Pay Back (The Ferrari Family Book 3)

by Hazel Parker

  But…

  Would I also still feel that tingling and that spark with him? Would I still feel that urge, that passion to just take him on the spot? Would I still want his body, want his presence, want him in my bedroom for forty-eight hours straight once again?

  I’d seen it too often with my friends. The ones who talked about their exes or their flings the most were invariably the ones that chose to go back to them sooner or later. Was I doomed to the same fate?

  Who knew?

  One encounter, like the one last night, was an unfortunate coincidence. Twice was foreshadowing. The third time…

  It would be both terrifying and morbidly exciting.

  I just wondered at what cost either my annihilation of Pierre or my indulgence in him would bring.

  Chapter 4: Pierre

  I awoke at about eight a.m. on that Thursday, and I had to say, perhaps it was a mark of my old age that I awoke so early after a night at the nightclub.

  But I preferred to think of it as my wisdom shining through. Instead of indulging myself and blowing all of my energy in one night over something I could get sober, I was not only conserving energy, I was building it by resting and then exercising. Of course, there would be a night in which I acted like Antoine—or, perhaps better said, I would drink like Antoine. I had too much pride in my demeanor to ever be caught dancing like so.

  When I walked into the fitness room, there was something about the aura and atmosphere of the room that felt charged, as if the people had just witnessed someone running a marathon on a treadmill. I had no actual basis for this observation, of course, merely a gut feeling by the demeanor of everyone in there. But my gut had usually not proved me wrong, and in any case, that particular zeitgeist compelled me to have an unusually productive morning.

  Upon completion of the exercise routine, I went down to the breakfast restaurant and ate by myself. While some may have seen this as a signal of being lonely, I preferred to see it as a sort of active meditation, a chance to lose myself in my food, surrounded by the world, before opening myself up to said world. It was not uncommon for me to go to a cafe or restaurant back home for breakfast and then retreat to the comforts of my home for dinner; while it may have been the opposite of what most did, it was what worked for me.

  Afterward, I headed out through the streets and met some of my less sophomore friends for walks to catch up. Such walks were always refreshing and invigorating, and it gave me everything from simple pleasure to see these friends to business ideas I could capitalize on at a later time.

  It was not until one p.m. in the afternoon that Antoine called me.

  “Good afternoon,” I said when I answered the phone.

  “Do not remind me,” he said, sounding so groggy I wondered if he had damaged his vocal cords. “What are you doing right now?”

  “Enjoying Paris in the daytime,” I said. “It may be something you wish to try for yourself at some point.”

  “I get to do that every day, Pierre,” he said, followed by a groan. “Look, can we just get food somewhere and catch up?”

  “About?”

  “Well, shit, I realized that we barely discussed how life was. I was so eager to get you to the club that we haven’t learned how life is. For all I know, you could have gotten married.”

  Married again, you mean.

  No, not even Antoine knows that part of my life.

  “Well, I am pretty sure that you would be aware if I had become betrothed to a lovely woman,” I said. “But yes, let us catch up. It will be nice for me to hear about your life when it does not entail partying and alcohol.”

  “You say that, and…”

  His voice trailed off as if he was about to make a braggart claim about something, only to realize after the fact that he did not have the evidence to support such a claim.

  “Look, just come to the hotel in half an hour, OK?”

  “Of course,” I said with a small smile. “I will see you there.”

  I hung up right after. Antoine would probably need to drink plenty of water and shower—if he even had the energy, that was.

  * * *

  I waited patiently in the restaurant for Antoine, sitting alone as I had this morning. The staff by now seemed to know my face well, and I smiled and greeted them politely each time that they came by. As I sat in that chair, sipping on some coffee, I had to admit feeling slight jealousy of Antoine.

  I did not miss the alcohol, at least not the part where one drank oneself to the point of forgetting one’s own name. I did not miss the nightlife, in that I would have plenty of other opportunities for women. I did not even miss having women come to me, because I could just as easily go up to them.

  However, the thrall and passion of closeness...real closeness, not this American way of “you’re hot, I’m hot, let’s fuck.” But the real intimacy, the real intertwining of bodies and souls...people always assumed that it was merely a “French” act of mine or something, an overly romanticized part of me that spoke softly because it made American girls swoon for me.

  But if they knew the full extent of my past, if they fully understood what I carried in my heart every day, they would see I suffered not from the weight of lies, but the burdens of truth. I was not looking for someone to “be myself” with; I was looking for someone to free me of what had happened all those years ago.

  Only one woman had made me feel that way. Only one woman had come close to giving me that soulful touch. Five years ago…

  And I had run from it.

  “Don’t you feel high and mighty, sitting there with a smirk on your face,” Antoine said as he entered, looking so disheveled that I had sincere doubts he had even showered.

  “I am enjoying the life that comes when one is not feeling the aftereffects of the night before,” I said.

  “Oh, shut your mouth,” Antoine said. “I enjoyed last night.”

  “Did you?” I said, even though I knew full well he did. “What do you remember of it?”

