Gloria's Secret (8 page)

“Do you know,
ma chérie,
the Russian came to my store looking for you?”

My tear-soaked eyes widened. “He did?”

“Oui
. I knew there was something terribly wrong because you did not come to work or call in for several days.
En plus,
he was missing teeth, and there was a thick bandage on each cheek.”

Kevin’s bullet! It must have gone through one cheek and out the other. I faintly remembered hearing Boris curse as I lost consciousness in Kevin’s arms.

Madame continued. “He was very angry but could barely move his mouth. He wanted to know your name. I made up a different name and told him that you no longer worked for me. Since I paid you in cash, there was no way for him to find out your real identity.”

I was speechless. Unbeknownst to me all these years, Madame Paulette had helped save my life.

“I immediately called your apartment. That handsome young gentleman friend of yours luckily answered
zee
phone. I told him that I believed your life was in terrible danger and that you should get as far away from Brooklyn as possible. I offered him money, but he told me there was no need.”

The hazy memory of a panicked Kevin telling me that Boris was after me flitted into my head. I was weak, still in bed, barely recovered from my gunshot wound. Kevin threw together a duffel bag full of basics, and two hours later, he was pushing me in a wheelchair through Kennedy Airport with the sack of money on my lap. I vaguely remembered him telling the suspicious security guard that the cash was for a much needed surgical procedure. Glib Kevin could talk his way through anything. Soon after, we were on a plane to Los Angeles on our way to safety.

A harsh cough from Madame Paulette brought me back to the moment. My heart was melting. She was both my mentor and savior. Blinking back tears, I wrapped my arms around her frail body and hugged her. “Madame, how can I ever thank you enough?”

“You must stop crying,
ma chérie.”
Her expression grew wistful. “We’ve all done terrible things we’ve regretted to survive.”

My sobbing came to a halt. “What do you mean?”

“When I was a young woman, I slept with a Nazi officer to save my family.”

I gasped. Had she lived with this horrible secret her whole life?

“Had I not, we would have all been sent to a concentration camp.”

I was speechless.

“Alors, ma chérie,
you must forgive yourself. You have redeemed yourself and done many noble things with what came of it
.
I am proud of you.”

I hugged her again. It was probably the last time we’d embrace.

She sighed against me. “I still wish you could have bought my
beezness.”

Boris Borofsky had purchased it, but sadly, his incompetent wife ran it into the ground. It was now a Starbucks. The fate of Madame Paulette’s boutique tugged at my heartstrings. If only things had worked out…but “what ifs” didn’t matter anymore. I gently squeezed her hand.

Another caregiver stepped into the room. This time a handsome silver-haired doctor. “I’m afraid, Ms. Long, that Madame must take her nap now.”

“Bah! Sleep
eez
for
zee
dead!” grumbled Madame Paulette after he left.

Her words at once amused and saddened me. The reality that she was going to die soon hit me hard. I held back more tears.

I gave her a final double-cheeked hug, and then we just held each other. Her frail bones warmed mine. When we finally broke away from each other, she wearily said, “
Ma chérie,
there
eez
something else I want to tell you.” She paused while her eyes grew watery. “I had a husband. His name was Henri Lévy. He died fighting for the Résistance. I want to be buried next to him.” She ripped out a sheet of paper from the writing pad on her night table and scribbled something on it. “This
eez
where he
eez
,” she said handing it to me. I folded up the sheet and placed it in my bag.

“
Oui,
Madame. I will take care of it.” A fresh round of tears was verging.

She smiled contently and closed her eyes. Softly, she repeated what she’d said earlier. “Remember,
ma chérie
, that it
eez
better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.”

I tiptoed out of the room with a less guilty conscience and the newfound knowledge that Madame Paulette had indeed known true love.

Chapter 7

The ride back to the city was uneventful. We were in counter-traffic and made excellent time. I thought about what Madame Paulette had told me…and Jaime Zander. I wondered if I would bump into him at the hotel or have to wait until tomorrow’s pitch at his office. I pined for the former.

