JANE DEYRE: A Contemporary Retelling Read online

  NELLE L’AMOUR

  JANE DEYRE

  Copyright © 2022 by Nelle L’Amour

  Kindle Edition

  All rights reserved worldwide

  First Edition: April 2022

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to events, locales, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is purely coincidental.

  No part of this ebook may be reproduced, uploaded to the Internet, or copied without permission from the author. The author respectfully asks that you please support artistic expression and help promote anti-piracy efforts by purchasing a copy of this ebook at the authorized online outlets.

  Nelle L’Amour thanks you for your understanding and support.

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  Cover by Maria@Steamy Designs

  Proofreading by Judy Zweifel/Judy’s Proofreading

  Formatting by BB eBooks

  BOOKS BY NELLE L’AMOUR

  Secrets and Lies

  Sex, Lies & Lingerie

  Sex, Lust & Lingerie

  Sex, Love & Lingerie

  Unforgettable

  Unforgettable Book 1

  Unforgettable Book 2

  Unforgettable Book 3

  THAT MAN Series

  THAT MAN 1

  THAT MAN 2

  THAT MAN 3

  THAT MAN 4

  THAT MAN 5

  THAT MAN 6

  THAT MAN 7

  THAT MAN 8

  Golden Duet

  Golden Rules

  Golden Vows

  Love Duet

  Undying Love

  Endless Love

  A Standalone Romantic Comedy

  Baby Daddy

  A Second Chance Romantic Suspense Standalone

  Remember Me

  An OTT Insta-love Standalone

  The Big O

  Romantic Suspense Standalone

  Butterfly

  Boxed Sets

  THAT MAN TRILOGY

  THAT MAN: THE WEDDING STORY

  THAT MAN: Books 1-5

  THAT MAN: Matrimonial Misadventure

  Unforgettable: The Complete Series

  Gloria’s Secret: The Trilogy

  Naughty Nelle

  ABOUT THIS BOOK

  A steamy and twisty contemporary retelling of Jane Eyre from New York Times bestseller and #1 Amazon all-star author, Nelle L’Amour.

  When legendary actress Edwina Rochester offered me a job to be the nanny of her five-year-old goddaughter, I didn’t expect to end up living at Thornhill, her infamous Hollywood mansion. The site of a kidnapping, suicide, and possible murder.

  Nor did I expect to fall in love with my charge’s devastatingly handsome father, Ward Rochester. A man who’s totally off limits and is hiding a secret.

  As my feelings for him deepen, strange, frightening sounds start coming from the room next to mine. My most intimate possessions go missing. And someone’s leaving me notes, threatening my life.

  Should I trust the mysterious, mercurial Mr. Rochester? My heart tells me yes. But my brain tells me run.

  The problem, reader, is I have no place to go. And I cannot resist him.

  Will I get the happily ever after I’ve always longed for? Or will I be the next victim of The Curse of Thornhill?

  For my daughters whose strength, beauty, and independence never cease to awe me.

  And in loving memory of my fur baby, Pepper. RIP, sweet boy.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Books by Nelle L’Amour

  About This Book

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Epilogue

  Note from Nelle

  Excerpt from Butterfly

  Books by Nelle L’Amour

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  “Your will shall decide your destiny.”

  —Charlotte Brontë

  CHAPTER 1

  Jane

  Bus number three since I left my house over an hour ago. One long connection after another. Each one slicing through a thick blanket of fog. The packed 217 from Culver City to Hollywood is as hot as it is humiliating. Standing room only. Passengers packed in like sardines. Halfway to my destination, I give up my seat for a pregnant woman. Nice me. (No one else offered!) Now standing and clinging to a metal pull with my blue-gloved hand, I endure the strange looks of fellow commuters. Dressed in a Smurfette costume from head to toe, I must look like a giant plush toy. Or some freak.

  I’m sweltering. Nausea swells in my chest, and beneath my costume, sweat beads cluster on my skin. A claustrophobic, suffocating feeling comes over me. Bile rises to my throat. On the verge of hurling, I hop off the bus before it gets to my stop. A blast of heat assaults me. Once the fog lifts, it’s going to be another scorcher in Tinseltown. With the temperature predicted to rise close to one hundred. Maybe setting record highs.

  I’m going to melt in this ridiculous, oppressive costume. Maybe get heatstroke and pass out. The non-breathable synthetic fabric is moreover padded. In cartoon land, the Smurfs are cute little blue people, but I look and feel like an ugly big blue monster—twice my actual size. The getup includes a detachable polyfoam headpiece that weighs a ton and makes it hard to breathe. Oh, and let’s not forget the white rubber shoes that cover my feet. And are killing me! Besides my blister-fest, I’m sweating between my toes. And I’m going to have to be on my feet all day.

  Only three days at this job and I already dread it. Hate it with a passion, but I have no choice. Making ends meet does that to you. I’m three weeks behind on my rent and facing eviction.

