Hooked Up: Book 2 (22 page)

She took my hand and kissed it. Soon, I thought, I’d be wearing a wedding ring there. “You’ll be late,” she warned me again.

“Such a cool customer, aren’t you? Sending me off like this when all I want to do is get right back into bed with you.” I ran the top of my finger around the dimples in the small of her back again, tracing it over the mound of her behind and into that luscious valley between her legs—a place where I’d spent so many wonderful hours of ecstasy and where I intended to visit for the rest of my life.

“What I like, though,” I murmured, my cock rock-hard again, “is when the ice-princess part of you melts.” And I whispered in her ear, my fingers deep inside her, “when I fuck the cool-customer nonsense out of you and you lose all self-control. When you whimper and beg me, and scream my name when you come.” I eased my fingers out of her again. Let her feel what she’d be missing—have her longing for my return. “Have fun in your meeting, chérie. I’ll be keeping tabs on you—just in case you get tempted by sexy Sam.”

She laughed and pushed me off the bed. I walked over to my closet and got dressed, slinging on a T-shirt and jeans—I was really late—and when I turned around, Rex had somehow managed to sneak his way onto the bed. Pearl and I had nicknamed him her “French lover.” I knew he’d be trying to usurp my place when I was gone.

I said goodbye to the pair of them and felt a rush of inexplicable adrenaline coil through my stomach. Leaving my little family behind made me feel nauseous, partly because when I got to London I knew who was waiting for me:

Laura.

Like tenacious ivy entwined around an oak tree, Laura just couldn’t let me go.

A
NTHONY WAS IN his element. He arrived late last night and couldn’t believe that Alexandre’s chauffeur was there to meet him at the airport. He told me that he was moving in (joke). Or was it? I suspected Anthony could get used to this lifestyle. Not to mention his boy-crush on Alexandre.

I got dressed and found breakfast waiting in the kitchen. Coffee, cereals, homemade yogurt, and jellies, fresh fruit, and a spread of croissants and pastries sat temptingly on the table. I began to set things on a tray to send up to the roof terrace. Sun was streaming through the windows and the sky was crystal blue. The perfect Fall weather. Cool, sunny and crisp but warm enough to still eat outside. Patricia, one of the staff, encountered me rummaging about the kitchen and a look of dismay shadowed her face. She was wearing a neat, black and white uniform—her choice—she said she felt more professional that way.

“Ms. Pearl, please, what are you doing? You’ll make me lose my job if you insist on serving yourself.”

“I doubt that, Patricia. I thought Anthony and I could sit on the rooftop, have breakfast up there today, but I don’t want to be a nuisance.”

“That’s what the Dumbwaiter’s for,” she said with a wink.

“Best invention ever,” I agreed.

She loaded everything into the mini-elevator that sent food or forgotten cell phones up and down between floors. Anthony had not yet set eyes on this marvel. I could hear him now in the living room, screaming and yelping.

“Thanks, Patricia. I’m going to take my excitable brother upstairs.”

I found Anthony sitting on the piano stool, breathless, his mouth open so far that his jaw was practically horizontal to the floor. He caught my eye as I stood at the doorway.

“Oh my GOD!”

“I know,” I replied simply.

“Pearleee—”

“Do you want me to call 911?”

“Oh my freakin’ God!”

“Yeah, I think God has gotten the point.”

“What is this place? A
museum
? I mean, this room is the size of mine and Bruce’s entire apartment in San Francisco!”

“It is pretty awesome.”

“Awesome does not even begin to describe this
palace
.”

I watched his eyes scan the room; the walnut wood paneled walls, the delicate cabinetry and integrated bookshelves, the parquet floor, the picture windows with views of Central Park on one side and of the Plaza Hotel on the other—and the massive marble fireplaces. Rex wagged his tail as if in agreement. He came from humble beginnings, from a dog pound in Paris, where the poor thing had been waiting on Death Row. I got the feeling that he too appreciated his luxurious surroundings. Anthony was now caressing the piano keys; whimpering sounds emanating from somewhere deep within his body, as if he were sick with fever.

“Can you imagine having a grand piano like this?” he gushed.

“I don’t have to imagine it, Anthony—it’s a reality.”

“Have you pinched yourself? Are you sure you’re not just dreaming?”

“Sometimes I do wonder.”

“A Steinway? Seriously? I really do have heart palpitations . . . you need to call an ambulance.”