We got back to the hotel by four p.m. I headed straight to my room, caught up on some e-mails, took a short nap, and showered. As I towel dried myself, the room phone rang. My heart galloped. Could it be Jaime? Wrapping the towel around me, I sprinted to the phone. With a shaky hand, I picked up the receiver.

“Glorious.”

It was Kevin.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch. I’ve been crazed all day with post-show interviews. I have to have dinner with some of the models and a network executive. Do you want to come along?”

After such an emotional afternoon, the last thing I wanted to do was have dinner at some pretentious restaurant with a bunch of bubblehead models and some fawning network guy.

“If it’s okay, I’m going to pass, Kev. I’m beat.” At some point, I needed to tell him about my encounter with Madame Paulette, but this wasn’t the time.

“It’s Valentine’s Day. Are you sure you’re going to be okay?”

Kevin knew how downtrodden I got on this holiday. “Yeah. I’m going to order room service and curl up with some book boyfriend.”

Kevin mock-sniffed. “But I’m your one and only Valentine.”

I laughed. “Don’t worry. You are. Have fun tonight!”

“Mwah! Happy Valentine’s Day, Glorious. I love you.”

“Love you back.”

As I hung up the phone, a pang of sadness stabbed me. Book boyfriends were as close as I’d ever gotten to the real thing.

Though it was now only 5:30, I was ravenous. Other than the chocolate, I hadn’t eaten a thing all day. My body was crying out for food. Maybe a good steak, a baked potato, and an iced tea. Definitely no alcohol after last night’s binge, the effects of which still lingered a little.

As I was about to reach for the phone, it rang again. I picked it up on the second ring.

“Have you had dinner yet?”

Jaime! I sucked in a gulp of air. “Don’t you have a hot Valentine’s date?”

“No. I don’t do love.”

“Neither do I.”

“Then, come eat with me.”

Silence.

“My suite is three doors down to the right.”

Silence.

“We can talk business.”

Silence.

“Just get your lovely ass over here.”

* * * *

Jaime’s corner suite was triple the size of mine—a mini palace in the sky. Floor-to-ceiling windows wrapped around it and overlooked the sparkling city. The views were breathtaking.

The lights were dimmed, and scattered candles scented the air. He ushered me to a black leather couch and strode over to a built-in veneer cabinet in the corner. Putting on some soft jazz, he said, “Room service should be here any minute. I hope you don’t mind that I’ve already ordered for both of us.”

“Perfectly fine.” I couldn’t take my eyes off him. Casually dressed in charcoal sweats that hung low on his hips and a soft white tee—and barefoot— he looked freshly showered and sexy as hell. How could he always look this way? Having slipped back into the gray ensemble that I’d worn earlier in the day to keep things businesslike, I felt overdressed and uptight.

I surveyed his suite. While mine was decorated with mid-century reproductions, I got the sense that the furnishings in his were authentic and included pieces from Bauhaus, Charles Eames, and others. He had moreover personalized the spacious interior with a bold geometric patterned rug and colorful pillows that picked up the hues of the many intriguing abstract paintings scattered on the walls. They were similar in style to the ones in his office and all signed PAZ.

He crossed the room with his long-legged confident gait and sunk into a creamy leather armchair opposite me. My eyes roamed down his face and landed on his crotch. Holy shit! There was a tent between his thighs!

“Do you live here full time?” I asked, fumbling for conversation.

“Yeah.”

Okay, so it wasn’t a fuck pad, but it was still an odd living arrangement. Was it because he could fuck transient women and never have to see them again? I mentally slapped myself and asked, “Why do you live in a hotel?”

“It’s convenient. I work long hours and travel a lot, so having all these amenities makes things easier.”

I could understand that because I lived in a full maintenance high-rise building in Los Angeles that catered to my every whim—except room service.

He paused. “And because I own it.”

My eyes popped. He owned this hotel?

Before I could inquire further, there was a loud knock at the door. Jaime jumped up to open it. A handsome, college-aged waiter wheeled in a white linen-covered cart with two silver dome-covered platters on warmers. I was surprised there was also a chilled bottle of Cristal in a bucket of ice—especially after my embarrassing episode last night.

“Mr. Zander, would you like me to set up a table here or would you prefer to eat in the dining room?” asked the eager-to-please waiter.

