Trainwreck 2 (Trainwreck #2) (40 page)

My wake-up call sounded at six forty-five the next morning. As in any hotel I stayed at, a subsequent knock at my door, signaling the arrival of my coffee, forced me out of bed. I was groggy, a victim of a restless toss and turn sleep and jetlag. After unlocking the door, a jovial mustached waiter set a tray with a pot of steaming coffee along with a pitcher of steamed milk on a small table. It was a welcome blessing.

After draining the strong café au lait, my mind re-activated. I wasn’t looking forward to the sad day ahead. A long, hot shower followed. Under the pounding water, I plotted what I was going to wear to Madame’s burial. I wanted to look elegant and dignified; I owed her that.

Rifling through my neatly packed garment bag, I came upon the perfect black dress—an almost knee-length Dior with a scooped neckline and three-quarter length sleeves. It was one of my favorites and was glad that I’d packed it. From my other suitcase, a piece of matching luggage, I pulled out my one-piece black lace merrywidow, designed with an underwire and adjustable garters, and the matching v-string panty. After donning the undergarments, I ferreted through the pocket of the suitcase for a pair of black silk seamed stockings. The ones I settled on were my lucky stockings—I took them everywhere I flew, believing their magical powers could protect me from danger, especially a fatal accident. They came from Paris. Madame Paulette had bestowed them upon me on my eighteenth birthday—the first of many pairs she would send me in the years afterward. As I carefully rolled them up my legs, I heard her deep raspy voice. “Love
eez
like a fine pair of silk stockings,
ma chérie.
One snag and it can all unravel.”

The image of Jaime Zander crept back into my mind. Grabbing my purse and an overcoat, I slumped out of the room, tears threatening to fall.

The cemetery where Madame Paulette was being buried was located on the outskirts of Paris. Tombstones with both crosses and Stars of David dotted the verdant pasture; many dated back to the nineteenth century. A kindly-looking rabbi, with a graying beard and skullcap, met me at the gravesite and introduced himself. Rabbi Rosenberg. As he took my gloved hands in his, my eyes darted to the tombstone of Henri Lévy. My French was good enough to understand the epitaph beneath the etched Jewish star: “Noble hero and devoted husband of Paulette Lévy.” Soon his beloved would be by his side again. A chill in the air shot through me.

“She was a special woman, beautiful both inside and out,” the rabbi told me. He spoke perfect English. “I knew her well.”

I was surprised the rabbi knew her and asked how. It turned out that Madame Paulette attended Shabbat services at his synagogue on Friday nights on her buying trips to Paris.

“She spoke highly about you. You were like a daughter to her.”

“Merci,”
I said in French, tears welling in my eyes. From the corner of one of them, I saw a dozen or so men transporting her casket toward us. My breath caught in my throat.

“A
minyan
from our congregation,” said the rabbi, knowing I wasn’t Jewish. “They will help us bury her in her final resting place.”

The men laid the casket on the grass beside the tombstone of Henri. It was made of pinewood and in the center was a carved Jewish star. It was pure understated elegance—just like her.

One of the men, who was carrying a shovel, began to dig into the earth. They took turns shoveling until a hole that was big and deep enough was made. Using a pulley system, they worked together to lower the casket into it. Then, as the rabbi prayed in Hebrew, each took a turn with the shovel, refilling the hole. I fought back tears as I watched the casket disappear from sight and the large hole fill in. Warm memories of our years together floated in my head along with our final day together. A member of the
minyan
offered me the shovel to cover her with the last mound of dirt. As I scooped up the soil and hurled it onto the grave, the dam holding back my tears burst. The rabbi’s melodic Hebrew saturated my mind and soul. I recognized the prayer—the mourner’s Kaddish. Madame would recite it once a year on the eve of Yom Kippur over the memorial candle that burnt for Henri through the night. The final words,
Oh say, Shalom
,
Amen,
echoed in my ears. Peace. Rivulets streamed down my face. Madame Paulette was gone…now, in her final resting place…reunited with the man she loved.

I squatted down and retrieved the bouquet of flowers I had brought along—long stemmed white roses—Madame’s favorite blooms. I gently laid several on her grave and the remainder against the tombstone of her husband.
Au revoir
,
Madame
. May you rest in peace and with your true love.

I returned to the hotel, drained and exhausted. It was mid-afternoon.

Before heading up to my room for a much needed nap, I made a stop at the bar. Perhaps, a drink would quell the sorrow that filled my soul. Unable to find an empty table, I settled in at the crowded bar. An international mix of beautiful people, on the make, surrounded me.

Usually just a wine drinker, I ordered something stronger from the young, twinkly-eyed bartender. A vodka martini with extra olives. The very drink I’d ordered with Jaime at the Gloria’s Secret after-party. The drink arrived quickly. The cold velvety liquid washed down my throat and was soothing. Just what I needed. The images of Madame Paulette and Jaime Zander faded in my head. I amused myself by observing the eclectic mix of movers and shakers.

Half way through my martini, I felt a warm breath on the nape of my neck. A familiar voice sent a chill spiraling down my spine.

“Why, Gloria. How uncanny! We meet again.”

I spun around, almost knocking over the remains of my drink. Victor!

He was wearing one of his custom-tailored three-piece slate gray suits. In his hand was a tumbler filled with his favorite drink. Bourbon. I knew because I recognized the smell, emanating from both the glass and his breath.

He leaned in close to me. “So, Gloria, what brings you to Paris?”

