Hooked Up: Book 2 (24 page)

He went on, “I’m thinking of you, Pearl, you and your beautiful face when you come for me, and your erect nipples and that pretty waist and soft skin and I’m thinking how when I get home I’m going to tease you with my cock. I’m going to bend you over the arm of the sofa and flick my tongue around your clit. Just the tip of my tongue. Really gently. I know you baby, you’re gonna get all wet and hot and be begging me for it. And I’ll make you wait. I’ll make you moan with anticipation.”

I swallowed. I felt my pulse speed up hearing his words, imagining myself in the position he described. I pressed “pause” and went over to my office door and locked it. Jeanine always knocked, but just to be sure. I went back to my laptop and pressed “play” again.

“See how hard I am?” he purred. “I’m thinking of you sucking me off—your pretty lips wrapped around my cock, running your tongue up and down and making it even stiffer.”

I unzipped my skirt and let it pool around my ankles, on the floor. I took off my suit jacket and flung it on the back of my swivel chair.

Alexandre continued, “Have you got your fingers in your pussy, baby? Is it all wet for me? I want you to sit back in your chair with your legs wide open . . . ”

Wait a minute, I thought, how does he know I’m in my chair? I sat down, my heart pounding, and yes, I was wet. Very wet.

“Let’s get back to the other position I had in mind for you, eh?” he said, the focus now on his face, which was grimacing from pleasuring himself. “You bent over the sofa arm, your peachy ass in the air. I’m gonna have to spank that ass, baby, and then I’m going to take you from behind.”

He had never spanked me, ever, but he talked about it in his fantasies. Did he do that to please me, or did he secretly want to punish me? I still didn’t know.

“I’ll slip my cock in just an inch, no more . . .” His dirty talk was doing things to my brain, and every part of my body was alive with sensation.

My fingers were deep inside myself. I hooked them up against my front wall, against my G-spot—a place I didn’t even know existed until Alexandre found it with his magic thumb. My left hand was on top, both adding pressure now to my clit and my special zone. I made circular movements and pressed harder. I could feel the build-up, my eyes glued to the screen. The camera was back on his rock-hard cock, and he was moaning, almost growling—about to come—I could sense it.

“All I can think about is fucking you. I. Love. Fucking. You. Pearl.”

I suddenly heard a knock just as I was about to reach orgasm. The panic of it made me climax in a thunderous spasm. But then I realized the knock was coming from Alexandre’s homemade porn movie as I heard him shout out, “Hang on, just coming.”

“We’re about to take off, sir, I need you to buckle-up,” a muffled voice said through the cabin door.

He groaned. I observed his face, now shown up by the camera, in twisted ecstasy, and I laughed at the madness and irony of it all . . . “just coming,” he’d said –and I was still coming, too, with delicious, powerful contractions—never were words more aptly spoken.

Then the video went dead.

Why did Alexandre continually make me feel like a naughty schoolgirl?

I tried to compose myself, which was difficult as now all I had on the brain was my sexy fiancé. I was not the jealous type but I wondered at my foolishness of letting him roam free in London without me there by his side. I trusted him, I did, but at the end of the day he was still a guy. Women threw themselves at him. Women, girls, mothers, dogs; this was a man who enjoyed popularity. He was easygoing and nearly always had a gentle smile on his lips that made him very attractive to everyone. But there was also something commandeering about him that make people sit up and pay attention.

Funny, he’d said the same about me . . . that people listened. I did a good job of pretending; shoulders back, head up (and all that), but inside I felt the same as when I was twelve years old. You think getting older would make you qualify in the extra confidence stakes, but it doesn’t. Perhaps all that happens is that you get better at acting. If I had Alexandre fooled, I decided, that was fine by me. If I had Samuel Myers fooled, all the better.

I went to the bathroom to freshen up. One thing Alexandre had installed in every bathroom in his apartment, and here, was the old fashioned bidet. At first, I had thought it archaic, but now I was a convert and winced every time I went to a bathroom and there wasn’t one. How civilized they are, I mused—perfect for a quick clean up at any moment, especially if you’ve indulged in a little afternoon sex and don’t have time for a shower. I had found they were perfect to use as a footbath, too.

I looked in the mirror and saw a happy woman staring back at me. Her skin glowing, her blue-gray eyes bright. Lots of passionate sex—the perfect cure for anyone.