“Right here is fine,” replied Jaime, pointing to the area between his chair and the couch.

The waiter magically transformed the cart into a small dining table, complete with linens, utensils, and a votive candle.

“I’ll take it from here,” said Jaime, slipping the waiter a twenty-dollar bill. The thankful young man scurried out of the suite.

I watched as Jaime expertly uncorked the champagne and poured the bubbly into a pair of flutes.

“Just a little for me,” I said hastily as he filled my glass.
Careful, Gloria
.
Control yourself.
The last thing I wanted was a repeat of last night.

With an amused look, he respected my wishes and filled my flute only halfway. “To a fine meal and fine company.” He clinked his glass against mine, brushing his fingers along my flesh. I nervously took a sip of the champagne. The bubbly did little to calm the butterflies swarming my stomach.

His eyes stayed on me as he drank his champagne. “I hope you like filet mignon. I asked for it rare—like you.”

The breathy way he said “rare” led me to take another, this time, bigger gulp of my champagne. The truth was, I did like my steaks that way.

He lifted the silver dome. A plate with a small, succulent steak, buttered peas, and potatoes au gratin assaulted my senses. It all looked and smelled divine.

He slid back into his chair and scooted it up to the table. His clean, fresh scent mixed with the mouthwatering aroma of the food.

“Eat!” he ordered.

“What about you?” I asked after placing my napkin on my lap.

“My dish has to simmer. Besides, I want to watch you eat. I’ll enjoy it.”

Anxiously, I cut into the tender steak and put a forkful of pink meat to my mouth.

His eyes never left me. “Ah, you cut your meat and eat the European way,” he mused. “I find that very sexy.”

I choked. Madame Paulette had taught me this way of eating. It was one of her many life lessons. “Eating like a European will give you class and mystery,” she had told me.

“Swallow!” he ordered.

Nervously, as he watched, I gulped down the first morsel of the meat. Getting it past the big lump in my throat wasn’t easy.

I continued to eat my dinner under his intense, watchful gaze. As delicious as the meal was, I was losing my appetite with each bite. In fact, my gut was cramping, and a tingling between my legs was distracting me. Why did he affect me this way?

“Aren’t you going to eat?” I asked.

A saucy smile curled on his lips. “I’m getting rather hungry and think my meal might be nicely heated up now.” Slowly, he lifted the silver dome covering his entrée.

My eyes practically popped out of their sockets. Artfully displayed on the platter were Rihanna’s diamond-studded brassiere and thong.

“Gloria, are you done with your dinner?”

Speechless, I just nodded. I couldn’t eat a bite more even if I tried.

“Good. Then stand up.”

As if under a hypnotic spell, I did as he asked.

He rose to his feet and came around the dining cart. In one swift, smooth move, he swept down the back zipper of my dress, swooped it over my head, and tossed it to the floor.

Quivering, I stood semi-naked in front of him, clad only in my lacy gray lingerie and silk stockings. And my heels.

His lustful eyes roved up and down my body. I suddenly became very conscious of the scar above my heart that peeked out from my bra, but to my relief, he ignored it.

“I like the way you match your undergarments to what you’re wearing.”

Madame Paulette had ingrained that in me. In a state of semi-shock, I mumbled a throwaway thanks.

He continued to study me. “You have such a sexy body. Custom-made for your lingerie line. But it’s such a shame you don’t enjoy what you sell. Let me show you how.”

My body, indeed curvaceous, was a trembling mess. Words stayed trapped in my throat while I tried to steady myself on my feet.

“Relax, Gloria. Trust me.” He shoved the dining cart out of the way. There was nothing standing between the two of us except a storm of electricity.

He squatted halfway to the floor and clutched my thighs with his warm, manly hands. With his, he snapped opened each garter. I stood motionless as he slid my silk stockings down my long legs. His hands brushed against my skin, sending goose bumps all over me. I anchored my palms on his broad shoulders as he removed my shoes and stockings. The garter and my skimpy lace bikinis were the next to hit the floor. He slipped the shoes back on my feet and then stood up and removed my bra. My scar in full view, my body didn’t move a muscle. A contemplative smile spread across his face as he gazed at me.