Paradise: The Masters of The Order Novel Two
Read Paradise: The Masters of The Order Novel Two Online
Authors: Jillian Verne
JILLIAN VERNE
Copyright 2015 Jillian Verne
ISBN 9781311655103
Other Titles by Jillian Verne:
Masterpiece
(Masters of The Order #1)
Godsend
(Masters of The Order #3) (coming soon)
The hopeful embrace destiny; the hopeless run from it.
Doms are not princes and Jacques Meszaros certainly isn’t. Or is he? A business tycoon, philanthropist and sexual Dominant, Jacques makes the rules, but doesn’t always abide them. On a whim, he offers Isabella Rey a soiree in paradise. What he finds when they arrive is a paradise uniquely his own: a destiny foretold long ago in the words of a gypsy.
Two women live inside Isabella. Her angel goes to church every Sunday, helps the sick and is fiercely loyal to family. Her devil is relegated to living in the shadows. Isabella is not looking for love, but a life-threatening twist of fate spurs her to pursue a fantasy. She allows her devil a moment in the sun.
Jacques wants forever. Forever is the one thing Isabella believes she cannot give, but paradise, once tasted, is not easily foregone.
Angel or devil? Dom or prince? Destiny awaits…Will theirs be a paradise lost or found?
To my husband--
Here's to another day in the gravel pit.
Thank you for keeping my eyes fixed on the sky.
To my daughters--
You are and always will be my inspiration.
Contents
Chapter 3 - Good Morning, Gorgeous
Chapter 7 - You Ain’t Never Met A Man Like Me
Chapter 8 - You Ain’t Never Met A Woman Like Me
Chapter 9 - An Indecent Proposal
Chapter 10 - Unexpected Things
Chapter 12 - No Place for Dreams
Chapter 16 - One Cookie at a Time
Chapter 18 - Bulgari, Barcelona and Brothers
Chapter 19 - A Decent Proposal
Chapter 20 - My Angel, My Devil, Myself
Chapter 23 - Trouble in Paradise
Chapter 24 - An Unlikely Prince
Glossary of Foreign Terms and Phrases
Copyright
/Legal
Welcome back to The Order
,
an elite and secret society of powerful brothers bound by social status and sexual tastes. We band together with a blood oath:
For our integrity and common benefit, from this day onward, we are brothers, honor bound by the precepts and traditions of The Order and loyal to one another until death. I pledge my fealty to you, brother mine, as I would to my own blood so that you shall do the same for me. Wrongs done to you shall be mine to avenge. Should I betray my pledge, let the justice of The Order reign over me. With a faithful and devoted heart, my constancy is sworn.
Come.
Play dark games with us.
1
One of Those Days
One word changes everything.
Isabella scurried down the endless hallway, numb, her white clogs squeaking on the shiny linoleum.
Don’t panic. Just get out the door. ¿Madre de Dios, dónde está?
She’d walked the sterile halls of the Institut Gustave Roussy thousands of times, but today she needed a damn map. Her mind was totally muddled. She turned one corner, then another.
¡Maldita sea!
She had to backtrack. Of all the times to lose your autopilot. If she didn’t get outside soon, she was going to pass out.
Please make yourself comfortable, Mademoiselle Rey. The doctor will be with you shortly. May I get you anything while you wait, dear?
Dear
. That word alone announced the news was going to be bad. Very bad. A receptionist does not offer comfort to a patient unless...
this can't be happening. To someone else maybe, but not to me
.
She was an oncology nurse at the Institut. Oncology patients were the people she cared for.
Not me
. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes. Her feet moved faster. She was vaguely aware of people moving around her, hurrying through their daily routines, oblivious to her plight as they blindly passed by.
Please God, not me
.
…a few more tests…a course of treatment. You’re in good hands here, Isabella. If we move quickly, we have a chance.
A chance
. Why do doctors soft peddle everything? What he should have said was, “I tossed your lottery ticket in with all the others. Most lose, but, hey, you could be the lucky winner. Are you feeling lucky, kid?” She wanted to smack him, but Doctor Boucher was a gentleman. Polite, professionally sympathetic and completely detached.
I could have sworn the exit was right here
.
Realizing she was on the wrong floor, she rushed into the stairwell. Taking the steps two at a time, she finally found the doors exiting to the back of the hospital. Shaking hands hit the metal bar.
Is there someone you would like to call? May I dial the phone for you?
Sure
. She imagined that conversation. “Hi, it’s Isla and in a little while, you won’t be hearing from me ever again, but in the meantime, let me drop a bomb on your life.”
Nunca. I will never do that to mis cariños.