  I’ve read a lot of self-help books. Telling me I’m a master of my destiny. To do positive thinking, create vision boards, and ask the universe to fulfill my desires. I’ve done all that stuff. Being the Smurfette has never been in my thoughts or dr
eams. Or anywhere on my vision board, which is filled with photos of famous actresses, Hollywood mansions, dazzling gowns, Golden Globes, and Oscars. Sometimes I have to wonder if these preachy books are all full of shit, the authors clever manipulators, preying on naïve, desperate people like yours truly and cashing in on bestseller lists. I’ve held on to my vision board with the slimmest sliver of hope. Anyone can win the lottery, right?

  With the poor visibility and awkwardness of my costume, I walk slowly. And cautiously. As if I’m running a marathon, I feel perspiration gather under my armpits and drip down my spine. Not only is it hot and foggy, it’s humid. The air thick. This day’s already bad and it’s only going to get worse, way worse, when summertime tourists cluster around Hollywood’s Grauman’s Chinese Theatre, wanting to take a picture with me. A dollar for a photo with the blue Smurfette. Children with runny noses and grubby hands love to hug me, and dirty old men, who must have some fetish with the blue cartoon character, lift my white tunic and pinch me. You should see all the black-and-blue marks on my butt. Why couldn’t I get to be Wonder Woman? No one messes with her. And I bet she makes a lot more money than me. Grr!

  I repeat, reader: I hate this job. But maybe, just maybe I’ll be discovered. Despite going nowhere, I’ve held on to my dream. Being a courtroom extra on Judge Judy would be a step up from being the Smurfette. One step closer.

  So early in the morning, this residential section of Hollywood Boulevard is deserted. Except about twenty feet ahead of me, I make out a small female form. A woman dressed in a jewel-toned, ankle-length caftan and a shimmering magenta turban. I laugh to myself. She must be a Madame Tussaud impersonator, the French sculptress who founded the eponymous museum. A museum that features the wax likenesses of Hollywood icons, from Breakfast at Tiffany’s Audrey Hepburn to my idol, Edwina Rochester, wearing the iconic red dress she wore in Miracle in the Rain. A museum that will never honor me at the rate my career is going. Any chance of ever having a star on Hollywood’s Walk of Fame next to legendary Edwina Rochester’s is fading too. Okay, a girl can dream . . . but still.

  My eyes stay on the slight woman ahead of me. Her gait is brisk, almost bouncy, but suddenly she teeters. Before I can blink, she’s taking a tumble and falling onto the pavement. Even from where I’m standing, I can hear her shriek. I break into a sprint. I don’t think the Smurfette’s ever run in her life.

  I reach her in no time. She’s in a state of panic, struggling to lift herself up.

  I help her to her feet, feeling her shaky, bony frame beneath the brocade fabric, and ask if she’s okay. Not responding, she adjusts the oversized sunglasses that mask most of her small face and points ahead of her. Her sultry voice all breathy. “My precious Pee-lote! Please save my Peelote!!”

  I follow her gaze and scampering ahead of us at lightning speed is a big fluffy white cat that blends in with the fog, his or her red leash trailing behind it. The animal is heading into the trafficked intersection of La Brea and Hollywood. With all the muscle power I can muster (seriously, I deserve to be Wonder Woman!), I whip down the street in my clunky rubber clogs and catch up to the feline beauty. Crouching and out of breath, I snag the cat by its rhinestone-studded leash. Just in time before a car hits it. Questions swish in my head. People walk their cats? Wear sunglasses in the fog? I don’t know. This is Hollywood. Everything is possible.

  “Gotcha!” The cat lets out a screeching meow. Turning toward me, he arches. His long hair stands on edge like porcupine quills and he extends his razor-sharp retractable claws. He looks terrified by me. I can’t blame him. I look scary. For the first time, I’m thankful for my costume. It’s protective gear. Armor.

  “C’mon, Peelote,” I coax, noticing the cat’s ID is spelled Pilote. French for “pilot.” “Let’s go back to Mama.” After a bit of stubbornness, Pilote acquiesces. A relieved, overjoyed Madame Tussaud meets us halfway, her sunglasses lifted onto her jeweled turban. For the first time, I can see her face in full. It’s vaguely familiar, but I can’t place it. Her skin is taut, her features fine with enviable cheekbones, full ruby-red lips, and thin arched eyebrows. What’s extraordinary are her deep-set eyes. Their color. Amethysts that match the exquisite gem-set brooch pinned to her turban. With her bony, purple-veined hand, she takes the leash from me.

  “Bad boy, Pilote,” she scolds, the accent on the second syllable. Her voice is deep and throaty, slightly tremulous, like she’s drunk and smoked her whole life. She gazes up at me. There’s something mesmerizing about her that sucks you in with those violet eyes. Something familiar.

  “He’s always taking off. Hence his name, Pilote. I found him in Paris at the flea market when he flew out a window and crash-landed at my feet.”

  “That’s a perfect name for him.” I now know he’s male. Too bad his owner can’t see the smile beneath my costume.