  Antoine chuckled.

  “Less than I care to admit,” he said. “But enough about that, for we must rally and do it again tonight.”

  “We?”

  “What have you been up to? I feel like you’re always working on something none of us know about.”

  I smirked. I did hold my cards pretty close to the vest.

  “Well, an investment of mine has started to pay off.”

  “Oh? Bitcoin?”

  “Hah, I do not get so easily swept up in the trend of the day. No, about five years ago, I invested in a high-end furniture store started by an Italian man. His goal, he said, was to make it so every city in America had these stores. Polozzi Furniture, I believe he called it. In any case, he started with two stores, one in Las Vegas, and one in San Francisco.”

  “Ah, the lust and mind of America,” Antoine said.

  “And the two places where people are willing to spend money to signal their wealth,” I added. “Yes. I also had connections with some export businesses and figured if I could make it so I had money invested along this continuous chain, from the shipping of the materials and furniture to the actual sale of the product, it would work out rather well. And, as it turned out, I was correct.”

  Antoine chuckled, sipping on some coffee that the waiter put in front of him.

  “And yet, you don’t spend a damn dime of it on a bottle of liquor,” he said.

  “I know what the real value of money is,” I said. “I am not going to be inclined to spend it on something so temporary and fleeting as a buzz on a Wednesday evening.”

  “And what is that, Lord Pierre?” Antoine said, laughing at his own joke before breaking into a coughing fit. “Teach me your ways.”

  I shrugged.

  “Money buys me time,” I said. “With money, I can afford to take time off for anything if I need it. I can afford to turn my back on work for some time. I can afford to vacation. I am not interested in buying some artwork in Japan so much as I am in the freedom to travel
for three weeks to Japan. That is what money has done for me.”

  “Huh,” Antoine said, sounding like even his hungover mind was getting it. “I suppose that will be of great value to me when I become an old man.”

  Even I had to chuckle at his remark.

  “And everything with the business is all good?” he said. “No hiccups? No drama with buyouts or takeovers?”

  I shrugged.

  “I have to admit, the Polozzi man does seem to be a little suspect when I do my due diligence,” I said. “Not so much with the business. The business itself is ethical, transparent, and unsullied. But when I ask about him and his colleagues, walls higher than the Great Wall of China go up.”

  And then I remembered something else—where I would be headed in a couple of weeks.

  “Humorously enough, I shall be going to Las Vegas in short time in order to discuss doing further business with them. Although, to be honest, given that the man is more shrouded in mystery than a man in a mask, I am not sure I wish to pursue further.”

  “Gotcha,” Antoine said, and I could tell by the tone with which he spoke that he did not “get it” anymore than he got recovery at this hour. “And what about the exciting stuff? Any women in your life?”

  I waved a hand and chuckled.

  “I…”

  Her. She was here just last night. Would that not be something?

  “I have no realistic expectations right now,” I said. “I am happy being by myself.”

  “Realistic?” Antoine said. It bugged me how he could more or less sleepwalk his way through a conversation about business, but the instant one adjective got attached to my romantic endeavors, he was like a flea to a dog. “What does that mean? Is there a celebrity you have been speaking to?”

  I snorted.

  “Do not assume such things, Antoine,” I said. “I merely mean to state that the odds of me being with someone right now are realistically quite low. I am perfectly content being by myself.”

  Antoine shrugged.

  “The only people I know who say that are either using it as an excuse because they can’t get laid or as a shield to hide from deeper problems,” he said. “But what do I know? I’m not forty.”

  I sneered at him, not appreciating that particular jab.

  “In any case,” he said, lightening his tone. “There is a party tonight after Miu Miu. It’s going to be one of the best parties for the entirety of the Fashion Week. There will be women more beautiful than the male mind can imagine.”

  “My head is already hungover in anticipation of how much booze will be there,” I said with a smile. “But I do suppose that would not prevent me from making an appearance.”

  “Hey, if you’re over the hill, it’s fine.”

  Antoine knew there were not many ways to get under my skin and bother me. He also knew that one of the few ways to actually do so was to imply that I was no longer capable of what I could once do. There were many things that I chose to believe I was no longer proficient at, but as soon as another man challenged my capability, I was perhaps rather beholden to the idea of having to prove him wrong.

  Age did not totally erase the immaturities and impurities of our youth; it merely dressed them up better than they were before.

  “The only hill that I have gone over, Antoine, is the hill of failure in such social situations,” I said. “I will be there. I will court the most beautiful woman there. And I will leave you wondering how a master of suave and sophistication does it.”

  And you’ll get what you want. So don’t complain too much. Antoine tried to laugh, but he wound up stopping himself, as if too much laughter would make him vomit.

  “Well, good,” he said. “Then let’s plan to head out this evening. I want us to be seen at the restaurants nearby. You know, plant a seed.”

  I rolled my eyes. It was as if Antoine thought I had never tried to court a woman.

  “Yes, Antoine, we can do that,” I said. “We can plant a seed.”