She thought of her brothers. Joaquin. Rafael. Alejandro. Teodor. Even if she was selfish enough to call, what would she say? They would want to save her, protect her, take her pain, like they’d done all her life. But this wasn’t a scraped knee or a lost doll. For the first time, they couldn’t help her. That truth alone was hard enough for her to accept. Her four overprotective, overbearing, macho and absolutely perfect brothers would never, ever, ever accept it.
When she thought about Teo the dam burst. She loved him more than anyone and this news would destroy him. Her rock star brother and his band were on a roll, finally getting the attention they deserved, and she wasn’t about to ruin it for them. But it was so much more than that. Beneath the cool façade, Teo hid a sensitive soul. He was a true artist and had suffered too much. Drugs. Rehab. He relied on her. What would happen to him if she…
No es posible. I'm not telling anyone anything
.
Just this morning, her mind had been filled with piddling things. Dry cleaning, bills, groceries. She’d planned to take her roommate to Teo’s concert at some swanky club on rue D’Orsay to thank him for painting
Tía
Olivia and
Tío
Leonardo’s wedding portrait. Their fiftieth wedding anniversary was coming up and the entire
familia
was reuniting in Barcelona to celebrate their fifty years.
Fifty years of piddling things that added together to make a happy life.
One word changes everything.
Cancer.
Deep in her heart, Isabella knew. She would never have fifty years.
*****
Damn, if it wasn’t one of those days. The kind that happens to everybody at some point, but still stuns the shit out of you when it’s your turn.
I should have stayed in bed. Pulled the pillow over my head and stayed the hell in bed.
Everything started off well enough - a workout, a call from his cousin, a teleconference with his Japanese business partners - and rolled straight downhill from there. Like an avalanche on Mont Blanc.
“Please turn off your computer,
Monsieur
Meszaros. We land in twenty minutes.” The stewardess leaned her body over him to clear away his untouched drink. “May I do anything more for you before our descent?”
“No, Lisette. I’m fine. Thank you.”
Jacques chose to ignore her fairly obvious invitation. Private jet notwithstanding, a stint in the Mile High Club was not on the agenda for the evening. He was too damn upset about what happened with Jerard. Talk about the wake-up call from hell.
How could things have gotten so bad, so fast?
Jerard epitomized "the tortured artist." No shock there really, given the guy’s background and the load of shit he suppressed, but drugs? The rising star of the Parisian art scene and newest trainee of the Order has his first taste of fraternity and financial success only to have a psychological breakdown of narcotic proportions. Jacques still couldn't wrap his mind around it, but the only way to deny it now would be to turn a blind eye and he was anything but blind to the people he loved. Jerard was going off the rails and Jacques wasn’t sure he could stop the train wreck alone.
But this skeleton had to stay locked in the closet for more reasons than he cared to count. Nicolai would tell Julianne and he wasn’t about to burden his cousin’s nearest and dearest with bad news about her best friend. And Darion? The new leader of the Order would have Jerard’s ass. Can’t have a drug addicted protégé and Master of the Order rolled into one. Darion had a soft spot for all of his artists, especially Jerard, and would want - no, make that demand - to help, but Jacques knew firsthand how extreme Darion’s
help
could be. He trained under him, was initiated into their elite group by him. Jerard wasn’t ready for that.
He thought again about confiding in Darion. Probably should. Revise that. Definitely should. He finished typing an email to a doctor in New York who could counsel him discreetly on drug addiction instead. He had to get Jerard help before things got any worse. If they did, Darion and the Order would give Jerard their own version of an intervention and Jacques shuddered at what that would involve.
Just as Lisette was making her way back to
remind
him that they were landing, he snapped his computer shut. She stopped, but didn't turn away.
She's a persistent one, isn't she?
He let his eyes roam the length of her.
Blonde, skinny and vanilla. Not my flavor
. Jacques couldn't miss her sigh as he turned his head and pressed his forehead to the cold glass.
The lights of Paris twinkled below. He could see the Eiffel Tower sparkling in the distance. Almost hear the accordion music playing in his head.
La Ville Lumière
. She may have her critics, but he loved the City of Light. Had since he moved the headquarters of Meszaros Enterprises there when he was twenty-five. He divided his time between France and New York City, although the American city made him feel claustrophobic. Maybe he should take his partner up on his offer to move the U.S. branch to Dallas. He wasn’t much of a cowboy, but at least you could breathe the air. Still, no other city could match the romance of Paris.
The movable feast. A city that sizzles. An artist's home. So many descriptions, all failing to capture her mystique, but his favorite by far belonged to Henry Miller. "When spring comes to Paris the humblest mortal alive must feel that he dwells in paradise."
