Billionaire Bad Boys of Romance Boxed Set (10 Book Bundle) (67 page)

Chapter 6

The drive along the scenic Merritt Parkway to Connecticut was relaxing. I alternated between catching up on e-mails and gazing out the window. A fine layer of snow dusted the lawns of residences we passed by. Snow was something I rarely saw living in Los Angeles.

I would be lying if I said I didn’t think about Jaime Zander. I couldn’t get him out of my head. He was having an affect on me like no other man had before. I’d never met a man who could reduce me to a nervous wreck with the just wink of an eye. Make me feel so totally out of control. It scared me. Big-decision-maker-me didn’t know how to handle it. Why the hell didn’t I just tell him to fuck off? And forget about the pitch for my business? Walk away from him while I had the chance? The truth: He had gotten under my skin. I was undeniably drawn to him—both to his sexy good looks and his challenging personality. He was as tempting as he was toxic. Even now, just thinking about him, I was quivering. I sat back against the soft leather seat, glad to be away from him. 

To get my mind off him, I went back to checking my e-mails. I opened Kevin’s first; there were several. The first one brought a big smile to my face.

Happy Valentine’s Day, Glorious
!
Xoxo~Kev

I e-mailed him right back.

MWAH! Same to you!

Kevin had been my one and only Valentine forever. Neither of us had ever had  much luck in the love department. But we had each other. Hopefully, tonight we could celebrate together although we hadn’t made any firm plans. Our traditional pity party for two could be on the agenda.

Waiting for his reply, I read the rest of his e-mails. All great news. The televised broadcast of the Gloria’s Secret Fashion Show had rocked in the ratings, and sales were at record levels at our stores worldwide. Yes, women were flocking to Gloria’s Secret last minute to buy seductive lingerie and sleepwear for the romantic Valentine’s night ahead. And they were standing in line with men, who were clutching replacement pieces for those that might get torn off after a candlelit dinner. I found it bitterly ironic that I sold love and sex but was never on the receiving end. Always on this day, my elation over sales was met with a pang of sadness. My mind jumped again to Jaime Zander. I bet he had a hot date tonight; women were all over him; I saw it with my own eyes. With a heavy heart, I eagerly awaited an e-mail from Kevin to cheer me up. 

*
* * *

An hour and a half into the drive, we exited the parkway and followed a rural, wooded road to the retirement home where Madame Paulette was residing. A magnificent gated estate soon came into view. Once the Normandy-styled mansion of one of America’s great oil barons, it was now the Cadbury House for Assisted Living. What I’d read about it had put my mind at ease. The pedigreed staff was attentive, the surroundings luxurious, and the cuisine delicious—prepared by a French chef. I was thrilled that I was able to afford to place my beloved Paulette here for her final years. Even though I had made her a wealthy woman with Gloria’s Secret stock, there was no way I could let her pay for her care. I owed her everything.

The call I had received from the head caretaker just before I’d left for New York had been unsettling. In fact, it had brought tears to my eyes. Madame Paulette’s health was failing rapidly, and it was unlikely she’d make it to the summer. Even if I didn’t have business in New York, I would have hopped the corporate jet and come East to visit her. She meant the world to me. She was my mentor, my role model, and the mother I never had. Upon learning about her numbered days, I vowed I would confess the secret I had harbored my entire adult life. She needed to know. I needed to tell.

Standing in the elegantly appointed entrance with her bag of goodies in hand, I anxiously awaited for someone to show me to her room. Nurse Perez, a jovial, curly-haired buxom woman, appeared in no time and escorted me up a magnificent winding marble staircase to the second floor. “We all love Paulette,” she said as I trailed close behind her. What was there not to love? She was a magnificent human being who would be sorely missed.

Madame’s suite was located at the end of the corridor. Her door was wide open. She gasped when she saw me. I hadn’t told her I was coming. It was a surprise.

