BOOK THREE
Nelle L’Amour
Copyright © 2016 by Nelle L’Amour
Kindle Edition
All rights reserved
First Edition: January 2016
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to events, locales, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is purely coincidental.
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Cover by Arijana Karcic, Cover It! Designs
Proofreading by Mary Jo Toth
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Unforgettable
Unforgettable Book 1
Unforgettable Book 2
Unforgettable Book 3
Seduced by the Park Avenue Billionaire
Strangers on a Train
Derailed
Final Destination
Seduced by the Billionaire Boxed Set
An Erotic Love Story
Undying Love
Gloria
Gloria’s Secret
Gloria’s Revenge
Gloria’s Forever
Gloria’s Secret: The Trilogy
THAT MAN Series
THAT MAN 1
THAT MAN 2
THAT MAN 3
THAT MAN 4
THAT MAN 5
Writing under E.L. Sarnoff
Dewitched: The Untold Story of the Evil Queen
Unhitched: The Untold Story of the Evil Queen
To the late great Nat King Cole and his daughter, Natalie, whose unforgettable song inspired the story of Brandon and Zoey.
And to Jeanette Sinfield, my muse, who inspired me to keep going when I wanted to give up. Your love and support will always be unforgettable.
“Perfect moments can be had but not preserved, except in memory.”
—Leonard Nimoy
Title Page
Copyright Page
Books by Nelle L’Amour
Dedication
Epigraph
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Epilogue
THAT MAN 1
Praise for THAT MAN 1
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
THAT MAN
GLORIA’S SECRET
Other Books by Nelle L’Amour
Note from Nelle
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Brandon
The flicks of a warm, wet tongue graze my neck. The Gooch. I slowly peel open my eyes, one at a time. They feel like they’ve been super-glued together and the lids are made of cement. The pup wags his tail. I can’t say the same for the one that’s hung between my legs. It feels like a dead weight.
Squinting, I glance down at my watch. It’s six a.m. The darkness of night has morphed into the light of day though the sky’s a depressing gray. I must have nodded off. Still on the couch, draped in a thick towel, I feel sick to my stomach. And it hurts to think. Last night’s events come at me like a rockslide. My head aches, my heart aches, and my cock aches.
Everything’s gone wrong. My romantic getaway with Zoey here in Cannes has ended up a total nightmare. Fucking Katrina showed up and fucked up everything. I know she’s crazy enough to follow through with her threat—to tell the media I physically assaulted her and threatened her life. My insane fiancée staged the whole thing right down to slashing her arm with a jagged piece of glass and pulling out clumps of hair from her head. But she’s right. The media will believe her. She even took photos. God dammit. She’s blackmailing me. Holding a virtual knife to my chest to cut off my balls. Giving me no choice but to marry her and go along with her absurd wedding plans. I don’t love her. I don’t like her. I loathe her. There are bitches. Fucking bitches. And psycho bitches. She belongs in a category all of her own. Fucking psycho bitch.
Burying my head in my palms, I squeeze my burning eyes shut for a moment’s reprieve. Hoping the blackness behind my lids will give me clarity to find a way out of this horrific mess. I breathe in and out of my nose as I search my chaotic mind. My thoughts are like bumper cars, colliding into each other, knocking any semblance of rationality off the track. It’s futile. I can’t think straight. Or think of a solution.
Zoey, Zoey, Zoey, Zoey. Her sweet name rings in my ears, silencing the cacophony. She’s made for me. I love every ounce of her. Inside and out. The irony—it took amnesia to make me realize that the girl of my dreams was right there in front of me all along. Last night was the best, most powerful, and most sensuous one of my life. I couldn’t get enough of her. She rocked my world.
Then goddamn Katrina showed up. The timing couldn’t have been worse. A bitter cocktail of guilt and remorse courses through me. I shouldn’t have let the fucking psycho bitch throw those demeaning insults at her. My beautiful Zoey kept her head up high and weathered the storm like the trooper she is. And I love her all the more for her courage, strength, and pride. My loyal little soldier. I’m the one who’s the coward and should hang my head in shame.
Shit. I promised to text her, but I didn’t. My poor Zoey. Knowing her, she must have stayed up all night waiting to hear from me. Confusion gives way to anguish. I owe her an explanation. It’s all too convoluted to explain in an email. Let alone a text. An ugly conversation awaits me. I hope she’ll understand. Maybe have a solution. Help me grow some balls and still love me for the powerless asshole I am.
I need to see her so fucking badly. I long to take her in my arms—smother her with kisses and love her as hard as I can. My fear of losing her holds me back. I sink my head deeper into my palms. The throb in my temples is nothing compared to the throb in my heart or the ache in my cock.
Finally, I will myself to face the inevitable with the remote hope of salvation.
Taking Gucci off my lap, I set him on the cushion next to me.
