The Billionaire's Secret (BDSM Erotic Romance) (His Submissive, Part Six) Page 2

I'd text and called Jacob and absurd amount of times since he kicked me out of his place, swearing I wouldn't go to sleep until we talked this through. Instead, my inbox was filled with one-sided, borderline psychotic texts. My ‘or else’ ultimatum didn’t inspire him to finally talk to me and I woke up with my phone in hand, cheek drenched in drool.

  A double tap echoed at the door and I kicked off the covers, glad for the excuse to get out of bed, even though I put the ‘Do Not Disturb’ tag on the knob.

  I flung open the door and my jaw dropped. "Megan?"

  She looked just as shocked as I was, her bright green eyes taking me in. "Oh my."

  Megan Scott was the kind of person who would go toe to toe for those she cared about. It made her a hell of a teacher and the best friend anyone could ask for.

  Her strawberry blond hair was held back with a pair of oversized glasses and I could tell from the dark, puffy semicircles beneath her eyes that she hadn’t gotten any sleep. I didn’t think it was possible, but I officially sunk lower. Apparently after I got tired of drunk texting Jacob, she was next on the list.

  I picked at my dingy, crumpled blouse before I stepped aside so she could come in. “I’m so sorry, Meg.” For some bizarre reason I started scooping up trash. “If I knew you were coming--”

  “You would have disposed of the evidence?” She held up an empty Bartles and Jaymes carrier. “Even if you didn’t text me at one in the morning, I was planning on camping out in front of Whitmore and Creighton until you finally talked to me.”

  My parents weren’t the only people I texted from the car on the way to Italy. My mother’s response was a mixture of shock and glee when I told her I was leaving the country with Jacob. Megan’s was more along the lines of, ‘WTF?!’

  I’d been planning on meeting her for coffee once things quieted down. Apparently a wine cooler or six gave me the guts to reach out to her and explain the whirlwind my life had become.

  She walked to a rusty chair beside the dresser then thought better of it, standing awkwardly beside the bed. “I’m glad you’re back stateside. With a famous boyfriend apparently.”

  I raked a hand through my hair, pushing my wild, curly locks from my eyes. “Not so sure about the boyfriend thing.” I glanced in her direction, expecting to see annoyance at the fact that he was my boyfriend at all and she was the last to know. Instead, her patrician features were soft and empathetic. That sent my shame-o-meter into overdrive. I had no right to have friends like Megan or a boyfriend like Jacob.

  I dropped my body onto the mattress. “I screwed up.”

  She hesitated, clearly wanting to avoid contact with anything in the room. She drew a breath, steeling herself and surprised us both by sinking onto the bed beside me. She folded her hands in her lap. Ready to listen--if I was ready to talk.

  I still wasn’t sure I was. With my thumb and index finger pinching the bridge of my nose, I tried to hold back the tears that lay waiting, threatening to rush past my defenses. I knew if I laid out all the dumb choices I made in the past twenty-four hours, there’d be no stopping them. Once I started crying, I’d be no good to anyone.

  So I decided to go further back.

  “I barely had time to catch my breath before I was whisked to the airport.” I paused, letting the subject change sink in. If she tried to steer us back on the road to why I was in a budget motel surrounded by Doritos and booze, I’d reluctantly veer back on course. I owed it to her because she was here on Saturday morning, there for me even when I was so wrapped up in Jacob that I kept her updated via scarce texts.

  But she didn’t push. “You flew without having hours to psych yourself up?” She shuddered.

  My mouth twitched, remembering our first (and probably last) flight together when she unwisely let me hold her hand whenever the plane hit turbulence. She’d compared the pain to having your hand run over by a car and my shrieks to a woman in labor.

  “I know. But it was nothing like flying commercially. It was like a really big, comfortable car. Or a flying hotel.” And awesome metaphors like that were why I was NOT in marketing.

  Still, she nodded like she could somehow picture it as I talked about the plush chairs that molded to the contours of your body and the sleeping chamber, leaving out the almost R rated activities Jacob and I engaged in.

