Billionaire Bad Boys of Romance 2(45)

“Home sweet home,” sighed Kevin, who loved sunny Los Angeles as much as I did. It was almost midnight on the West Coast. I gazed out the window at the myriad of twinkling lights below and smiled. Neither of us had known when we’d fled to the City of Angels how much we would fall in love with the sun-kissed weather, the Pacific Ocean, the Spanish architecture, and the colorful, multi-ethnic neighborhoods.

As the plane swooped down, my fear of flying once again took hold of me. My stomach fluttered and my chest tightened. Gripping my hand, Kevin comforted me. “Hold on, Glorious. We’re almost there.”

I breathed a deep sigh of relief as the plane touched down on the tarmac. Home! We were safely home. I immediately turned my cell phone back on.

There were a dozen phone calls waiting for me from a private number. When I saw the equal number of texts, I knew who they were from. Jaime.

I read the first text.

Call me as soon as u land.

And then the second

I can explain.

I didn’t need to read the rest. Nor did I have to play his messages. The last thing I wanted was to hear his voice. My body tensed. Pain propelled my rapid heartbeat.

As we pulled into the terminal, the phone rang again. Again a private number. I ignored it. The phone rang again.

“It’s him.” I clenched my teeth and looked at Kevin beseechingly. “Kev, will you answer it?”

Kevin clutched the phone and put it to his diamond-studded ear. A somber expression washed over his face. “Hold on, please.” His long-lashed eyes took in mine. “Glorious, you need to take this call.” He handed me the phone.

The phone shook in my trembling hand. I could feel my blood drain from me as I listened to a familiar voice on the other side.

It was Nurse Perez from the Cadbury House for Assisted Living. Madame Paulette was dead. She had died peacefully in her sleep.

My body froze over. I could only feel the scorching tears that poured down my face.

“It’s Madame Paulette,” I spluttered.

I needed to say no more. Kevin took me into his arms and let me cry on his shoulder. He knew what Madame had meant to me.

“Oh, Glorious, I’m so, so sorry,” he soothed as I heaved against him.



The plane refueled. Without ever leaving the cabin, we did an about face, heading back to New York. Collecting myself, I told Kevin about Madame Paulette’s wish to be buried next to her late husband in Paris.

“Glorious, I’ll arrange for her body to be properly flown to Paris. I’m pretty sure Sandrine, our Paris store manager, is Jewish. I’ll contact her to see if she can help with the funeral arrangements.”

Thank goodness for my beloved Kevin. Indeed, Sandrine, a good friend, was Jewish. My mind was in a thick fog. What would I do without Kev?

“Do you want me to come to Paris with you?” he asked.#p#分页标题#e#

A ghost of a smile flickered on my face; Kevin was always there for me. But this time, I needed to be alone. As soon as he debarked the plane in New York, I was flying solo to Paris.





Chapter 12

I arrived in Paris on Saturday a little after eight p.m. I was exhausted, totally jetlagged. Though we fortunately didn’t encounter any turbulence during the seven-hour flight from New York, the turbulent memories of the last twenty-four hours rocked my body and mind, making sleep impossible.

As soon as we touched down at Le Bourget airport, I got a text from Kevin. Madame Paulette’s body was being flown to Paris, and Sandrine had managed to set up a Jewish burial service the next day, Sunday, at the cemetery where her husband Henri was buried. The driver Kevin had arranged for met me on the tarmac and whisked me off in his limo to The Intercontinental Hotel where I was staying. Like Madame Paulette, I loved Paris. As the Eiffel Tower came into view, a pang of sadness stabbed at my heart. This time, my love affair with the City of Light might end.

Bleary eyed, I checked into the hotel with just a couple of bags as I planned to head back to Los Angeles on Monday after Madame Paulette’s funeral.

Having stayed at The Intercontinental numerous times, I was treated with the utmost respect, the staff working quickly to get me into my suite. All I wanted to do was snuggle under fluffy covers and sleep. I couldn’t even see straight. As I followed the valet through the bustling opulent lobby to the elevator, a stocky man wearing a long black trench coat and wide brimmed hat that hid his face brushed by me, almost knocking me over.

“Izvinite,” he muttered gruffly without slowing down.

It was Russian for “excuse me.” A chill ran through me at the thought of Boris Borofsky. I pivoted my head, but the rude man, whose back was now to me, was almost at the front entrance. I took a calming breath. I was tired. It couldn’t be him. My mind was just playing tricks on me.