“Wish me good luck, Gooch,” I mutter under my breath. Good luck for what?
He barks.
“Shh!”
My legs unsteady, I rise from the couch.
“OW!” A sharp pain shoots up my leg. Holding onto the arm of the couch, I bend up my foot. Shit. It’s bleeding. I’ve stepped on a sm
all shard of glass, an unswept remnant of Katrina’s insane rampage. A painful reminder I just don’t need right now.
Lifting up my heel, I hobble to the closest bathroom with Gucci trailing behind me. Not the one Zoey and I shared last night that’s adjacent to the master suite where Katrina’s sleeping. The last thing I want to do is wake the bitch, though with her earplugs and sleeping mask, she’d probably sleep straight through a terrorist attack. I rinse my foot in the bidet, washing off the blood, while the memory of Zoey having an exquisite orgasm from the jets swirls around in my head. My limp dick twitches. I can’t fight my need for her. The open wound is just another physical manifestation of my unwavering ache. My relentless desire.
I exchange the towel wrapped around my bare body for a fluffy bathrobe. I would have preferred putting on a fresh pair of sweats or some jeans, but my entire wardrobe is in the master bedroom as is my cell phone. Belting the robe, I head for the door to my suite. My injured foot hurts, but I can walk on it. My chest tightens with every painful step and my pulse accelerates. I don’t know how I’m going to face Zoey without making her mine again. I want to chain her to me, then jump off the edge of the earth and hear her roar my name one last time… so loud the whole world will need hearing aids.
My pulse spikes while my cock sinks. Wishful thinking. In the bar area, I find a bowl that was spared in Katrina’s wake of destruction and fill it up with water. I set it down on the floor, and Gucci immediately laps it up before cocking his head and gazing up at me with a “what’s next” expression. With a firm hand command, I tell Gucci to stay and he obeys. I slink out of my suite and an envelope meets my feet.
One scripted word captures my attention.
~Brandon~
As elegant as the hand that wrote it. I’d recognize that handwriting anywhere. Zoey’s.
Snapping up the envelope, I tear it open and read the contents. My eyes fly from the first line to the last.
Brandon~
This is goodbye. Thank you for giving me the opportunity to work with you. You can be sure I will honor our non-disclosure agreement and treasure our time spent together.
I will always remember you. You’re unforgettable.
~Zoey ♥
My stomach clenches and so does my heart. Not wasting a second, I dash out of my suite as fast as I can and run down two flights of stairs to her hotel room. Breathless, I bang on the door.
“Open up, Zo.”
No response.
I bang harder; I shout louder. “C’mon, Zoey. Open up!”
Bang! Bang! Bang!
An early morning housekeeper passes by me. Just in time before I knock down the door.
“C’est ma chambre. I’ve lost my key. Can you let me in?”
“Mais, monsieur, il n’y a pas de personnes là.”
“What do you mean?”
In broken English, the perplexed woman responds. “La madame…she check out.”
What? She’s gone? Panic grips me by the balls. I sprint to the elevator and pound the down button. The elevator doesn’t come. I pound and I pound and I pound. Goddamn elevator. I’m about to dash down the emergency stairs again—all five steep flights—when a car finally arrives.
To my relief, it descends quickly to The Carlton lobby without a stop. As soon as the doors part, I dart to the front desk. Thank God, there’s no line.
The attractive young clerk on duty is more than pleased to see me. She’s the one who checked us in to the hotel.
“Ah! Bonjour, Monsieur Taylor. Eez everything okay?”
“Oui.” I nod. “Have you by chance seen my assistant?” I try to hide my panic.
“You mean, Mademoiselle Hart?”
“Yes, yes. I mean, oui, oui!”
The clerk smiles. “Mais, oui. She checked out an hour ago. She went back to zee States. Pauvre petite! Some kind of emergency.”
“Get me a fucking cab right now!” And pardon my English.
The early morning rush hour traffic along the scenic N98 to Nice International Airport is impossible. Why does everyone and their mother have to be going there? It’s like some kind of mass exodus from the South of France.
“Can’t you go any faster?” I yell at the mustached cab driver.
“Je ne parle pas anglais.”
Fuck. “Plus rapido, s’il vous plait.” My French sucks.
“Pas possible.”
Fuck again. I wish I had the Ducati. But after crashing it, the bike almost didn’t make it back to the hotel last night. I should have taken a helicopter. At this point, by foot would be faster.
The traffic may be at a crawl, but my heart’s beating a gazillion miles an hour. A toxic mixture of angst, frustration, and regret consumes me. I wish I had my cell phone so I could call her. The thought of borrowing the cabbie’s phone crosses my mind, but I don’t know Zoey’s number since I have it on speed dial. I slump against the backseat lost in defeat.