Perhaps someday, I will.
Jacques closed his eyes. It was silly really. Just an old story. The babblings of gypsy. But he was Greek and the Greeks are a superstitious lot. His father took him to see the dancers at a gypsy camp when he was fifteen and the words of an old woman he met there never left him.
Don’t be afraid of love, young man. Your life will not always be dark. Your destiny awaits you in a city of light. You will know her by her red hair and the fire in her soul. But be mindful. God reclaims His angels too soon. Those who squander time lose paradise.
The teenager laughed off the prophecy, but the man believed. He lived in Paris and for some strange reason, could never resist a woman with red hair. How the whole Dom thing fit in, he didn’t know, but he liked the romantic notion of finding his destiny in the words of a fortuneteller.
He looked down and imagined his angel standing on one of those old boulevards looking up.
And he wasn’t leaving until he found her.
*****
“Relax,
mon ami
. I’m telling you, you’re going to love it. No more baby stuff. This high is almighty.”
Everything moved slow, dreamlike. Lazy eyes toured the lavish room. Velvet, antiques, fine art, crystal. Without knowing better, you might think this was heaven. It wasn’t. When you walk the road to hell, there are no signs. You stroll along until you find yourself in a place you never expected to be. A place you cannot escape.
No sign necessary. Jerard knew he had arrived.
He lay heavy across the sofa, so tired, so passive, and watched François cook up his deadly cocktail on a sterling spoon. Justine pulled the leather strap around his bicep. Tap, tap, tap. The needle pricked his skin and a rush of shame washed over him.
Relax. Just a few more seconds.
In the eternity of a few more seconds, Jerard thought of Julianne, Jacques, Darion, and how he’d let them all down. Julianne found her happiness with another man. His best friend since he was a kid was finally happy because she didn’t choose him. Why would she? He wasn’t worthy of her friendship, let alone her love. And Jacques, the man had given so much. Taught him how to be himself, loved him, accepted him, gave him a home. And what did he give back?
Nothing
.
Even Darion, an icon of the art world and the highest Master of the Order, had taken him under his wing. Offered entrée to money and fame by introducing him to the world like he was the next Picasso. Instead of gratitude, he was pushing them all away.
Tears seeped from his closed eyes and spilled into his dark hair as he waited for that fleeting peace. The warmth came. His grip on the glass in his hand loosened and dimly, he heard the soft thud of the thing hitting the floor and splattering expensive wine across the Persian rug. His last thought as he slipped away was that he was like the wine, spilling and disappearing into the weave, unable to be held any longer.
*****
“Nice,” the guy behind the glass said over the intercom.
“Great song, man. The riff is amazing.” Nathaniel, his drummer, tapped his sticks against the rim of his drum to the beat.
Teo forced a smile. He didn’t like compliments. He didn’t deserve them. Pride was not something he had. Not for a long time now. But the song was good and he knew it. People who experience the shit he had carried a lot of pain and even though pain sucked, it made a great songwriting partner.
Shea put a hand on his back. “Everything okay, man?”
“Yeah,” Teo answered as he tucked his guitar into its case.
But everything was not okay. Something was off. He’d had a bad feeling in his gut for a few weeks and today it was screaming in his head like a banshee. He’d called his brothers. Everyone was fine. Even though he knew Isla would be at work and away from the phone, he’d called her twice. If anything happened to his baby sister, he didn’t know what he would do. Probably kill someone and then himself.
He wandered into the corner of the recording studio, pulled the phone from the pocket of his leathers and dialed her again.
Come on. Pick up
.
“Hello, this is Isla. I can’t take your call…”
Teo hit “end” as their manager rushed into the room.
“Hats off, guys. The new material is awesome. What a sound.” Maurice hooked his thumbs into the belt holding up his middle-aged gut. “I’m not one to make promises, but get ready. This is big. The demo alone has us close to record contract and this will blow their minds. I was humble before, but no more. You’re gonna be rich, boys.” He was practically singing.
And counting the cash.
Teo didn’t trust Maurice, or like him for that matter, but Shea was right. The guy was irreplaceable. Self-serving and money-grubbing, but irreplaceable. Having him as a manager had already opened so many doors. Maurice held the key for auditions, gigs and studio time. If he said the record company would like their stuff, they would, and Teo knew Maurice would get the deal done. For a hefty price.
“Let’s grab a drink to celebrate,” Nathanial said.
“Sounds good. I could use a little r&r.”
“I’ll bet. I saw that chick you were with last night, man. She was all over you.”
“She was drunk.” Teo shrugged off the suggestion.
