Hooked Up: Book 3 (37 page)

Before my brain was even aware of what I was doing, my fist—as if it had a will of its own—punched the man’s face. He tumbled backwards. My leg swung in a high arch, landing on the side of his chest in a hard thud. But he didn’t fall. I could hear gasps and women squealing with fright. The fuck shook himself off like a Spanish bull and came toward me, hurling his full weight at me. He was as tall as I was and strongly built, his chest wide, his arms thick—even though he was wearing a suit, I could tell he worked out.

Pearl screamed, “Alexandre, stop! What are you doing?”
Good point,
I thought
. What am I doing?
My limbs seemed to have their own agenda.

“I told you I don’t do red carpet well,” I said—a James Bond quip if ever there was one—as I dodged to the side, managing to avoid Mikhail Prokovich’s heaving torso lunge right at me. “Step back, Pearl,” I urged her, realizing this was so not the time, nor the place, for this fiasco—that I should have kept my cool.

But it was too late. The guy twisted his body at the last minute and caught me in a vice, his arm clamped around my middle. He was a tough fucker, seemed to have been trained in some sort of martial art like I was because he had some sneaky moves—I’d met my match.

“She’s only nineteen, you fuck!” I hissed at him as we wrestled, both trying to overpower the other without making too much of a scene. But we
were
making a scene. And how! The next thing I knew, Pearl was beating him on the head with her purse. I pleaded, “Pearl, you must step
back
, chérie, you’ll get hurt,” although my love for her at that moment swelled, not only at her bravery but because of her loyalty.

A bright flash blinded me for a second. The paparazzi were at it in full swing now—snapping away at the spectacle: two grown men fighting in public. And then the Russian’s large knee jerked up and smashed me in the balls. I winced in pain, doubling forward. Prokovich jabbed me in the back with his sharp elbow. I used my crouched position to my advantage and, bending down even farther, hooked my fingers around his ankle. My opponent lost his balance and fell backwards to the floor, landing unceremoniously on his shoulder.

“You fuck!” he yelled up at me. I wiped my forehead—fighting in a suit was not the most comfortable option, and perspiration was gathering on my brow.

I leered down at him as he was getting up. “Leave my niece alone, you arms dealing asshole!” I roared. There was another collective gasp from the crowd. People were filming now—Smartphones out in droves. No doubt the scene was already Tweeted to the hilt and it wouldn’t be long before it would be live on YouTube.

I heard hushed whispers of “arms dealer,” jostling bodies gasping behind the cordoned off ropes, and VIP guests in shimmering, diaphanous gowns or crisp penguin suits, oohing and aahing; some vying for a closer view, others trying to get the hell out of our arena, and Sophie’s voice screaming, “Arrête! Stop, you two.”

Two hulking, balding men with earpieces suddenly came up either side of me and pulled me back. Prokovich’s bodyguards. It hadn’t even occurred to me to have
my
bodyguard on call. In that second, I knew what was about to happen as the Russian rose to his feet. I was going to be his punching bag while these two meatballs held my arms captive. As he came at me with a sharp left hook aimed at my gut, my leg shot higher than a Moulin Rouge can-can dancer—muscle memory kicking in (literally). I clipped him under the chin with the toe of my shoe. He flew backwards, his hand clutching his jaw in agony, blood flowing. Pearl flung herself at me, loyal to the last, screaming at Prokovich’s bodyguards.

“Let my husband go, you monsters!” She was using her body as a shield to protect me. I couldn’t stop her; my arms being pinned back by the meatballs.

Elodie came rushing up too. I expected her to shout at me but she stopped at my bleeding enemy, as he was cursing in his own language, sprawled out on the velvety red carpet. She yelled at him in French, “You ever touch my uncle again and I’ll fucking
kill
you!”

I couldn’t help but beam inside, a faint smile flickering on my lips. My faithful ladies, with me to the bitter end. The fact that I struck first didn’t matter to Elodie.
Blood is thicker than water, you Russian fuck!
My team of women, including Natalie, was screaming at the bodyguards to let me go from their beefy clutches, and soon enough, the movie theatre security arrived and the bodyguards let me free. Prokovich got back up on his feet and shook himself like a lion, his blond hair dripping with sweat; he even flashed his signature, billion-dollar smile, tinged now with scarlet blood, as our bemused audience observed us with fascination. Fitting, I thought—a bloody smile that had been bought by other people’s war-zone misery.