Finally, we make it to the airport. What should have taken twenty minutes has taken over an hour. I slip the driver a hundred Euros and fly into the busy terminal. Jostling the crowd, still in my bathrobe and barefoot, I sprint up to the departures and arrivals board. There are two flights departing for Los Angeles in a few minutes—one, Air France; the other, American. Shit. Which one would Zoey be on? I opt for American for only one reason. Because it’s how she prefers her Starbucks. Caffè Americano. Just like me. And because last night we shared a cocktail that also bore that name. My heart hammers. I hope my hunch is right.
My heart in my throat, I bolt up to the American Airlines ticket counter, cutting in front of the long line. Assorted grumbles in French and English go in one ear and out the other. Yeah, I’m a fucking asshole in both languages.
The ticket agent is a very attractive brunette in her early thirties. The name on her badge is Jeanette. Her eyes widen at the sight of me.
“Mon Dieu! You’re zee big Hollywood star. Brandon Taylor!”
“Oui. I need a big favor, Jeanette. Can you tell me if a passenger named Zoey Hart is on Flight 216 heading to LA?”
The agent bites down on her full red lips. “I am so sorry. I cannot do that. It eez against airport rules and regulations.”
“Please! It’s an emergency!”
“What kind of emergency?”
Think, Brandon, think…Got it! “She’s my assistant and she’s on meds. She left them behind. If she doesn’t have them, she may create an incident on the plane. She’s very bipolar. If she doesn’t take her meds hourly, she gets extremely violent.”
The attendant listens intently while my eyes glance at the clock. 7:45. Shit. The flight’s departing in five minutes.
“Hmm. That eez very serious. I will call security.”
“Hurry!”
Two long minutes later, a pair of security guards are flanking me. Jeanette tells them about the high-risk situation. I guessed right—Zoey’s on the American flight.
“Allons y!” says one of them, instantly recognizing me.
Fame has its benefits. On my next rapid heartbeat, I’m racing with them barefoot through the airport at lightning speed. My man-pack is flapping beneath my robe. I may have a heart attack. We barge through security and then zoom down a long, crowded corridor to the departure gate. Why does it have to be the last one?
Finally, we get there. Despite what good shape I’m in, I’m breathing heavily.
In French, the other security guard explains the issue to the airline attendant on duty. I listen with baited breath, my pulse pounding.
She shrugs. “Ce n’est pas possible.”
“What do you mean?”
“Monsieur Taylor, the plane has already departed.”
“What!?” My heart crashes to the ground like a plummeting jet. “There’s nothing you can do?” A thick layer of desperation and despair coats my voice.
“I am so sorry. We can send a message to zee flight attendants to keep a special eye on her. Perhaps, you would like us to book you on zee next flight. It dep
arts at noon.”
“Non, merci,” I rasp. I can’t leave—the red carpet screening of the Kurt Kussler season finale is tonight. There’s no way I can let Conquest Broadcasting and all the international broadcasters down.
Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, I watch the plane soar over the Mediterranean. As the plane ascends, my heart descends into a black hole, knowing I may never see my beloved Zoey Hart again.
Zoey
It’s all over the news. All over the Internet. The headline of every major tabloid.
“Prince Brandon Searching for his Princess!”
“MIP: Missing Irresistible Princess: Where is She?”
“There’s Only One Princess for Me!”
“Darkness at the Grand Palais. Prince Mourning Loss of his Dream Princess.”
“‘I will find her!’” —Prince Brandon”
My heart aches so much it hurts to breathe. I cannot stop thinking about the magical time I had with him. Flesh to flesh, burning with desire. His magnificent royal cock inside me, taking me to the edge of the earth. And then the clock struck twelve. And the magic ended. I fled and turned back to the ordinary servant girl I am. He’ll never find me. My evil stepsister Katrina and her equally wicked mother Enid keep me hidden. And now, they won’t even let me leave the house. I’m their prisoner. Their slave.
Alone in my decrepit attic quarters, I cuddle Gucci, Katrina’s adorable pup that she wants nothing to do with. The little white fur ball is my one solace in life. Well, along with one other—the life-size poster of The Prince that hangs by my bed. “Oh, Gooch,” I lament, “Prince Brandon will never find me. According to all the news reports, he can’t remember my name.”
Gucci looks up at me with his big, brown puppy eyes. A tear falls from my watering eyes and dissolves into his soft fur coat. Then, they keep pouring. I’ve shed so many tears since the ball I could fill an ocean. My precious Gucci gets up on his hind legs and laps them away with his warm tongue. I’m thankful for his sweet kisses. But I long for the kiss of another. The prince who’ll never be mine.
“Zoella!” A manic voice cuts into my misery. Katrina. Now, what does she want?
“Get your fat ass down here immediately. The Prince will be here any minute, and I don’t know what to wear!”
Unforgettable 3 (Hollywood Love Story #3) Page 1
