Hooked Up: Book 2 Read online

  Dream on, Pearl.

  I had a great new contact at the UN who was willing to talk covertly—we even had dinner together with one of his covert contacts, supposedly in the arms industry—things were looking up career-wise. But the second I let my mind wander, I re-lived moments with Alexandre; the image of his body, the sexy things he had done to me, and a mixture of longing, lust and sadness surged through my body. I had a few crying-on-the-bathroom-floor moments, but each day got a little easier.

  He didn’t call or even leave a message. I was being strong and had to force myself to resist the temptation to reach out. I even went on a date with an old friend from college, who once had a crush on me. Yawn, yawn. We saw a movie and had dinner, and then I told him I had period pains in order to end the evening early. It was a half-truth. The only pain I had was his pain-in-the-butt-you’re-boring-me pain. Poor guy. I tried to disguise my feelings as well as I could. I smiled sweetly and told him I’d be so busy at work there was no way we could see each other for at least a month.

  Today was Friday. Not being at work, I knew it would be hard to keep Alexandre off my mind over the weekend. But I had an idea . . .

  WHEN I ARRIVED HOME, I went online. I had to erase him from my brain. Perhaps, I mused, it was a physical need that I’d awoken, and I could cure myself with a simple remedy.

  My search online was for “sex toys.” I had never in my life resorted to them, but hey, why not? Couples did it all the time. “A good way to get to know your own body,” everyone said.

  I had always thought using them was kind of like cheating. I had had a vague notion all this time—completely unfounded of course—that pleasure had to emanate from another person and anything else would be a sort of “fraud.” Ridiculous!

  I looked at the range before me, the variety of colors and shapes. One was made from stainless steel. Ouch. Although promised to heat up once inside, from your own body temperature. Others were neat things that looked almost like cell phones and others, regular dildo shapes.

  I read the reviews of one. “YES, YES, YES! A great vibrator. Def worth the extra bucks. As soft or powerful as you want it to be.” Hmm, sounded good . . . I read on . . . “Not had solo use with it as it is so great with my partner.” Partner. Good while it lasted with Alexandre, I thought. Now I was partner-LESS. A dildo was a poor second choice, though. All I wanted was him, not some plastic substitute. As Alexandre had said himself, “the biggest sex organ is your brain.” How much of a mental turn-on was a fake penis? I wanted to smell his skin on mine, taste his tongue.

  No, Pearl. Stop! Don’t torture yourself anymore.

  I put some music on and start dancing to Sex Machine by James Brown. It happened to come up on random play. What were the odds of that? Not the most distracting thing to listen to while I was trying to get my mind off Alexandre, but at least I got so into the song, letting myself loose, and forgetting for a while. I was dancing wildly . . . gyrating and grinding my hips.

  I heard my landline go. Anthony calling to check up on me? Or the doorman? Maybe the pearl necklace had arrived, although surely Alexandre would have already sent it by now? If it was the necklace, I decided, I should really send it back. Let him know, loud and clear, that I was not somebody who is after things. There was also a pounding at the back door to the kitchen, where the service elevator was. The trash. Did I forget to put it out? No, I did put the trash out. Why is the superintendent knocking at the back door? I went to answer. Looked through the spy hole.

  My heart nearly burst through my chest . . .

  It was HIM.

  It was Alexandre.

  Daisy’s speech rang in my ears: Play it cool.

  The million dollar question was . . . should I let him in?

  ALEXANDRE

  THE WEEK DRAGGED ON. I tried to concentrate on work, but everywhere I looked I saw signs of Pearl. I hadn’t returned her gifts, mostly because I couldn’t bear to let go of her memory. I didn’t wash the shirts I’d worn because I could still smell her on the fabric. She was everywhere—even on my bloody iPad—in one of my goddamn lists.

  Being a nerd, I write lists, something I have always done to make sure I’m on top of any situation. As I said, multi-tasking has never been my strong point by nature, so all thoughts, all ideas get written down. So being as busy as I was, with so many fingers in pies (and other places), I had to be on the ball.

  I read the bullet points I had written about Pearl:

  Problems to be solved concerning Pearl: needs to reach orgasm during penetrative sex. (My big challenge).