“
Ma chérie
!” she exclaimed. Her voice was deeper and raspier than ever. Over the course of her long life, she had smoked way too many French cigarettes and drunk way too many glasses of wine.

Clad in an elegant lace-trimmed white nightgown, she was propped up in a luxurious down-covered bed against a half a dozen plump pillows. Despite her age—she must have been close to ninety though she’d never admit to it—she was as beautiful to me as ever. Her strong-featured face seemed to be wrinkle-resistant, and her hair, now a shimmering silver, was tied back as usual in a regal chignon. Even in her old age, she epitomized grace and style.

Fighting back tears, I sprinted over to her. We exchanged lots of cheek-to-cheek kisses.

“It
eez
so good to see you,” she said as I plunked down in armchair next to her bed.

“I’m in New York on a business trip.” There was no way I was going to divulge the real reason behind my visit. “I’ve brought you all your favorite magazines.”

I handed her the bag full of fashion magazines. Her face lit up as she removed the contents, one by one.
“Mes favorites!”
She examined the cover of a
Vogue
featuring Jennifer Lopez. “But why do
les américains
always put those Hollywood
célébrités
on the cover?”

She made me laugh when I wanted to cry. Even our Gloria’s Secret catalogue now featured celebrities like J-Lo on the cover. The bottom line: celebrities moved merchandise.

As she flipped through some of the magazines, we spent time chitchatting, catching up. She complained about the food—way too
nouveau
for her taste. And why couldn’t she have more than one glass of wine?  I, in turn, told her about how well Gloria’s Secret was doing.

“Beezness shmeezness,” she muttered. “Are you in love,
ma chérie?”

I flushed. Jaime Zander’s gorgeous face unexpectedly flashed into my head. I tried my damnedest to make it go away. No luck.

“No,” I replied.

Madame Paulette studied my face with her intense cappuccino eyes.
“Ma chérie,
you cannot fool me. Your glow
geeves
it away.” Signaling with her index finger for me to move in closer to her, she said, “You must tell me everything about
zee
new boyfriend.”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” I protested as I slid my chair up to her bed railing.

“What
eez
his name?”

“Jaime.”

“How do you spell that?”

“J-A-I-M-E.”

“Ah, like
‘J’aime.’
In French, that means, ‘I love.’”

Of course. I suddenly remembered Madame Paulette telling me “
Je t’aime
beaucoup.” I love you very much
…when I thought love had abandoned  me.

“So,
ma chérie,
are you in love with him?”

In love?
I blushed. “I just met him.”

“AH!
Zee
best! Love at first sight.”

I still couldn’t get Jaime Zander’s beautiful face out my head. My heart pattered.  No, it was not possible.

A melancholic smile flickered on Madame Paulette’s face. “Always remember,
ma chérie,
it
eez
better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.”

I wondered—had Madame Paulette ever been in love? While she always referred to herself as Madame, she had never mentioned a spouse, and I’d never been comfortable asking about her love life or her past. I’d always had a hunch, however, that she had once been married and had tragically lost the great love of her life. Once a year, on the eve of the Jewish holiday, Yom Kippur, the Day of Remembrance, she lit a candle that burned for twenty-four hours. I had asked her about the significance of the candle, and she had told me it was to commemorate someone special. While she always had dashing suitors who brought her flowers or French bonbons, she dismissed them all with a roll of her eyes. Whoever she had once loved couldn’t be replaced.

A cheery Nurse Perez entered the room, carrying a tray. “Your lunch, Madame.”

“Merci,”
growled Madame Paulette.

Smiling, Nurse Perez  placed the bed tray over her lap, setting out the cutlery and linens. “Bon appétit,” she said before parting.

“Bon appétit,” Madame Paulette mock-mimicked. She was as feisty and as brutally honest as ever. “This
eez
French TV dinner,” she grumbled, reluctantly digging a fork into the mishmash of food.
“Gar-bahge!”