  The words, though, made me wonder if such a seed had been planted the night before.

  * * *

  I went back upstairs, took a nap, and then spent the rest of the day quietly ambling through the streets of Paris. I craved solitude more than ever, though Antoine’s words did make me wonder if perhaps I was simply using that as an excuse to avoid intimacy and closeness. It was easy to say, “after what happened five years ago,” but that was merely a symptom of what had happened even before then.

  When I got back, I showered, shaved the stray hairs around my neck, groomed myself, put on a nice suit and button-down shirt—no tie—and headed to the elevator. Two men got in front of me, American guys—I could tell by the crass and crude manner in which they spoke. I was quite sure that they were fine gentlemen, but in France, they would come across as boorish.

  The doors opened to the lobby, and they walked out. I followed right behind them—

  Her.

  Layla.

  She was standing right there, waiting to go up.

  I kept walking.

  I froze not in movement, but in mind. I didn’t think to stop. I couldn’t. I was too in shock.

  No. Talk to her. Talk!

  I kept walking. What was I doing? My legs were not my own. This was not my choice. My mind…

  Talk to her.

  I turned.

  “Lay…”

  But she was already gone.

  She had already disappeared into the elevator. She was headed upstairs. I would not see her again unless I waited.

  Well, I had dinner plans, so in the practical sense, no, I could not wait.

  But if I saw Layla a third time, tonight, no matter what, I vowed I would speak to her. I would explain what had happened all those years ago. I would confront my own worst fears.

  And, amusingly enough, I would be keeping my promise to Antoine.

  I would court the most beautiful woman at the Miu Miu afterparty.

  Chapter 5: Layla

  Seeing Pierre made me want to remain in my hotel room.

  Actually, no, that was only temporarily true. Staying in a hotel room in Paris real quickly conjured up some memories that should have ended on a pleasant note and just wound up causing a lot of stress and heartache upon recall. Now, I wished that I could just get the hell out of Paris entirely.

  Yes, the stress was that bad. Yes, seeing him—knowing it was him, not some lookalike—had had that profound of an effect on me. Maybe…

  I just needed to get out of the hotel.

  I looked at the itinerary of events and my email. Technically, I had no professional obligations that night; I just needed to have the strength to visit three more high-end hotels tomorrow and make my presence known. But anyone who had been in sales and client relations for more than a week understood that the job didn’t end at the last line on the itinerary; in some ways, it actually began there.

  I had a note from an old friend, a French woman named Helene Blondeau, inviting me to a party that night after Miu Miu, a place where anybody who was anyone would be and where the potential for deals to be made was through the roof. Inhibitions would drop, favors would be traded, lustful gazes would come and go...and if I played my cards right, I could not only increase sales, I could not only have a good time, I might even be able to step away from the madness that was my mind.

  Nothing else appealed to me, and nothing else offered the potential trifecta of success, fun, and escape. I grabbed my phone, texted Helene, and confirmed that she was still going to the post-Miu Miu party. Her response was instant and confirming; yes, she was, and yes, I had better show up.

  Well, maybe the night wouldn’t be so bad after all.

  Or at least I would forget how bad it could be.

  * * *

  The familiar signs of the nightclub came almost the second I turned the corner.

  First, there was that strange mix of alcohol, perfume, cologne, velvet, and drinks that made a nightclub both smell pristine and luxurious but also arousing
, erotic, and even a hint of dangerous. I had never found one word to describe the scent, but one could always identify a high-quality nightclub based on smell alone.

  The second sign was how invariably, there were two “lines”—one was an actual line of people willing to wait outside for hours on end, hoping that the bouncer would find some grace for them and grant them entrance. I suppose from a club owner’s perspective, such a line made sense, given it implied scarcity and desire. But I just thought it was ridiculous, and that such time was better spent making relationships that would allow you access to the second line.

  That wasn’t really a line; it was more like a funnel in which the privileged, the connected, and the VIPs got to enter into and emerge on the other side almost as quickly at the snap of the finger. And fortunately, with Helene waiting just at the entrance to the club, I got permission to join the second group and skipped over many people waiting in line. I heard more than a few women scoff at how unfair it was that I get entrance, but I was pretty sure most bouncers had heard far worse in their lives.

  The third sign was the unbearably loud music, playing mashups of EDM and top 40 songs that I regularly heard on the radio. The point, of course, wasn’t so much to get people paying attention to the music as it was to get them to get into a sensuous flow where alcohol—aka the cash machine of the club—flowed freely.

  And the fourth sign, of course, was how fucking great everyone looked. I had thrown on some black heels, a purple dress that came down just above the knee, and had straightened my hair. Just because I had no intention of going home with a potential client did not mean I could not look the part; I thought of myself, strangely, as like an animal at the zoo, to be looked at but not touched.

  But let’s just say that whatever work I had done for myself made me feel small in comparison to the gorgeous look that Helene had. It wasn’t really fair, since she was literally a model on the side, but she was the person I was going to be beside.