  Needs confidence boosted—age complex due to American youth worship culture.

  Need to get her pregnant ASAP due to clock factor—need to start family.

  The list just went to show how hard I’d fallen for her and how much I had invested myself in our relationship.

  I expected her to call and apologize, the way Indira had. Pearl was in the wrong and yet still, each day went by with no news. It was beginning to really irk me. How dare she fuck me over and then not even say she was sorry?

  Then I began to worry about her, the way you do about members of your family. Was she alright? Had she died in some freak car accident?

  Meanwhile, I had my ex Laura on my case, not to mention Indira.

  “Darling,” Laura purred into the phone, “please let me know about France. I want to book my holiday, but I also want you to be there. Like I told you, James won’t be coming this year. I miss you. A lot. Call me.”

  Next voicemail: Indira. “Alexandre, please forgive me. I was behaving like a banshee. I don’t know what got over me. Of course you’re seeing other women, it’s natural. We live thousands of miles apart from each other. I can completely understand. You were such a gentleman the other day, not wanting to take advantage of me. Please don’t hate me because I flipped out. Water under the bridge? Anyway, I’m coming to New York to promote my next film, and I’d love it if we could have dinner or something. Call me.”

  Next message: just tears and sniffling down the line. It must have been Elodie because I didn’t recognize the number. She’d changed it so many times in the last six months, I couldn’t keep count. Was there someone she was trying to avoid? I called the number back. No answer. I was tempted to set up a GPS tracking system on her phone. Something I didn’t feel good about—I hated spyware of any kind, but Elodie was eighteen years old, new in New York, with limited English, and so stunning that people stared at her when she walked by, despite her sneer, her black Goth makeup and her fuck-me-fuck-you-or-I’ll-stab-you-in-the-eye-heels.

  Women. They really were a handful.

  I called Elodie back.

  “Where are you, sweetheart?” I asked. I was sitting at my desk in my apartment, looking at a framed photo of Rex. I made a mental note of going to Paris to get him ASAP.

  Elodie spluttered as if a drink had gone down the wrong way. “How did you know it was me?”

  “Only about ten people have my number and I figured that if a number comes up I don’t recognize, it has to be you. Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. By the way, do you still have that bodyguard who works for you sometimes?”

  “Of course,” I said, my jaw ticking at her out-of-the-blue . . . very worrying question.

  “Can I borrow him for a while?”

  “Elodie, what’s up? Is someone following you?”

  There was a long pause. I could hear street noises, her clicking heels. Then she answered, “No. No, of course not. I’d just feel safer, you know. I don’t know this city so well.”

  “I’ll put him back on the payroll full-time, then,” I told her. “What about the new apartment? Will you be scared without a man in the house?” I had just bought her a two bedroom apartment in Greenwich Village. She was going to get a roommate to share it with her: an old friend from Paris. “Maybe you should carry on staying at my place?” I suggested.

  “No, it’s fine. I love my new flat. Can’t wait to move in. Listen I’ve got to
go. Speak later.” She ended the call, and I sat there wondering what was going on. I got up and started pacing the room. I’d try and find out without compromising her privacy too much, but if my niece felt she needed a bodyguard, I sure as hell wanted to find out why.

  But even though I was worried about Elodie my one-track mind was constantly honed in on Pearl. What was she doing? What was she thinking? Was she alright? Was she even still alive? Pride stopped me from phoning to find out. But I was obviously obsessed about her. I caught myself pacing the room, wringing my fingers through my hair.

  Then Sophie called and let out a can of worms.

  Sophie was in Paris. But even from long distance, I could feel her whiskers twitching, her claws sharpened.

  “The gems are in Amsterdam,” she started off by saying. “All good. They’re with the best cutters, the best jewelers. We’re going to make a mint. We’ll need to buy some more real estate with the cash . . . distribute. I’d like to buy a brownstone on the Upper East Side, you know, for when I visit New York.”

  “Good idea, we should launder a bit.”