The theatre’s security team surrounded us, confused as to know what to do, asking if I was alright. They wondered if anyone wanted to press charges. They offered the same courtesy to Prokovich—but both of us pretended that our skirmish was a minor blip. As if it were a little show, put on for the crowd’s entertainment. I knew I’d have to watch it from now on, though. He’d be the type to seek revenge.

Everybody straightened their ties and jackets and snickered with embarrassment, pretending, seconds later, that all was quite normal. Pearl held my hand, and then Elodie also came to my side, hooking her pale, skinny arm around my elbow. She shot her lover a look, loaded with both pain and threat.

Then Pearl said coolly, “Let’s go in and find our seats.”

I was about to turn and walk away from the theatre, but then I changed my mind.
This is Pearl’s night. She has stuck by me. I’m not going anywhere.

“Good idea, chérie, let’s find our seats,” I agreed, adrenaline still pumping through my gut, heating my veins. Elodie gave me a pleading look as if to say,
I’m sorry, I’ll explain.
I winked at her, yet my face remained impassive.
Yes, we’ll discuss this later,
it said silently
—you bet we will.
But she was still only a child in my eyes. Whoever was at fault, it wasn’t Elodie. Prokovich should have known better, messing with a vulnerable teenager. He was a man of the world; she was just a fragile bird, learning to spread her wings.

There I’d been, naively assuming Elodie was a virgin, only playing video games for entertainment. More fool me.

She couldn’t have picked a bigger asshole than Mikhail Prokovich.

She had a lot of explaining to do.

I was so distracted that I had no idea what
Stone Trooper
was about. All I could think of was Elodie and how the fuck she ended up getting involved with the last man on Earth whom I would have associated her with. In my peripheral vision, I observed him scrutinizing her throughout the screening. He was a man obsessed. His eyes greedy, all-consuming, commanding. It was as if he wanted to swallow her whole. He was sitting on his own, though—she had spurned him as her date for the night. Why Elodie? Okay, she was beautiful and charming, but he had his pick of any supermodel. How had they become involved in the first place? I watched Elodie, her nostrils fuming like a young racehorse. I could tell that the betrayal she felt, over her stepmother cheating on her father was eating her, and whatever Prokovich had done, or not done, was making her hate him. Hate or love? The two emotions could be so intertwined.

There was a standing ovation at the end of the film. Alessandra had no doubt done a good job. Maybe even Oscar-worthy. Sam Myers was there in the front row, twiddling his porky fat fingers as if counting out his profits already. The movie would do well. Pearl would make a fortune. Sophie, as usual, would make a fortune. I turned to see Elodie’s reaction as Alessandra took a little bow.

But Elodie was gone.

Prokovich was still there, his eyes roaming the theatre. He too, clocked her disappearance.

I whispered to Pearl, “I need to find Elodie.”

“Go,” she agreed. “I’ll get a ride home with Sophie and Alessandra. Get out of here before you end up in another fight. I love you, even if you are a hotheaded, proud Frenchman who causes scenes.”

I kissed her hand and dashed out while the audience was still clapping and cheering. As I made my exit I passed Prokovich, who was still standing, his eyes scanning the theatre. I called Elodie on my cell. No answer. But seconds later, it buzzed with a message from her:

I’m fine. Had to get out of there. C U at yours.

I’d been expecting her to run—take a flight to Paris or something. She was going to my
apartment?
I felt white heat on my face and, when I looked up, I noticed a thousand cameras flashing in my face. News reporters were all over me, shoving microphones up against my lips. A woman, whom I recognized from TV said, “Mr. Chevalier, can you explain why you and Mr. Prokovich came to blows earlier this evening?”

Another reporter shouted at me, “Are either of you pressing charges? Suing for damages?”

“We’re European,” I answered, “we’re not into suing.” Then I realized my wry joke may not have gone down too well, and I wished I’d kept my trap shut.

Someone else yelled over the crowd, “Does your animosity with each other have anything to do with professional jealousy? You’re both the same age. Which one of you two is richer?”

“No comment,” I said briskly as I weaved my way between a sea of bodies.