I turned my cell back on and saw I had three messages. Alexandre? No, Anthony. My mind flashed through a series of disasters that could have befallen him. Had he set the kitchen on fire? Did he try and squeeze his huge body into the Dumbwaiter? Had he smashed something, broken a chair? Fed Rex the box of handmade chocolate truffles that were on top of the piano? Had he spilled a hot drink onto the piano keys? Anthony had two left feet and was always crashing into something, and putting his foot in it, either verbally or literally. I called him without even listening to the messages—I dreaded to think what had happened.

He picked up. “Pearl, thank God.”

I could hear outside sounds: sirens, cars, horns, cries. “Anthony, are you on the street?”

“I’m getting into a cab.”

“Oh, where are you going? Shopping? Wait for me, I’m on my way home.”

“I’m catching a flight back to San Francisco. Bruce is ill, it’s an emergency.”

I rolled my eyes. Bruce had done this last time. He was incapable of being without his boyfriend for five minutes. Co-dependency did not even begin to describe their ten-year relationship. “Anthony, you know what a drama queen Bruce is.”

“No, this is an emergency. Seriously. An. Emergency! He’s had an aortic aneurism. Something to do with the heart. He’s in intensive care. Oh my God, I’m like, freaking out, I think he’s going to die,” he wailed.

A wave of guilt washed over me for my dismissive attitude. “He’s not going to die. Calm down. If he’s at the hospital, they’ll get him through this. Have faith, Ant. Stay strong. Why are you taking a cab to the airport? Suresh could have driven you there.”

“He was running errands, I couldn’t wait.”

I heard the cab door slam and the vehicle screech off. “What can I do to help? Do you want me to come with you? I have money—let me sort out the medical bill.”

Anthony seemed as if he was going to burst into tears. “No and no. There isn’t any point you coming and hanging around at the hospital—there’s nothing you can do. And Bruce’s job has great benefits—he has full insurance. Thanks, anyway, Pearly, I appreciate the offer.”

“Well let me know if there’s anything you need.”

“I will. Shame, I was having such a ball at Alexandre’s palace. I mean yours and Alexandre’s palace. If only Bruce wasn’t afraid of flying and he’d have come too, maybe this would never have happened.”

“Life happens when you’re busy making plans,” I said.

“John Lennon said that.”

“Yes, he did. And that was before he got shot. There’s nothing you could have done, Anthony. Life throws stuff at you sometimes—things that are beyond your control.”

“Shit happens, huh?”

“Exactly,” I whispered, thinking of our mom.

“Listen, I’ve got to go. I need some time to think.”

“Good luck, Ant. I’m praying for Bruce. Call me later.”

“Bye Pearl.” The line went dead.

I mulled over the fragility of our existence. One second everything can be perfect and the next, bam, anything can change and there’s not a lot you can do about it.

Except . . . live each day as if it were your last.

W
HEN I EXITED my cabin, I nearly had a heart attack. The person sitting right there in my line of vision, neatly and serenely in her seat, was none other than Indira bloody Kapoor herself. She looked up from her book and said calmly, “Alexandre, how wonderful to see you.”

I gazed at her, speechless. What the fuck was she doing on this plane? She was wearing a sky-blue sari, draped elegantly over one shoulder, and her hair was braided. I had to admit, she looked great. No wonder she was such a big movie star.

“Indira. What a surprise.” I walked over, bent down to kiss her on the cheek. “What brings you here on this very
private
plane?”

“I’m like you, Alexandre; I like to hitch-hike on G-5s. So much global warming—always good to spread the wealth a bit, you know, not be too greedy. You were flying to London so I thought I’d hop aboard.”

“How did you know I’d be here?” I asked, not even wanting to know what strings she’d pulled.

“A little birdy told me so,” she said enigmatically. “You’re looking good, Alexandre Chevalier. Truly, you must be one of the most handsome men I think I’ve ever had the pleasure of working with, including my co-stars. Your eyes—what is it about them? They almost rival mine.”

I chuckled. Indira was always good for a laugh.
To work with?
“Well, if you consider the charity work, I guess—”

“Not the charity. You signed that oh-so-lucrative piece of paper giving me power of attorney in India with all things HookedUp,” she said coolly, smoothing her braid. I stared at her. She was very composed, very
butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-my-mouth
. Her eyes were wide with innocence. Where was this leading?

I sat down next to her, my blood pressure rising, my mind shuffling through possible scenarios with utmost confusion. “No, Indira, I never signed anything of the sort. What are you on about?”