  “Launder. I hate that word—it’s so crass. By the way, speaking of laundry, of your dirty laundry, we don’t need to worry about Pearl Robinson anymore; she doesn’t seem to be a threat. Looks like she’s got bigger fish to fry.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked, ignoring her dirty laundry jibe.

  “She’s turned her attention to that Russian billionaire, that arms dealer.”

  “What Russian arms dealer?”

  “You know, the handsome one, that young thirty-year-old Adonis-Casanova guy who’s always strutting about on red carpets with supermodels. What’s-his-face, you know, Mikhail Prokovich.”

  A stab of jealousy pierced my gut. Pearl was turning her attention elsewhere? “That blond guy? He’s an arms dealer? I thought he was in real estate. He’s an arms dealer?” I repeated, incredulous.

  “A clandestine one. I doubt Pearl knows whom she’s dealing with. He’s very black market. He mixes with war criminals, soldiers of fortune, crooked diplomats and small-time thugs who keep militaries and mercenaries loaded with arms. But he’s powerful. Very powerful. Pearl was seen having dinner with him. All smiles, apparently.”

  I hated him already. I felt my fists clench into tight knots. What was Pearl doing? She hated arms dealers, was talking about exposing them in her next documentary. And now she was hanging out with one?

  “What else do you know?” I pressed my sister, blood bubbling in my veins, jealousy rippling through every muscle in my body. This guy was sickeningly good-looking. Even as a man I could tell you that. Dashing, one of those square-jawed types that look like they’ve walked straight out of a cartoon strip. Blondish hair, searing blue eyes. Sophie was right; he was a red carpet kind of guy—liked to be seen. Cocky. With beautiful women hanging on his arm, and probably hanging onto his every word as well. Jets. A fleet of flashy cars, some of them enviably cool. Houses all over the world. Every woman’s fantasy.

  “Sophie, what else do you know?” I demanded again in a low growl.

  “That Pearl’s been out to dinner with him, that’s all. Him, and some important guy from the United Nations. She’s not just some sweetie-pie, naive American chick with big blue eyes and luscious lips, you know, Alexandre. She’s a smart little operator. A user. She knows people in high places. Knows what she’s doing. Obviously loves mixing business with pleasure. Anyway, at least she’s off our case now, onto the next fool who’ll fall for her innocent little act. Oh wait, before I go, how’s Elodie getting on?”

  “I think you’d better ask her that yourself,” I said, not wanting to betray Elodie’s confidence in any way. But my mind was now focused on Pearl, not Elodie. Sophie’s words rang cruel in my ear . . . “Pearl likes mixing business with pleasure.”

  The more I thought about it, the adrenaline surged through me. Fuck her! Flirting and smiling with that fuck Mikhail Prokovich? She was mine! I could hear my breathing getting more unsteady by the second. I felt hot and very bloody bothered. I loosened my tie; I’d been in a meeting earlier that day and was wearing a suit.

  The idea of her being anywhere near another man was making blood rush to my head. Especially one as powerful Mikhail Prokovich. I got up from my desk and counted to ten to calm myself. But then I did the reverse, I started counting down from ten, and by the time I hit zero, I was out the door and into the elevator. I had to fuck her.

  Before the Russian got his clammy hands on her.

  I just hoped it wasn’t already too late.

  RAPE

  ALEXANDRE

  BY THE TIME I reached Pearl’s apartment, my heart rate had doubled. Tripled. She hadn’t apologized. She’d been using me. Using me to further her career. And now she was onto the next guy (her next project) without even a blink of one of her big, baby blue eyes! Her whole “I haven’t had an orgasm forever” was bullshit, obviously. Her little ploy to draw sympathy, to get gullible men like me all worked up and horny. To bring out our macho side—be the one to make her come, be the one to fuck her properly. Clever girl. Clever, clever girl. She’d hooked me in. Now she was moving onto the next guy.

  She deserved a fucking Oscar.

  Perhaps she won’t even be home. Maybe she’s on that son-of-a-bitch arms dealer’s yacht by now, her lips clamped around a straw, sipping cocktails, or worse . . . her lips clamped around his fucking cock! The thought made my brain burn. But my dick was propelling me to her. Just thinking about her was getting me hard. I couldn’t bear the idea of that cocky-faced shit touching her ass—that sexy, curvy ass, or kissing her beautiful lips. Maybe I was jumping to conclusions, maybe I was being paranoid, but I didn’t want to let the distance between us encourage some gatecrashing jerk to push his way into her life.