  I talked about falling in love with Venice. I even told her about Rachel Laraby and her mission to make my life miserable until I flat out told her that Jacob just wasn’t that into her.

  She made a face. “You know, I never liked her. Even when she played a jilted bride or a survivor type, she just had this bad news vibe about her.” She gave me a grin of solidarity. “‘America’s Sweetheart’, my ass.”

  I matched the grin, not fighting the better mood that was quickly taking the place of the rotten one I’d woke up in. That was the thing about Megan. It was impossible to stay blue when you were around her.

  “You know what’s funny?” I continued. “I almost forgot about the rest of the world--until we went to the city and there were photographers everywhere, shouting questions, cameras flashing. It was a literal circus. I was so ready to be back, stupidly thinking that maybe things would be closer to normal in the states,” I picked at a stain on my skirt. “But my mother made sure that the paparazzi knew where I lived.”

  Her emerald colored eyes glittered with surprise. “She didn’t.”

  “She did,” I sighed. “And it’s been one thing after the other since then.” And we were back to the latest catastrophe. “Including Cade Wallace.”

  “I remember good ole’ Cade.” She stretched her arms as wide as they could go. “Huge, life sized posters of this ‘roided up guy in your dorm room.”

  “He’s not ‘roided up--” I stopped myself. Why was I defending him?

  Megan looked at me sideways. “You and he didn’t…” She raised her eyebrows suggestively.

  “No!” I exclaimed, my cheeks reddening. “I’m with Jacob! Or I was until I forgot to tell him I was meeting Cade for coffee.” I dropped my volume for the kicker. “And there was a photographer, snapping all kinds of pictures that made things look all kinds of bad.”

  “By ‘forgot’ do you mean ‘conveniently forgot to mention’?” she smirked, proving she knew me, probably better than anyone.

  “Well I didn’t lie if that’s what you mean.”

  “A lie by omission is still a lie,” she said, shaking her head at the fact that such things needed to be said.

  “It was just as friends,” I offered weakly.

  She gestured around the room pointedly. “You’re not in some skeevy motel because you forgot to tell your boyfriend about meeting a friend for coffee.” She laid it out, not leaving one sad excuse untouched. “And as hardcore as your mom is, this isn’t about not wanting to face her. You don’t want to risk shots of going back to your humble beginnings with your tail between your legs.”

  I opened my mouth to tell her it wasn’t true, but saving face was pointless. I was humbled, brought low, and there was no reason to pretend otherwise.

  “I thought you were making mega money as his assistant,” she said quietly. “Enough that you could at least stay somewhere decent for a few days.”

  I dropped my gaze to the floor. “I shouldn’t overspend.”

  “In case of what?” She held up a hand as it came to her. “Hold on a second. You think he’s going to fire you over this?” She didn’t wait for my reply. “You said you were in love with him, Leila. That he was in love with you. If that’s true, there’s no way he would fire you.”

  “Even if I deserve it?”

  “To be fired or to lose Jacob?”

  And there it was. The real reason I’d text him an unholy amount of times and got crazier by the minute. The thought of losing Jacob was enough to burst past my defenses and send tears streaming down my face.

  Before I met him, I thought I was living. Happy. And I suppose I was. But when he said those three words, it was like unlocking hidden and un
known parts of me. Losing that and losing him was like my heart was being carved out of my chest. I’d give back the job, the check with entirely too many zeroes, the clothes and I’d never wanted the fame at all. I just wanted the man.

  I just wanted Jacob.

  “I’m sure he just needs some time, Lay.”

  “He’s Jacob freaking Whitmore,” I spat. “A guy like that falling for me in the first place was so out of the realm of possibility. And then I went and ruined it.”

  “And you’re Leila freaking Montgomery,” she said firmly. “You’re no consolation prize.”

  I bit my lip, swiping away a tear. “Yeah?”

  “Yeah,” she confirmed, moving from the office chair and squeezing onto the mattress beside me. “Any guy, Jacob Whitmore included, would be lucky to have you.”

