. I could feel my cock expand in my jeans. I had to have her. Right there, right then. Mrs. or Ms. I didn’t care, I’d have to break my code, if need be. Pearl Robinson was going to get my attention that very night.

  I moved in on her like the bulldozer I was morphing into. “I’ve missed you, Pearl,” I said, putting down the champagne and flowers on the hall table.

  Her mouth opened and her eyelids started fluttering. Sex was so thick in the air that neither of us could hardly breathe. “You’re wearing the necklace,” I said, raking my eyes down her body, knowing that I was about to rip that towel off her.

  “The necklace is stunning,” she whispered, then caught her bottom lip between her teeth.

  She started protesting about how she shouldn’t accept such a gift. Women always do that. They don’t want you to believe they’re greedy but they have no intention of not accepting your gift. Pearl was no different. I saved her by saying something like:

  “That necklace was made for you, Pearl. Nobody else has the right to wear it.” Did I tell her that she was beautiful? I must have, because she did look incredible. Like a classical painting. Elegant, even half-naked. Poised, even though wanton.

  I couldn’t stop myself. My cock was on fire. I pushed her up against the wall, right there by the elevator door, and start licking her lips slowly, softly. She moaned. I growled like a beast, ripping that towel off her, as I probed her mouth with my tongue, kissing her deeply, passionately.

  “Fuck, you’re beautiful,” I murmured into her mouth, and I meant every word. She closed her big blue eyes and yielded to me completely, returning the kiss with everything she had. I let my mouth wander down to her neck as my lips brushed softly over her sweet skin. The choker accentuated every delicate curve, every tiny muscle. I noticed how she swallowed as if she was about to drown in her own desire.

  My tongue traced across her collarbone, down her chest, to her tits. Her beautiful, pert tits that turned upwards, but were full and hard. I slid my tongue over to one nipple, swirling it around till her rosebud turned taut, and I sucked greedily. I groaned again and grazed my fingers down the crack of her butt, trailing them further down between her thighs. She was soaking wet. Already, and I’d hardly even begun. I could feel her nails in my back, then clawing softly across my biceps, they made their way over my pecs and the muscled ridges of my abdomen. Her touch was driving me crazy. She cupped my huge, throbbing cock through my jeans.

  “Not yet,” I said. “Ladies first.”

  She splayed her legs apart a touch, thrust her hips forward, trailed her hands from my back, up the nape of my neck and then dug her fingers into my hair.

  “Fuck, baby, I’m going to have to do all sorts of things to you,” I whispered in her ear, before nipping her gently on her lobe, then along her jawline. She shuddered. I was burning with unprecedented desire, every cell in my body awakened. Her skin was so soft and unblemished and she smelled like an exotic flower. I breathed her in, ran my thumb over her full lips, taking a moment to appreciate all that was before me. Sugar and spice and all things nice. I remember thinking, in that second, how women really were the best invention. Ever. God must have been particularly inspired on that extremely creative day
.

  I palmed her pussy with one hand and slipped a finger inside her. Her hot flesh was deliciously slick. “You’re really asking for it, aren’t you, Pearl Robinson?”

  She said nothing, just whimpered and circled her hips. She was so ready to be fucked by me, but I’d make her wait. Make her beg for it.

  “Ooh, chérie, so perfect, so wet,” I said, spinning her around so her ass was up against me. That peachy round ass that was doing things to my brain. I felt it press against my groin; my erection was screaming at me to fuck her, right there. Pound into her, hard. Push her down on the floor and fuck her senseless. But I needed to control myself. With one hand, I rolled her hardened nipple between my fingers, and with the other, I slipped my thumb inside her, with all my fingers cupping her mound, tautly. I had her, all of her, in my contained grip.

  “So juicy, so designed for me,” I rumbled into the nape of her neck. I could feel the swell of her wet clit, hard and pulsating. So ready for me. I was driving her to distraction but I wanted her to be totally and utterly relaxed, so I said, “Let’s have some champagne, shall we?”

  With my other hand I grabbed the champagne and flowers from where I’d set them on the hall table, earlier. I steered her forward while I walked behind her, my thumb still inside, her pussy all mine in my hand, while I simultaneously massaged her clit, her moisture hot on my fingers. I loved it. This woman was mine. All fucking mine. After a little while, I took my hand away, trailing a finger up her butt crack again, and letting my hand rest on the small of her back.

  I said, “Come on. Champagne time. We need a drink. The flowers also need a drink.”

  I was still fully dressed. She was nude, with only the pearls about her pretty neck. The whole scenario made me feel amused. And very in control. Pearl was utterly undone.

  She spun around to face me. “Is this what you always do, Alexandre Chevalier? Manhandle women like this? You were holding me like a six-pack!”

  “But you loved it,” I said, getting down on my knees. I whispered light kisses on her taut belly and flickered my tongue downwards. I could feel her quivering as I nuzzled my head in between her thighs. She gasped. I rested my tongue quietly on her clit and she pushed herself closer with a moan. I licked her in great sweeps and tasted her honeyed juices as I explored her wetness with my tongue. She tasted delicious, her sweet nectar making me so fucking hard it was almost painful. Hot. Welcoming.