  The doorman let me in, and as he was reaching for the landline to call her to announce me, I dashed through the lobby to the service elevator, thought twice, and legged it up the back stairs, instead. I couldn’t risk Pearl instructing him not to let me up, or halting the elevator between floors. I’d bang on her kitchen door until she answered—goddamn it, I had to have her. Had to fuck her. Remind her how good we felt together. Remind her that she didn’t want any other man bulldozing his way into her panties. The fact that I myself was acting like the biggest bulldozer of all escaped my one-track mind.

  By the time I reached her floor, I was sweating. My tailored suit didn’t help my frantic climb. I banged on her back door outside her kitchen. I stood by the trash bins, my heart pumping as adrenaline surged through me like a lion hunting its prey.

  Pearl answered the door. James Brown’s Sex Machine was blaring. Good. She probably hasn’t even heard the phone, which is still ringing—the doorman trying to announce me. She stood there, and I swear to God, my dick flexed hard within seconds. I was like an untamed animal. All decorum lost, all manners out the window.

  I heard myself actually panting. “That’ll be the doorman on the phone telling you that a rapist is on his way up to fuck you,” I blurted out, not even thinking how crass I sounded.

  She looked fucking beautiful, all poised in her business outfit: white shirt and navy blue pencil skirt, and high heels. She must have just gotten home from work. My eyes raked her up and down and I even rearranged my crotch—that obvious—I had a hard rod in my pants. She looked down at my groin and bit her bottom lip. Right, that’s it—she wants to get fucked, alright. My foot was wedged in the doorway so she couldn’t kick me out. I pushed the door open farther.

  “Aren’t you going to invite me in,” I said, moving forward. She didn’t have much choice.

  “I don’t know.” Oh yes you do know, you cock-teaser.

  “I have to fuck you, Pearl,” was my answer.

  I pushed my way inside and pressed her against the wall. Sex Machine pumping away was making me even hornier. I start kissing her, my erection pressed hard up against her, my hand fisting her hair so she couldn’t move and had no choice but to get devoured by
me. My tongue was licking her mouth, and she moaned quietly. I could see her nipples harden even though it was hot. No bra. I had to have those tits in my mouth. I pushed her arms up and pulled her shirt over her head, with ravenous intent. I nipped her hard buds between my teeth, one and then the other, my hand up her skirt, the other cupping her round ass. I slipped my finger inside her saturated pussy, and surprise, surprise, her body was begging me to do anything I wanted to it. And I intended to. You bloody bet.

  “You want to get fucked, Pearl? The way you fucked me over? The way you fuck men over to further your career?”

  “No,” she moaned, her eyelids fluttering in carnal stupor.

  “No, you don’t want to get fucked? I think you do. So. Horny. And. Wet. So ready for me to fuck you senseless, aren’t you?”

  I rammed my fingers up her, higher, and she gasped. Her skirt was in the way, so I unzipped it and ripped it down her thighs. The little harlot was wearing scarlet panties that screamed out, fuck-me. How fitting. I unbuttoned my fly opening, my cock throbbing to get inside her. I got down on my knees. I had to taste that hot pussy. Had to stick my tongue inside her. I took those moistened panties between my teeth and peeled them aside, my teeth gripping them with lustful ardor. I could smell her, smell her sweet, fruity odor. My tongue darted inside her wet cunt.

  “You want to fuck, Pearl? Because you’re so much better at fucking than you pretend. Fucking people over, especially.”

  I so nearly didn’t bother with sheathing myself with a condom. My instinct—like one of those soldiers using rape as a war weapon—was to impregnate her. Make her mine, even if it was against her will, and feel every juicy cell in her pussy without any barrier between us, but I relented, reminding myself how fucked-up that was, and rolled the condom reluctantly on my raging-hard erection. I didn’t even take off my jacket, let alone my pants.