  “He’s my prized possession. I must reward you.”

  “No worries,” I say. “I’ve got to run. Or I’ll be late for my job.”

  She bats her violet eyes and I notice how thick and long her eyelashes are. They almost look fake. “And what, my dear, might that be?”

  “Um, uh, I’m a street performer. I take photos on Hollywood Boulevard with tourists.” And make stupid windshield wiper arms to grab their attention.

  She gives me a once-over, eyeing my costume from head to toe. I can visualize her mental eye roll.

  “You poor thing. How on earth do you see and breathe . . .” She scrunches her brows. “In that frightening outfit?”

  I tell her the eyes, nose, and mouth have hidden screens that enable me to do both. I don’t mention it’s really uncomfortable.

  “Well, I certainly hope they pay you a lot of money for what you have to put up with.”

  “Actually, I make my money on tips from people who take photos with me.”

  “Not to sound gauche, how much do you make?”

  “So far on a good day, fifty bucks.” Barely.

  “Piddly-dinks!” She tsks. “So, dear, what is your name?”

  “Jane Deyre. D-E-Y-R-E.”

  “Hmm . . . that’s an unusual name.”

  Plain as the Jane I am. Well, at least it’s better than being a Jane Doe. An unknown corpse lying in a morgue. I’m going to change my name to Janine Dearheart if I ever become a famous actress. If ever . . . chances are slim.

  The exotic, elderly woman’s eyes stay fixed on me. “Well, Miss Deyre . . . Can you cook? Clean? Change sheets?” Her voice trails off.

  I nod. Oh, can I! Years of training. Brutal training.

  “And you can drive?”

  I bite down on my bottom lip. Well, I do have a driver’s license, but I haven’t been behind a wheel since I passed my driver’s test. Narrowly. “Yes.” Well, that’s kind of the truth.

  The woman’s face brightens. “Then, Miss Deyre, I have a job for you. It pays seven hundred fifty dollars a week with vacation, overtime, and bonuses . . . Follow me.”

  I hem. I haw. I do as I’m told. And then it sinks in.

  Holy cow! That’s three thousand dollars a month! I want to break into a Smurfette happy dance. Sing at the top of my lungs.

  Reader, my life’s about to change!

  CHAPTER 2

  Jane

  I let my new employer lead the way, surprised we’re heading away from the center of Hollywood. Her gait back to being brisk, she turns up La Brea and then left on Franklin after crossing the street. Pilote seems to know where he’s going and walks confidently beside her.

  “Good boy,” my companion says as we turn up another street. Peeking through the fog, the houses on either side of the palm-lined street are old and lovely, some looking like they’ve been remodeled or expanded. They’re a far cry from the dump I’m renting, and God knows what they cost. Celebrities and millionaires surely live here.

  At the end of the cul-de-sac, a bright yellow boom gate awaits us. And a sign:

  PRIVATE ROAD

  NO TRESPASSING ALLOWED

  A car
would have to crash through the barricade to get to the other side, but a pedestrian could easily slide under it. Madame Tussaud clicks a remote and the metal arm of the gate lifts. She calls out to me to hurry and follow her inside. I do my best to catch up to her, but the fog is now so thick I can barely see two feet in front of me. I make it through just before the bar comes crashing down on me. Close one. My heart skips a beat.

  A jittery feeling stays with me as I march up the steep, winding road ahead of me. It feels endless. Not used to climbing the Hollywood Hills, I’m short of breath. Huffing and puffing. And in this suffocating costume, I feel like I’m swimming in a pool of sweat. I try to pull my headpiece off, but it’s stuck to my neck. As I chug ahead, the fog grows thicker. Madame Tussaud and Pilote have all but vanished. I hope they’re okay. Out of nowhere, a whoosh sounds in the distance. On my next labored breath, the words “WATCH OUT!” vibrate in my ears. Then, all at once, a crash and a curse.

  “Fuck!” roars a male voice, groaning in pain.

  My heart hammering, my eyes dart left and right. And then I see him on the side of the road. Lying in a heap next to a fallen bicycle. I run over to him as fast as I can.

  And crouch down next to him. Not an easy thing to do in my cumbersome costume. His eyes grow wide, the words “what the fuck are you” etched on his dark orbs.

  “Are you okay?” I stammer.

  He manages to pull himself up to a sitting position. He’s clad in a black and yellow cycling outfit, the body-hugging spandex revealing every muscle of his imposing body. And every bulge. Strapped on his head is a matching helmet. He meets my gaze, his eyes flickering with fury.

  “Why the hell didn’t you get out of my way?” he yells, every word infused with rage.

  “I—I didn’t see you in the fog.”

  He rubs his sockless ankle. And grimaces. There’s a nasty three-inch gash on it. The onyx hair on his leg is laced with blood.

  “Can you walk?” I ask.

  “Help me up.”

  Is he serious? He’s twice my size.

  “For Chrissake, what are you waiting for?” he growls.