by Selena Kitt
The coffee still hadn’t arrived. As much as I craved a major dose of caffeine, I couldn’t wait for it. Grabbing my coat, purse, and a canvas bag full of goodies that I knew Madame Paulette would adore, I skirted out of the room and headed to the elevators.
“Hey, wait up!”
That deep, sexy voice. Fuck! It was him! Jaime Zander. What the hell was he doing here?
Bristling, I kept marching without a single turn of my head. I could hear him jogging down the corridor. He caught up to me, and we stood side by side waiting for the lift. Staring straight ahead, I refused to look at him. Not even a little glimpse.
Unlike yesterday, the elevator took its time arriving. In fact, it felt like an eternity. Maybe it was stuck somewhere—explaining why my coffee had never arrived. My stomach tightened and I was losing patience. He started whistling—“Gloria” of all songs. Bastard! He was trying to distract me and get my attention.
“Stop that!”
“You don’t like my whistling?”
“I don’t like you.” And then it just came flying out. “Did you fuck me last night?”
“Gloria, I would never take advantage of you in that state. In case you don’t remember, I carried you up to your room and then you threw up all over yourself.”
Holy crap! Mortification raced through me. I kept facing the elevator, too embarrassed to look him in the face.
“There’s nothing to be embarrassed about. You’re just not used to losing control.”
I never lost control! Never! What had this man done to me?
“By the way, I gave your dress and undergarments to the valet for cleaning. They should be back in your room by five. Unfortunately, someone else may be wearing your shoes. You may not recall this, but you took them off and tossed them while you were dancing with me.”
I couldn’t care less now about my eight hundred dollar designer shoes. Every muscle in my body clenched. The reality of him undressing me and seeing me naked consumed me.
“Don’t be ashamed. You have a beautiful body. While taking off your vomit-coated dress was not exactly something I enjoyed, peeling off your silky stockings from those long smooth legs and tearing off that sexy bra and garter were quite a treat.”
I felt my cheeks flare. In fact, my whole body was heating up. Come on, elevator. Get here already. His words got in the way.
“Your breasts should be among the wonders of the world, and your perfectly preened pussy was a sight to behold. I wouldn’t mind getting a taste of it some time. When was the last time you got laid?”
“None of your damn business!”
“That’s what I thought.”
He was infuriating me. What’s more, he was setting every fiber of my being on fire, especially the area between my thighs. Where the hell was the elevator? I had to get away from him. Finally, a car arrived. As soon as the doors slid opened, I stomped into it. I slammed my palm against the “L” button, but the doors wouldn’t close. That’s because the asshole was leaning against one, his arms and legs seductively crossed.
For the first time this morning, he was in full view. All six foot three of his manly gorgeousness. Today, he was wearing a fringed tan suede jacket with tight faded blue jeans that hung low on his narrow hips, a plaid flannel shirt that exposed his chiseled pecs…and cowboy boots! Mr. Urban Cowboy! God, he looked sexy! Right out of GQ! And on top of all that, his hair had that perfectly tousled, just-fucked look going on.
An unnerving thought shot into my head. Did he fuck someone else after he left me? A beautiful supermodel? Vivien? Maybe he kept a room at this hotel as a fuck pad. Lots of successful men did that kind of thing.
My eyes narrowed. “Can you please either leave or get in?”
That cocky half-smile curled on his lips. “I just want to get a good look at you.” His sexy denim blues gave me the once-over. “You look lovely, Gloria.”
I grimaced. “It’s Ms. Long.”
“You’re not very polite, Ms. Long.”
“Thank you,” I grumbled. Screw you!
“That’s better.” With a thrust of his hips, he strode into the elevator and stood right next to me. The doors closed instantly, and we began our high-speed descent. I inhaled his intoxicating scent but kept my eyes focused straight ahead.
He broke the silence. “Oh, by the way, did you like the negligee I picked out for you?”
My face flushed crimson and my stomach muscles scrunched. In my mind’s eye, I could just see the wicked grin on his face.
