Pearl (The Pearl Series)
on—they’d accepted my offer. So the conversation with Pearl swung around to cars. I felt like a jerk. I knew what women were like; feigning interest about bits of machinery when they really couldn’t give a damn. Pearl was no different. Still, she did a good job of pretending. She nodded and smiled and widened her pretty eyes. Meanwhile, I had one thing on my mind: to get her into the sack ASAP.
    But then she took me off guard. She started talking about re-runs of old sitcoms, classic novels, and old songs and I began to think we had something in common besides physical attraction. Then, when I mentioned my black Labrador, Rex, that was it. I began to mentally tuck my tackle back into my pants, so to speak, because she admitted that she was crazy for dogs, too. She loved the fact that I could take Rex to restaurants in Paris and a flash of our future ran before my eyes. I swear. I had a vision of us together eating something delicious, Rex at our side, and something told me that Pearl and I would make the grade. It does sound crazy, that. Call it a premonition—I think it was.
    She was telling me about her childhood Husky.
    “My dog was called Zelda,” she said, her liquid eyes flashing with happy memories.
    “Like Zelda Fitzgerald?” I asked. “Scott Fitzgerald’s wife?”
    She looked up at me, surprised. “Yeah, you know about her?”
    “Of course I do. She was a little bit crazy, wasn’t she? The Great Gatsby was partly inspired by her.”
    “Well, like Zelda Fitzgerald, our Zelda was a little out to lunch. I mean, literally. She loved chickens. Went on several murderous escapades.”
    “The way you say that with a little smile on your face makes me believe you didn’t have much sympathy for the innocent, victimized chickens,” I teased.
    “They were going to be slaughtered anyway, poor things.” She put her hand on her mouth as if she’d put her foot in it. “Sorry, Alexandre, are you a vegetarian?”
    I loved the way she said Alexandre with her cute American accent, trying to accentuate the re . “No, you?”
    “No red meat. Only organic chicken. I know…kind of ironic considering what Zelda did. I do have a conscience—I’m against intensive farming, you know, animals spending their lives in tiny cages, so small they can’t even turn around. Cows being forced to eat grain, not grass—being pumped full of antibiotics. People don’t like inviting me to dinner. I’m a tricky customer.”
    “Not for me, you’re not,” I found myself saying. “I’d be delighted if you came for dinner. I’ll cook you something wonderful.” I narrowed my eyes at her. Fuck she was sexy.
    Her eyes, in return, widened and her lips clamped around her straw, as she sipped her iced cappuccino, seductively. Jesus, I felt my cock harden watching her mouth. I shifted in my seat and leaned forward to hide my bulge. As I leaned down, I let my hand brush against her golden calf. Smooth, soft legs. Nice. This unexpected coffee date was getting too hot to handle so I tried to turn the conversation around to stop myself from mentally undressing her. She got there first, asking me why I chose to live in New York.
    “France is a great country,” I began. “Beautiful. Just beautiful. Fine wine, great cuisine, incredible landscape—we really do have a rich culture. But when it comes to opportunity, especially for small businesses, it’s not so easy there.”
    “You own a small company? What do you do?”
    Interesting. This woman has no idea who I am . Refreshing. She won’t be after my money—she doesn’t have an agenda. Good.
    “That’s why I was at that conference,” I explained.
    I expanded a bit, gave her the usual blab about ‘giving back,’ and how I liked to share a few tricks of the trade with others.
    “And you?” I asked, wondering what the hell this unlikely sexpot was doing at an I.T. conference. She so didn’t look the type. “What were you doing there?”
    She flushed a little, slid down into

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