“Oh, but you did. HookedUp is already making waves there, and I’m the director.”

The flight attendant came by with some hors d’oeuvres and champagne, breaking up our conversation. What the fuck was Indira playing at?

“Indira, the only thing you have power of attorney of, concerning me, is our charity. A charity that is a
non-profit
organization. A charity which, I hope to God, you will not exploit for your own coffers.”

She leaned towards me and, putting her hand on my knee, uncomfortably close to my crotch, whispered, “It’s so easy to forge a signature. All you have to do is press the original document against a window with your own on top, and trace over it. Easy peasy pudding and pie. I swear, nobody can tell the two apart. It’s even been signed by a notary, ‘witnessed’ by two lawyers. I have contacts in high places, as you can imagine. And it’s too late now for you to turn the clock back. Of course, if you and I were
real
partners, in the true sense of the word, you’d be in on it fifty/fifty.”

I laughed. “You’re just pulling my leg. Trying to get a reaction out of me.”
The woman was nuts.
Why did I attract crazy women into my life?

She arched a dark eyebrow and smirked.

“Indira, Sophie and I sold our India rights of HookedUp to your cousin. I’m out. You yourself invested your own money into the HookedUp franchise in India. You wouldn’t cut your nose off to spite your own pretty face. You wouldn’t jeopardize it. I don’t know why you’re playing this silly game. I
got
my payment,” and I lowered my voice, “I got the gems. That was my deal. Even if you did forge my signature, which I doubt very much, it isn’t going to help you.”

“Oh, but it will. You watch. My fat little cousin doesn’t have full proof of purchase. I do. The company is mine.”

“Indira, you’re playing with fire. He’s not a man to cross.”
She wouldn’t be so crazy . . . would she?
My head told me she was spurting a load of nonsense just to rile me, but then I sat up. That cousin could really cause trouble.
Fuck, maybe I do need my bodyguard, after all!
“Really, Indira, if you did what you say you did, you’ll have gotten yourself into a big, tangled web of a mess.”

She adjusted the folds of her sari. “My cousin loves me. In fact, he’s
in
love with me. Always has been. I’m family. He’ll believe me when I say I was unaware of your gem deal. Because it’s true. I wasn’t there. I can play dumb. He’ll think you double-crossed him.”

I closed my eyes in disbelief.
She must be lying.
Whatever, I had no idea what the repercussions would be, but somehow I knew I could end up embroiled in one, big, spicy, tandoori Bollywood-style banquet of disaster. Indira was out for revenge because I had spurned her, obviously.

Laura. Indira. Who knew? Maybe Claudine would be waiting for my plane to land in London.

I thanked the Lord that Pearl, at least, was normal.

But then a niggling doubt crept into my mind. I’d never had a relationship in my entire life with any woman who was “normal”—not even my mother was normal. Especially not my mother. And certainly not Sophie.

Why, I asked myself, would Pearl be any different?

I
NEEDED SOMEONE to talk to. Bruce’s aneurism had really knocked the wind out of me. Not that I was a huge Bruce fan, but he was everything to my brother and I couldn’t bear to see Anthony’s life fall apart. It brought it all gushing back again; my mother’s unexpected death. You’d think that pain like this would go away after a certain spell of time, but that feeling of abandonment never leaves your side—the eternal lurking shadow, which accompanies even your happy moods.

Alexandre was still en route to London so I couldn’t talk to him.

I dialed my best friend—poor long-suffering Daisy. “Long-suffering” because she always talked my problems through with me. That’s just the way she was. Even if I tried to discuss
her
, she somehow swung the conversation back around to me. It was in her nature, and besides, it was her job. At least it
had been
before she got married and had a child. She was a full-time counselor cum therapist when she lived in London. Now that little Amy was at school all day, Daisy was back working again. Or would be soon. She had set up an office in the maid’s room in her pre-war apartment block. A lot of these old apartments come with small “box” rooms—that once were maids’ quarters in the days when people rang bells for service, had their baths drawn, and drinks brought to them. These days, only people like Alexandre lived this way. And now me. I still couldn’t get used to the luxury of my new life and felt guilty every time I saw his staff running around for us. It didn’t seem right. Indecent almost. But Patricia got cross with me if I didn’t act the complete “lady.” She winced when I put plates in the dishwasher or scrubbed a pan. I needed to act more like the princess people expected me to be in my privileged situation.