“It sufficed,” I murmured through gritted teeth. Actually, the lacy lavender peek-a-boo set from our “Sweet Temptations” baby doll collection was one of my favorites.
“I hope you’ll be a little more enthusiastic about my pitch.” His voice dripped with sarcasm.
I pressed my lips together and said nothing. To my relief, he remained silent for the rest of the ride. We reached the lobby in no time, and the elevator doors re-opened. As I moved to dash out, he fisted my braid, holding me back. The nerve of him! Fuming, I turned on my heels to face him. My eyes met his equally intense gaze.
“Are you visiting another ad agency today?” he asked. “There’s really no need to.”
His presumptuousness got under my skin. Should I tell him that I was visiting a dozen more, just to make him think that he had a lot of competition?
“No,” I finally said.
“Good.” With a satisfied smile, he let go of my hair and accompanied me to the hotel entrance, keeping up with my slower than normal pace. There was no physical contact between us. Whatsoever.
It was another beautiful New York City winter day. Sunny and not too cold. The usual array of cabs and limos crowded the driveway.
“Do you want to grab breakfast with me?” he asked.
God, a coffee would be so good. Even if I had to put up with the pompous asshole. I glanced down at my watch. Ten a.m. “I can’t. My driver will be here momentarily.”
“What about lunch?”
“I’m visiting someone out of town.”
“Oh, a boyfriend?”
“Yes!” I shouted the word and didn’t know why I lied.
“Happy Valentine’s Day!” He winked.
My jaw clenched. “Same to you.”
Thankfully, before Mr. Nosy and Infuriating could probe further, Nigel pulled up to the curb.
Wearing a warm smile, he jumped out of the town car and opened the back passenger door. As I slid into the car, Jaime Zander never took his contemplative eyes off me. His lips twisted again into that maddening grin as the car rolled away. Fuck! I bet saw right though my white lie…the tinted windows…and my coat.
Chapter 6
The drive along the scenic Merritt Parkway to Connecticut was relaxing. I alternated between catching up on e-mails and gazing out the window. A fine layer of snow dusted the lawns of residences we passed by. Snow was something I rarely saw living in Los Angeles.
I would be lying if I said I didn’t think about Jaime Zander. I couldn’t get him out of my head. He was having an affect on me like no other man had before. I’d never met a man who could reduce me to a nervous wreck with the just wink of an eye. Make me feel so totally out of control. It scared me. Big-decision-maker-me didn’t know how to handle it. Why the hell didn’t I just tell him to fuck off? And forget about the pitch for my business? Walk away from him while I had the chance? The truth: He had gotten under my skin. I was undeniably drawn to him—both to his sexy good looks and his challenging personality. He was as tempting as he was toxic. Even now, just thinking about him, I was quivering. I sat back against the soft leather seat, glad to be away from him.
To get my mind off him, I went back to checking my e-mails. I opened Kevin’s first; there were several. The first one brought a big smile to my face.
Happy Valentine’s Day, Glorious! Xoxo~Kev
I e-mailed him right back.
MWAH! Same to you!
Kevin had been my one and only Valentine forever. Neither of us had ever had
much luck in the love department. But we had each other. Hopefully, tonight we could celebrate together although we hadn’t made any firm plans. Our traditional pity party for two could be on the agenda.
Waiting for his reply, I read the rest of his e-mails. All great news. The televised broadcast of the Gloria’s Secret Fashion Show had rocked in the ratings, and sales were at record levels at our stores worldwide. Yes, women were flocking to Gloria’s Secret last minute to buy seductive lingerie and sleepwear for the romantic Valentine’s night ahead. And they were standing in line with men, who were clutching replacement pieces for those that might get torn off after a candlelit dinner. I found it bitterly ironic that I sold love and sex but was never on the receiving end. Always on this day, my elation over sales was met with a pang of sadness. My mind jumped again to Jaime Zander. I bet he had a hot date tonight; women were all over him; I saw it with my own eyes. With a heavy heart, I eagerly awaited an e-mail from Kevin to cheer me up.