“Play something, Ant.”

“Are you talkin’ to me? Are you talking to
me
?” he joked, imitating Robert de Niro in
Taxi Driver
. “Are you talking to
me
? Well, I’m the only one here!”

I burst out laughing. Anthony could not have looked more unlike Travis Bickle if he’d tried. My brother was heavy, blonde—okay, not heavy—but actively overweight. And when I say actively, I mean he could not stop eating, even though every day he swore he had started a new diet. I’d missed him—he did make me laugh. Except when I was the object of his humor, which was often.

He began to play, and within seconds my eyes welled with tears from the beauty of the sound. The way he stroked the keys with such a whispery touch made me remember what a novice I was compared to him in the musical department. He had so much talent, I found myself holding my breath.

“Mom used to sing this to us to get us to fall asleep. Do you remember?” He was playing
Lullaby
by Brahms.

“I miss her so much,” I told him quietly.

But he didn’t reply. His answer was all in his playing. His fingers caressed the keys and his eyes, half closed, spoke of nostalgia for a life cut short; a woman we both loved beyond measure, who was taken from us too soon, her bones ravaged by that evil disease which begins with C and ends in heartbreak. Before I knew it, I was weeping, as if all my pain had finally unleashed itself. Pearl, the Independent One could finally let loose her pent-up sorrow.

“Why her?” I mumbled. “Why her . . .”

Anthony stopped his playing short. “I know. I know.”

I took his hand and tried to change the mood, “Breakfast, come on! You think this room is cool? You ain’t seen nuthin’ yet,” I joked, “wait till you see the roof terrace.”

I led him upstairs, Rex excitedly at our heels, and listened to Anthony’s oohs and ahs as he flipped out about the décor, the priceless antique furniture and works of art. His eyes settled on a giant red heart painting with a multi-colored background. “That’s a Jim Dine,” he observed, “isn’t it? A. Goddam. Jim. Freakin. Goddam. Dine!”

“Alexandre gave that to me a few weeks ago. An engagement present.”

“Oh, so like, the rock of a diamond solitaire you’re wearing on your finger wasn’t enough already?”

I laughed. “Obscene, isn’t it?”

“Well, it is
big
, to say the least.”

“It belonged to a Russian princess.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Of course it did.”

“The diamond was part of a pendant, and Alexandre had it made into a ring.”

Anthony’s reaction to the roof terrace with its real lawn, trees and sumptuous views across Central Park and the Manhattan skyline was even more extreme than mine was the first time I laid eyes on it all, back in June. “So the view wasn’t enough . . . there has to be a freakin’
park
on top of this roof
as well
?”

“All for Rex,” I said.

“I’m going to dress up as a dog.”

I pulled my cardigan tighter around my waist. “It’s a little cool, let’s go into the orangery and have breakfast.”

“Don’t we need to take Rex for a walk in the park first? Do his poops and stuff?”

“Don’t worry, he’s been out already.”

“You took him out this morning so early?”

“No, Rex has a kind of nanny. She comes every morning at seven a.m. sharp. Then again at eleven, and every four hours if somebody’s home. If I’m at work then his nanny—her name’s Sally—she hangs out with him. Rex is never alone.”

“You’re kidding me.”

I giggled. “No, really. Rex lives up to his name. He’s a king.”

“I’ll say.”

“Come here, Rex, let me see that new collar you’re wearing.” He wiggled up to me, sporting a smart, electric blue collar, wagging proudly. “Sally must have bought him that; she’s always getting him gifts.”

“So who else is running the show, besides Rex’s nanny?”

“The housekeeper, Patricia, two or three cleaning ladies, a chef who comes and goes if Alexandre isn’t in the mood to cook and—”

Anthony interrupted me with a waving hand. “Stop! I’ve heard enough, I can feel myself turning green.”

I poured some coffee for us both, and Ant stared at me as if dissecting my very being. Uh, oh, what now . . .

“Pearl, what is
wrong
with you?”

“Excuse me?”

“What the hell are you playing at with this winter wedding bullshit? Winter—hello–is two months away. What are you waiting for?”

“Look, Alexandre and I have only known each other for just over four months. I want to be absolutely sure.”

“Sure of what? That you’re even luckier than Kate Middleton?”

“I don’t want to make a mistake. I want for us to really know each other, warts and all.”