Stifling a laugh, I reached into my large designer purse. “I’ve brought you something else.” I handed her a medium-sized, gold-foiled box that was sealed with a wide red ribbon. She opened it with her still long and elegant fingers. The fingers that had adjusted thousands upon thousands of bra straps to bring out the best in women.

Her face lit up. “Ah! Bonbons.
Mes favorites!”

I pecked her cheek. “Happy Valentine’s Day!”

“Ah,
zee
day of love. So silly! Every day should be a day of love.”

A bittersweet smile tickled my lips. I was going to miss Madame’s words of wisdom.

She popped one of the rich chocolate treats into her mouth and savored it. “
Merci beaucoup, ma chérie
. You must have one.”

I helped myself to one of the chocolates and let it melt in my mouth. It was pure deliciousness. After swallowing the last morsel, the sweet taste of the dark chocolate dissolved into the bitter taste of dark memories. It was time.

“Madame,” I said hesitantly. “I must tell you something.”

“What
eez
it,
ma chérie?
There
eez
sadness in your eyes.”

My mind flashed back fifteen years. Kevin and I were both teenagers —sixteen-year-olds who had run away from our small rural upstate New York town. He to escape the brutal beatings of his father, a macho local sheriff, who had no tolerance for his son’s homosexuality, and I to escape the wrath I endured as the daughter of the neighborhood crack whore. “Who’s your daddy?” the kids at school would taunt when I was  a skinny pig-tailed youngster. For all I knew, it could be any one of their fathers. My narcissistic mother, never there for me (I was an unwanted accident discovered too late to be aborted), slept with them all to indulge her sick addictions. Then, at fifteen, late-bloomer me sprouted five inches, and my flat-as-a-board breasts morphed into spheres. Boys would grab at me, try to pull my pants down, and call me names like slut, whore, and skank. They equated me with my mother, who I was not.

Kevin was always there to protect me. He’d learned Tai Kwan Do to protect himself from his own share of bullies and could send one of my molesters to his knees with a roundhouse kick. But this was not the life we wanted, so we decided  to run away together. To find a new life in a big city like New York where we could fit in or disappear.

Kevin stole a gun from his father along with a few hundred dollars, which he kept locked in a safe. The gun and the money were all we had to start off on our new life together. We managed to hitch our way to New York City where we ended up in Brooklyn in the heart of  Brighton Beach. Kevin charmed his way into securing a small one-bedroom rental apartment and used the money to buy some flea-market furnishings. We both needed to find work fast. Kevin, who had a flair for words, found a position teaching English to the children of neighborhood Russian immigrants, and I landed a sales job at a local lingerie store, Madame Paulette’s.

I’d been combing the busy streets for work for hours when I came upon the big “Sales Help Wanted” sign in the storefront window. I’ll never forget walking into her shop. With Edith Piaf’s “La Vie en Rose” playing in the background, I took in all the luxurious silk and lace lingerie that Madame Paulette imported from Paris. Tables of  delicate, perfectly folded brassieres, panties, and garters mingled with carefully organized racks of beautiful slips, negligees, and robes. There was also a carousel filled with package after package of  fine silk stockings. Standing erect behind the cash register, the petite but chic Madame Paulette was dressed in her signature gray A-line skirt and perfectly pressed white blouse and drinking a glass of red wine. I introduced myself and told her I was interested in the sales position. She gave me the once-over and nodded approvingly. In her deep raspy voice, she said, “
Ma chérie,
zee
shape of a women’s breasts lies in
zee
straps. Let me see if you know how to adjust one.”

Leaving her wine behind, she led me to a small dressing room in the rear of the store where a well-heeled buxom woman was trying on numerous bras. Madame Paulette beheld the half-naked woman in her ill-fitting lacy bra and shook her head. “Ah,
non,
non, non
. It
eez
all wrong for you.” Sorting through the pile of bras strewn on a petite gold-leafed chair, she found another and handed it to her. “Please put on
theese
one, and
mademoiselle
will adjust it.” With a nod of her chin, she looked my way.