* * * *
An hour and a half into the drive, we exited the parkway and followed a rural, wooded road to the retirement home where Madame Paulette was residing. A magnificent gated estate soon came into view. Once the Normandy-styled mansion of one of America’s great oil barons, it was now the Cadbury House for Assisted Living. What I’d read about it had put my mind at ease. The pedigreed staff was attentive, the surroundings luxurious, and the cuisine delicious—prepared by a French chef. I was thrilled that I was able to afford to place my beloved Paulette here for her final years. Even though I had made her a wealthy woman with Gloria’s Secret stock, there was no way I could let her pay for her care. I owed her everything.
The call I had received from the head caretaker just before I’d left for New York had been unsettling. In fact, it had brought tears to my eyes. Madame Paulette’s health was failing rapidly, and it was unlikely she’d make it to the summer. Even if I didn’t have business in New York, I would have hopped the corporate jet and come East to visit her. She meant the world to me. She was my mentor, my role model, and the mother I never had. Upon learning about her numbered days, I vowed I would confess the secret I had harbored my entire adult life. She needed to know. I needed to tell.
Standing in the elegantly appointed entrance with her bag of goodies in hand, I anxiously awaited for someone to show me to her room. Nurse Perez, a jovial, curly-haired buxom woman, appeared in no time and escorted me up a magnificent winding marble staircase to the second floor. “We all love Paulette,” she said as I trailed close behind her. What was there not to love? She was a magnificent human being who would be sorely missed.
Madame’s suite was located at the end of the corridor. Her door was wide open. She gasped when she saw me. I hadn’t told her I was coming. It was a surprise.
“Ma chérie!” she exclaimed. Her voice was deeper and raspier than ever. Over the course of her long life, she had smoked way too many French cigarettes and drunk way too many glasses of wine.
Clad in an elegant lace-trimmed white nightgown, she was propped up in a luxurious down-covered bed against a half a dozen plump pillows. Despite her age—she must have been close to ninety though she’d never admit to it—she was as beautiful to me as ever. Her strong-featured face seemed to be wrinkle-resistant, and her hair, now a shimmering silver, was tied back as usual in a regal chignon. Even in her old age, she epitomized grace and style.
Fighting back tears, I sprinted over to her. We exchanged lots of cheek-to-cheek kisses.
“It eez so good to see you,” she said as I plunked down in armchair next to her bed.
“I’m in New York on a business trip.” There was no way I was going to divulge the real reason behind my visit. “I’ve brought you all your favorite magazines.”
I handed her the bag full of fashion magazines. Her face lit up as she removed the contents, one by one. “Mes favorites!” She examined the cover of a Vogue featuring Jennifer Lopez. “But why do les américains always put those Hollywood célébrités on the cover?”
She made me laugh when I wanted to cry. Even our Gloria’s Secret catalogue now featured celebrities like J-Lo on the cover. The bottom line: celebrities moved merchandise.
As she flipped through some of the magazines, we spent time chitchatting, catching up. She complained about the food—way too nouveau for her taste. And why couldn’t she have more than one glass of wine? I, in turn, told her about how well Gloria’s Secret was doing.
“Beezness shmeezness,” she muttered. “Are you in love, ma chérie?”
I flushed. Jaime Zander’s gorgeous face unexpectedly flashed into my head. I tried my damnedest to make it go away. No luck.
“No,” I replied.
Madame Paulette studied my face with her intense cappuccino eyes. “Ma chérie, you cannot fool me. Your glow geeves it away.” Signaling with her index finger for me to move in closer to her, she said, “You must tell me everything about zee new boyfriend.”
“He’s not my boyfriend,” I protested as I slid my chair up to her bed railing.
“What eez his name?”
“Jaime.”
“How do you spell that?”
“J-A-I-M-E.”
“Ah, like ‘J’aime.’ In French, that means, ‘I love.’”
Of course. I suddenly remembered Madame Paulette telling me “Je t’aime beaucoup.” I love you very much…when I thought love had abandoned me.
“So, ma chérie, are you in love with him?”