“You want him to know about your
warts
? Are you crazy? Snap him up now before he realizes what’s happened. You don’t want him to see your goddam warts or he could change his mind!”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Ant. Actually, that expression is kind of gross. Let’s just say I want us to be great friends as well as lovers before we tie the knot. I want to be open about everything and anything concerning my past and for him to do the same with me.”

“Are you
insane
? Keep your goddam mouth
shut
about anything at all that makes you seem less than perfect. Keep any skeletons you may have locked firmly in the closet. You cannot jeopardize this golden opportunity.”

“I want us to be honest with each other.”

Anthony didn’t hear me. He rattled on, “Okay, I get the whole fairy tale wedding thing in Lapland. I do. The whole reindeer pulling the sled, the white, silk-velvet ribbons on their antlers, the powdery snow—I get it, but please, don’t be a fool—you need to get on with this marriage already and stop dithering about.”

“You want me to settle for a quick wedding just in case my fiancé changes his mind? If he changes his mind, then I would have done the right thing. If he’s that mercurial I shouldn’t have been thinking about being with him in the first place.”

Anthony rolled his eyes. “What’s the worst that can happen? The marriage fails and you end up with a nice settlement, thank you very much.”

“No, Anthony, that is
not
the plan. I would never marry for money, you know that. I refused to take a dime from Saul. In fact, I ended up lending him a ton of money which he never paid back and I never even asked him for it. I’ve suggested to Alexandre that we do a pre-nup. That way, it’s clear from the outset I don’t want a cent if it turns out we aren’t made for each other.”

Anthony buried his head in his hands, his exasperation palpable. “Please, Pearl, stop. I just can’t
bear
hearing you throw your life away.”

“I’m being practical. Realistic. Strong.”

“You’re being a dumbass—burning all your bridges. What does Alexandre say about this pre-nup nonsense?”

“He says no, and that he doesn’t even want to discuss it.”

“Phew, that’s lucky.”

“Try one of these Danish pastries, they melt in your mouth,” I said, offering him a platter of tempting goodies, knowing that was the only thing that would shut Anthony up—at least for a while.

But all he did was stuff the pastry in his mouth and talk at the same time. “And what’s with all this business you’ve started together, this HookedUp thingamajig?”

“HookedUp Enterprises.”

“Yeah. Why can’t you be content with just being a trophy wife, so to speak? You’d never have to work again in your life.”

“That is
so
not my style and you know it. Besides, Alexandre secretly likes me being into my career. He bought up Haslit Films. It’s all under the umbrella of his new company, HookedUp Enterprises, run by me. And he and I are the directors of it, except he’s a silent partner. He doesn’t want any say in how the company’s run day to day—it’s all up to me. So he
says
, but I’ll need his help. I want him there—I’m not that proficient with the business side of things. We’ve started doing feature films, keeping on Haslit for the documentary side.”

“So where does that leave your boss Natalie?”

“She’s on board, too. She came with the package.”

“So wait, that means you are now technically Natalie’s boss, and the tables have turned and you’re like, some big shot who’s going to hang out with Tom Cruise and Matt Bomer and all those sexy TV and movie sirens?”

I laughed and breathed in the heady scent of winter jasmine, entwined about the trellises of the orangery. “Who knows where it could lead—it’s exciting though.”

Anthony tapped his finger on his nose. “Just exactly how rich is your husband to-be? That is, if you move your skinny ass and hurry up and marry him and don’t blow it all, somehow.”

“Alexandre is a very powerful man. Much more powerful than I had first imagined.”

“Not to mention drop-dead gorgeous. If he wasn’t going to be my future brother-in-law, I swear I’d—”

“Anthony, please . . . you’ll shock Rex.”

“Sorry, go on, you were saying . . . ”

“I actually had no idea how wealthy he was. His T-shirt and jeans look kind of had me fooled.”

“Doesn’t he wear a suit to meet clients?”

“Very rarely. Only if the clients are way older.”

Anthony narrowed his blue eyes. “Isn’t everyone way older? I mean, he’s only twenty-five, right?”

“He’s very laid back about the way he presents himself. On the outside, that is. But I’ve overheard him speak business on the phone. I wouldn’t want to cross him, that’s for sure. Although he never raises his voice and he’s always polite and friendly, but there’s a kind of chilling power he holds over people. I can’t explain it.”