  ‘But after what I did--”

  “You’re human and you made a mistake,” she interrupted. “You didn’t kiss him or anything, right?”

  I shook my head, though the angle of the pictures could tell another story. “But Jacob has been hurt in the past, trusting people is really hard from him and I want him to know he can count on me.”

  “How many texts did you send him?”

  “Just a couple.” Liar. “Like...maybe fifteen or twenty.” Ish.

  Megan whistled. “And I’m sure somewhere in there you told him how sorry you were?”

  “Among other things.” Like how unfair he was being by not answering me then apologizing for calling him unfair. Demanding he text me back, then apologizing again. Definitely not my finest hour.

  “Just give him a day or two,” she suggested. “Your crazy texts aren’t helping him and they obviously aren’t helping you either.”

  “So I should just wait.”

  “Mmhm.”

  “Camp out here and give him space?”

  “Not here,” she said quickly. She shot up, suddenly remembering she had actual contact with something in the room. “I feel like I need a tetanus shot and a round of antibiotics just because I’ve been breathing the air.”

  She wouldn’t get any argument from me. Still, I wasn’t excited about facing my mother. “So just bite the bullet and go home.”

  “You’re forgetting Option C.” She pointed her thumb at herself.

  “Stay with you?” My eyes widened.

  I’d been to Megan’s studio dozens of times and still managed to be amazed at what she could do with five hundred square feet.

  “The couch is relatively comfortable,” she answered brightly. “And it’s yours as long as you need it.”

  I didn’t know what to say. Remorse sullied the happiness as I looked at her and didn’t see a trace of resentment or pause at my abrupt departure and lack of contact. “I’m sorry that I didn’t call you while I was out of the country.”

  “Water under the bridge,” she replied, putting it to rest. “I know you were otherwise occupied. And in Italy.” She twisted her mouth into a smirk. “Seriously, if you would have been glued to the phone while you were in Italy, I would have had to fly in and smack you for being crazy.”

  “But we’re best friends,” I said, not letting myself off the hook. “Sisters before Misters.”

  Megan let out a snort/laugh combo and when it became full on laughter, I tried and failed to not laugh myself.

  “I can’t believe you said that with a straight face,” she snickered, swiping the tears from her eyes.

  ‘Sisters before Misters’ had become our motto in college. Our duo used to be more like a fivesome and then one by one, a friend would get a boyfriend and fall off the face of the earth.

  One Saturday night we were sitting outside the movie theater, cancellation texts coming in one after the other until we were the last two standing. Megan had been the one to say it back then, somber expression and all. Since then, it had just been the two of us, being each other’s rock as we struggled to find jobs after graduating, confiding in each other. Showing up no matter what.

  “You hungry?” she asked.

  My stomach answered with a hungry growl. “Apparently.”

  I followed her out the door, waiting until her back was turned to power on my cell, hoping that maybe there’d be something in my inbox from Jacob. I saw the envelope highlighted and my heart lurched to my throat only to plummet back down when I saw it wasn’t from Jacob.

  “Mrs. Joy?” I said aloud, reading the name of one of the lead publicists on staff. Why would she be texting me?

  Megan stopped beside her Camry, concern narrowing her gaze.

  My throat constricted, but I steadied my voice. “Just a work thing.” I plastered on a smile. “Is it okay if I just meet you at your apartment in a few hours?”

  She tried to tempt me with pecan waffles before admitting defeat. I slid behind the wheel of my car, putting the phone on speaker and starting the engine.

  “Mrs. Joy? I’m on way to the office now. I’d love your help dealing with the photographer.”

  ****

  I looked like a hot mess, even after I combed my curls into a bun and put on a little bit of gloss and mascara. I buttoned up my blazer to hide the red stain of B+J on my blouse, but there was no masking the wrinkle of my clothing.

  When Jacob told me about the private entrance at Whitmore and Creighton, I’d always scoffed. Since I was currently rocking I Obviously Wore This Yesterday chic, it was just what the doctor ordered. I slipped in virtually undetected and took the elevator to the PR floor.