I tried to hail a cab, but it had started to drizzle. Barcelona and New York—two cities with a dearth of taxis the second rain threatens. I started jogging. It would be faster for me to simply run home through Central Park than mess about with either hailing a cab or calling my driver.

I needed to get to Elodie before Prokovich sent in his Rottweilers.

I
SLIPPED QUIETLY into the living room and found Elodie staring at the TV, sitting between Sally and Jeanine, all of them on the sofa eating popcorn. They were glued to the news. Rex was also watching the news, his ears cocked when he saw my face on the screen and heard my words “We’re not into suing.”

A newsroom reporter happily sang, “In a surprising turn of events, two of the wealthiest young men in the world came to blows tonight on the red carpet, at a New York screening of the blockbuster movie,
Stone Trooper.
French HookedUp mogul, Alexandre Chevalier, and real estate magnet, Mikhail Prokovich, who hails from Russia, threw a few punches and kicks, before the HookedUp billionaire’s wife, Pearl Chevalier, intervened. Apparently, the two twenty-six year old men laughed it off afterwards, Mr. Prokovich telling news reporters that they were ‘just practicing a few black-belt moves as a joke.’ He says that the two of them are close friends and are even discussing a future business deal together.”

“Business deal, my ass,” I said to the TV. “Close friends . . . yeah right. Don’t believe what you hear, ladies.”

Jeanine turned her head, and with a bewildered look on her face said, “Oh, hi Mr. Chevalier; didn’t hear you come in.”

“You know to call me just Alexandre, Jeanine. Are the twins asleep?”

“They were angels all evening. Didn’t cry once. And yeah, they’re fast asleep.”

Elodie shoved a handful of popcorn into her mouth as if to prevent herself from speaking. Surely she had a lot to tell me. A whole damn lot.

“How was the movie?” Sally asked me.

“I don’t know, I wasn’t paying attention because something more important was distracting me. Elodie, tell them what you thought of
Stone Trooper.”

“It sucked,” she said. “Alessandra Demarr is a crap actress.”

“That bad, eh? Ladies, feel free to go home; I can take it from here.” I could tell they were dying to ask me questions about what happened, but my stony face had both of them rise from the sofa. Elodie continued stuffing popcorn into her mouth, every now and then offering Rex some.

“I need to get going,” Jeanine said with an embarrassed smile.

“Me too,” Sally chimed in. “I’ll be back at seven for Rex’s walk tomorrow.” Rex got up too, his tail spinning like a windmill, the middle of his torso wiggling with excitement. Pretty girls, sofa, popcorn, his dad on TV—what an exciting evening he’d had.

“Night, girls, and thanks so much for looking after the twins.”

“Sure.” Jeanine smiled awkwardly at me.

“Don’t worry, Sally, I haven’t forgotten our deal.” An all-paid vacation to Venice, Italy, for a week.
An offer she couldn’t refuse.
Sometimes, it was really fun to be so wealthy—to ‘magic’ people, every so often. Give them treats they could never afford themselves.

The two women left, and Elodie sat cross-legged on the couch, still eating popcorn.

“So?” I said.

She arched a brow. “So.”

“Aren’t you going to fill me in?”

“What is there to tell?” she said in a morose, fuck-you tone.

“If you don’t tell me, I’ll guess, and my imagination is probably wilder than reality.”

“I doubt that very much,” she answered enigmatically.

“How did you meet?”

“Maman and I were having lunch in Paris, and he was there. He came over to our table.”

“And then what?”

“He became obsessed. Started pursuing me relentlessly. Wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

“But he’s very handsome. And rich. Girls love men like him.”

“Like I really give a shit about money.”

“You’re a headstrong girl. You could have told him to fuck off.”

She gave Rex another handful of popcorn. “I did. But he wouldn’t listen. It made him want me more.”

“So you started sleeping with him?”

“I don’t want to discuss my sex life with
you,
you’re my uncle. It’s weird.” She kept her eyes on the TV.
The
Vampire Diaries
or something.

“He didn’t seem to have a problem with blaring it out in public. It was tacky and crude what he did, telling me he was fucking you like that. In public. For everyone to hear. Even if he said it in French.”

“He
is
tacky and crude. He can drink anyone under the table; he fights like a boxer.” And she muttered under her breath, “He’s insatiable.”

“So why did you ask him as your date to the premiere?”