“No dates until you’re 30,” he declares.
“But you were in your twenties when you met Mommy,” Cynthia chirps in.
“Eat your breakfast, smarty pants,” Stella says.
A wicked grin threatens to give me away and I have to stare into my lap and bite my lip. I can still feel his fingers and tongue inside me, still feel Fabian’s movements inside my body, filling me. My muscles are still sore, but if he wanted one more taste of me before he left today, I would be down for it.
I could see myself falling in love with this man. Marrying him. Having his charming little babies and basking on the beach in the south of France every summer.
God, he was perfect. So perfect that, looking back, he hardly seems real.
Chapter 9
Laney
Back home in California, I’m still on such a vacation high and I don’t want to lose it, so I’m not ready to unpack yet. I open my suitcase to let it air out and then I go lie down on the sofa and turn on the TV.
Streaming or live?
I’m not ready for reality yet, so I stream my favorite romantic comedy. I snuggle up with my favorite blanket and pillow and let out a sigh. It’s been nearly sixteen hours since I saw the man; how is it possible I can still literally feel him every time I move? God almighty.
I’m about to drift off into a happy dreamland where I’m lying in bed with Fabian again, this time on a boat somewhere in the middle of the ocean, when my phone rings. I normally don't pick up phone calls, except it’s Stella’s ringtone. When Stella calls instead of texts, I know it’s pretty damn important.
“Turn on the news.”
Stella is truly scary when she dispenses with small talk.
“What channel?”
“Any and all of them. This is nuts.”
“Stella, I’m watching. I don't know what the big ... wait a minute...”
The image from my TV slams into me with the force of a Mack truck.
“The art dealer guy, right?”
I don't say anything. Stella persists.
“Laney, did you hear me? Isn’t that...?”
“Holy fucking shit,” I say, even though my throat feels like it’s on fire.
“It is him. I knew it. Dammit, I knew Luke should have let me run a background check before you agreed to go on a date with him,” Stella says.
She goes on and continues to verbally kick herself but I can barely hear it. My body begins to shake. This can’t be real.
On the news is a story about an international art dealer who has risen to fame for cutting deals that earn sellers unprecedented millions. But he’s run into trouble with the law by scheming with brokers to sell pieces at highly inflated prices, with him and the brokers pocketing the difference.
I don’t understand all the details. I’m focusing on the fact that his name is not Fabian Faberge, but Hugo Westphall.
I had the best night of my fucking life with someone who gave me a fake name, which I suspected all along, but who was also a big time criminal, maybe the biggest fraudster the art world has ever seen.
I can’t wrap my head around it. I watch as they haul him away in handcuffs, over and over, on every channel. It’s definitely him. The tousled hair, the tall frame, the sinewy forearms. Wearing a polo and khakis and boat shoes, as if he was getting ready for a casual day on the water and not running for his life.
Fuck. Me.
Talk about a come down after a vacation.