  There were only a couple of people in the cubicles, in their zone and paying no attention to me. I scanned the floor, pausing when I saw light filtering from the corner office. I walked briskly in that direction, my stomach still complaining about passing on breakfast.

  Mrs. Joy sat behind her desk, chomping on what smelled like the most delicious flatbread pizza ever. She had a cell cradled on her shoulder and dark eyes locked on the screen of the computer until they flitted to the doorway where I stood. She beckoned me to come in, flashing me a smile as warm as her surroundings.

  Where Jacob’s office and penthouse were all style with cool lines and sleek furnishings, hers was warm and homey. She had her blinds removed and replaced with sheer curtains that let the sunshine in, breathing life into the plants perched on stands. There was an off white armchair that seemed perfect for curling up in. Her desk had an antique finish punctuated by photos of smiling faces and exotic locations. I sat down in a cozy high back chair, realizing I’d been wrong about her, thinking she was as cold as Natasha and Missy since she’d barely said two words to me since I’d been back.

  She finished the rest of her conversation, her French impressive, especially since the extent of my vocabulary was ‘bon jour’ and ‘au revoir’.

  She rose from her chair, extending her hand. “Thanks so much for coming in. Is it okay if I call you Leila?”

  I was taken aback, surprised because everyone else just called me that by default. Even as Jacob’s assistant, my place was still relatively low on the totem pole.

  I shook her hand heartily. “Leila’s just fine.”

  “And you can call me Claudia,” she said with a kind smile. “It’s nice to see you before an incident and not after.”

  I thought back to Rachel’s phony suicide attempt and Mrs. Joy’s frantic, worried gaze. She was still way more together than I would have been facing Jacob when he was angry. And even though our circumstances were less than ideal, I’d seen enough episodes of PR to know that when shit hit the fan, you wanted Claudia Joy in your corner.

  “Can I get you anything?” she asked. “Something to eat or drink?”

  I had to force myself to not blurt out ‘YES!’ but she gave me a half smirk and offered me a slice and passed me a bottle of water. I scarfed it down before I had time to be embarrassed.

  “Jacob called me early this morning.”

  From the way she said early, I wondered if he called her after I finally succumbed to sleep at 3am. “Sorry.”

  “Oh you don’
t have to apologize,” she wiped the slate clean with a flick of her wrist. “We don’t really work in a vacuum. We’re needed when we’re needed.” She leaned back in her chair. “He didn’t seem to know much more besides the photographer snapped a picture of you kissing Cade Wallace.”

  I nearly choked on water. “I did not kiss him.”

  Claudia gave me a long, sympathetic look before answering. “That’s all well and good, but this job is all about appearances. Even if it looked like something inappropriate was going on then that’s all that matters.”

  She slid a sheet of paper across the desk with names and addresses printed in red ink. “From his description of the photographer, I connected with my resources and have narrowed it down to three possibilities. There’s a slim chance he’s freelance, but I doubt it. There’s nothing on the wire yet, so he’s probably just sitting on the pictures until the price is right.”

  I looked down at the sheet, nodding slowly as I read the names. James Kent with R&I Pics, Luis Salazar with Perfect Shot and Mike Warsaw with JNS. I gave her my full attention, waiting for further instructions, but she just watched me like it was my turn at the mic.

  "So what’s next?” I asked. “We make contact and figure out an arrangement?"

  "‘We’?" She looked at me strangely then closed her eyes and let out an 'oh' of realization. "I just assumed he would have explained this.”

  My cheeks heated. He hasn’t really done much explaining. Or talking. “I haven’t, uh, touched base with him this morning.”

  “I see.” She cleared her throat nervously. “Mr. Whitmore didn't even want me to narrow down the names, but I told him unless you have experience it would be like finding a needle in a hay stack. He put his foot down as far as me making any contact on your behalf."

  “What?” I said, completely lost.

  "There is no ‘we’, Leila,” she elaborated. “You can use the expense account if you need to purchase the photo and rights, but you will be the one face to face, brokering any deal."

  I blinked, not sure I heard right. "Me? But…why would they even talk to me? How could I make them talk to me?"