In love? I blushed. “I just met him.”
“AH! Zee best! Love at first sight.”
I still couldn’t get Jaime Zander’s beautiful face out my head. My heart pattered. No, it was not possible.
A melancholic smile flickered on Madame Paulette’s face. “Always remember, ma chérie, it eez better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.”
I wondered—had Madame Paulette ever been in love? While she always referred to herself as Madame, she had never mentioned a spouse, and I’d never been comfortable asking about her love life or her past. I’d always had a hunch, however, that she had once been married and had tragically lost the great love of her life. Once a year, on the eve of the Jewish holiday, Yom Kippur, the Day of Remembrance, she lit a candle that burned for twenty-four hours. I had asked her about the significance of the candle, and she had told me it was to commemorate someone special. While she always had dashing suitors who brought her flowers or French bonbons, she dismissed them all with a roll of her eyes. Whoever she had once loved couldn’t be replaced.
A cheery Nurse Perez entered the room, carrying a tray. “Your lunch, Madame.”
“Merci,” growled Madame Paulette.
Smiling, Nurse Perez placed the bed tray over her lap, setting out the cutlery and linens. “Bon appétit,” she said before parting.
“Bon appétit,” Madame Paulette mock-mimicked. She was as feisty and as brutally honest as ever. “This eez French TV dinner,” she grumbled, reluctantly digging a fork into the mishmash of food. “Gar-bahge!”
Stifling a laugh, I reached into my large designer purse. “I’ve brought you something else.” I handed her a medium-sized, gold-foiled box that was sealed with a wide red ribbon. She opened it with her still long and elegant fingers. The fingers that had adjusted thousands upon thousands of bra straps to bring out the best in women.
Her face lit up. “Ah! Bonbons. Mes favorites!”
I pecked her cheek. “Happy Valentine’s Day!”
“Ah, zee day of love. So silly! Every day should be a day of love.”
A bittersweet smile tickled my lips. I was going to miss Madame’s words of wisdom.
She popped one of the rich chocolate treats into her mouth and savored it. “Merci beaucoup, ma chérie. You must have one.”
I helped myself to one of the chocolates and let it melt in my mouth. It was pure deliciousness. After swallowing the last morsel, the sweet taste of the dark chocolate dissolved into the bitter taste of dark memories. It was time.
&
nbsp; “Madame,” I said hesitantly. “I must tell you something.”
“What eez it, ma chérie? There eez sadness in your eyes.”
My mind flashed back fifteen years. Kevin and I were both teenagers —sixteen-year-olds who had run away from our small rural upstate New York town. He to escape the brutal beatings of his father, a macho local sheriff, who had no tolerance for his son’s homosexuality, and I to escape the wrath I endured as the daughter of the neighborhood crack whore. “Who’s your daddy?” the kids at school would taunt when I was a skinny pig-tailed youngster. For all I knew, it could be any one of their fathers. My narcissistic mother, never there for me (I was an unwanted accident discovered too late to be aborted), slept with them all to indulge her sick addictions. Then, at fifteen, late-bloomer me sprouted five inches, and my flat-as-a-board breasts morphed into spheres. Boys would grab at me, try to pull my pants down, and call me names like slut, whore, and skank. They equated me with my mother, who I was not.
Kevin was always there to protect me. He’d learned Tai Kwan Do to protect himself from his own share of bullies and could send one of my molesters to his knees with a roundhouse kick. But this was not the life we wanted, so we decided to run away together. To find a new life in a big city like New York where we could fit in or disappear.
Kevin stole a gun from his father along with a few hundred dollars, which he kept locked in a safe. The gun and the money were all we had to start off on our new life together. We managed to hitch our way to New York City where we ended up in Brooklyn in the heart of Brighton Beach. Kevin charmed his way into securing a small one-bedroom rental apartment and used the money to buy some flea-market furnishings. We both needed to find work fast. Kevin, who had a flair for words, found a position teaching English to the children of neighborhood Russian immigrants, and I landed a sales job at a local lingerie store, Madame Paulette’s.