“Personal business.” He had no need to know. “What about you?”

“Business. Pure business. I’m meeting here with someone whose global organization could be a potential strategic partner. If the meeting is successful, I’ll invite him to LA to meet you.”

Dealmaker Victor was always looking for ways to expand Gloria’s Secret. While GS was not the only retailer in Victor’s vast empire, it was his most profitable. The more money Gloria’s Secret made, the more money Victor made.

He chugged his cocktail and ordered one more. “Can I get you another drink?” he asked, pressing his thigh against mine.

He was making my skin crawl. I edged away from him and shook my head. “I’m fine, thank you.” What I really wanted to say was: “Get lost, you prick.” I began thinking of a way to excuse myself.

He hovered next to me, nauseating me with his foul bourbon and tobacco-tainted breath. His steely eyes glared into mine. “So, Gloria, I understand from my daughter that you’re hiring Jaime Zander and his agency ZAP! to take over advertising.”

“Yes.” I nodded.

His gunmetal eyes darkened. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. I want you to reconsider.”

Still sober, I just couldn’t believe he was still mad at Jaime for outbidding him on Rihanna’s diamond-studded underwear.

“I believe his advertising campaign will bring us to new heights,” I retorted. This was the truth, regardless of how much Jaime’s deceit had hurt me. At the moment, I didn’t know whom I despised more—Vivien or her father.

His face darkened. “Let me tell you, Gloria. Nothing good will come from your relationship with that dilettante.”

As much as I loathed Jaime, he was no amateur when it came to his trade. He was pure brilliance. It was time to stand up for him…and myself.

“Victor, you can control our shareholders, but you can’t control my day-to-day decisions as CEO. Gloria’s Secret is
my
company, and
I
make those decisions.”

He smirked. “You’re very sexy when you’re defiant.” He leaned in close to me, his tight lips descending onto mine.

I jerked away.
The pig!
I forced myself to stay diplomatic. “Good night, Victor. And good luck with your meeting. I’ll keep you in the loop with regard to our new advertising campaign. I think you’ll like it.”

I slammed my martini down on the bar counter, leaving Victor with the tab, and stalked off to my hotel room. I so needed to get some rest.

Once at the door to my suite, I rummaged through my purse for my key card. Where had I put it? My designer bag was so monstrous it could be anywhere. I kept digging. My fatigue made me all the more frustrated.

“I want you, Gloria.”

The familiar drawl made me whirl around. Victor again! The glazed look in his eyes told me he was drunk, and in a breath, he was all over me, his hands groping and squeezing.

“Get off of me, Victor,” I pleaded.

“No, darling. It’s time you and I got to know each other better.”

His muscular body pressed me against the hard slab of my door, and then his mouth crushed mine before I could say another word. Exhausted, I didn’t have the strength to fend him off. The more I resisted, the harder he pressed. He wormed his repulsive tongue into my mouth, and ground his stiff arousal against my middle. The groping and squeezing intensified. I writhed and wanted to scream. Desperately. But his mouth and body held me captive. Painfully, I submitted to his advances. I squeezed my eyes closed, to shut out the ugly sight of him.

“Get your fucking hands off her,” growled another familiar voice.

In a nano-second, Victor was sprawled over a bouquet of red roses on the carpeted floor. My eyes found my hero. Jaime Zander! He’d come to my rescue. My rapid heartbeat didn’t know whether to slow down or speed up. My emotions were in turmoil.

Victor crawled to his knees. He shot Jaime a glaring look, his eyes filled with cold fury. “Be careful, Zander. Don’t fuck with
me
. You were always a problem child. And you still are.”

Victor’s words rippled through me. He had known Jaime since he was a boy?

Jaime didn’t flinch as the older man collected himself and stood up. He plucked out a thorn from his expensive suit jacket.

“Get the hell out of here, Victor.” Jaime’s voice was at once commanding and threatening.

“I’ll be watching your every move,” snarled Victor. “And yours too, Gloria.” Red with rage, he stomped on the exquisite flowers, crushing the delicate buds. He then staggered down the hall to the elevators and disappeared.

I stared blankly at the tattered roses. Once beautiful, they were now in ruin. Their fragility touched something deep inside me, and tears pricked my eyes. I stood there silently, quivering against the door to my suite. A whirling dervish of emotions and questions assaulted me as my eyes met Jaime’s intense gaze.

“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice soft.

I nodded, words failing me in my distraught state.

He placed his strong, beautiful hands on my shoulders. I should have been running away from this man, but instead I craved to sink into him. His tender touch made the anger, pain, and confusion of the last twenty-four hours fade.

“I’m sorry about the flowers,” I finally managed.

“Don’t be. I’ll buy you three dozen even more beautiful roses.”

His words made my heart flutter. “What are you doing here?”

He fisted my braid and traced my face with the wispy ends. His denim blue eyes never left mine. “I owe you an explanation. What you saw with Vivien is not what you think.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, anger creeping back into my voice. My eyes hadn’t lied. Fighting back tears, I turned my head away from him.

He cupped my jaw in his hands and gently turned my head to face him. His eyes bore into mine, and in a heartbeat, his lips consumed mine in a deep, passionate kiss I couldn’t resist. I so wanted and needed it. Heat pooled in my belly before he pulled away.

“Come on, angel. Let’s get the hell out of this place. We need to talk.”

I did something I needed to do all day. Against his chest, I sobbed.