Venice Nights (The Billionaire's Girlfriend Prequel) Page 3

  “Do you think you’re special?”

  I gripped the handle of the frying pan, the question bringing fresh hurt from battling Rachel and my own insecurities to the surface. Her seething dislike of me shone a light on the part of me that worried the world would take one look at me and ask the same thing. That they would laugh at me as they answered with a resounding “No.” They would wield evidence to support their belief that I was just a phase; Jacob had dated drop dead, gorgeous celebrities and socialites, and he was trying something new by dating Jane Nobody.

  And just like the rest, he would toss me aside once he got bored, or something better came along.

  I would become just another guest.

  My throat constricted. There was a reason this woman insisted on calling me a guest. I was disposable. Temporary. My fingertips grazed the wrinkled shirt I wore. How many pulled on his crumpled button down shirts after a night of screaming his name in this very house?

  I glanced at Isabella, my heart sinking. One side of her mouth curled with satisfaction. She got her wish; the same thing all bullies hoped for—power.

  The smile changed when she looked past me.

  “Bambino!” she cooed, her chilly exterior changing instantly. I turned to the doorway, watching in shock as they embraced. He murmured something to her, eyes closed.

  They clearly had a history and from the way his eyes flew open when he remembered me and quickly extricated himself, it was not something he wanted to talk about. He raked a hand through his sleep mussed hair.

  “Good morning, Leila.”

  I eyed them suspiciously. I knew who she was, but it was a little weird that he was not going to do an introduction—especially since he had hugged her like they were seeing each other for the first time in years. “Good morning.”

  The faintest show of embarrassment darkened his cheeks. He cleared his throat, looking around. “Any coffee yet?”

  Isabella sighed with frustration. “Your guest—”

  “I am not a guest!” I said shrilly, clenching both hands into fists.

  The exclamation was followed by silence, both of them whipping to face me.

  Jacob squinted in confusion. He looked at me, then Isabella. “Is everything all right?”

  Isabella glowered at me whenever he looked in my direction, smoothing it over when his eyes fell on her. I wanted nothing more than to tell Jacob how rude she had been, but I was no tattletale. I fought my own battles.

  “Everything’s fine,” I said with a tight smile to go with my taut nerves.

  All of a sudden Isabella acted like making breakfast was her idea, rounding up the eggs and swiping the bag of coffee beans.

  Jacob strode to the island, leaning against it casually, but his eyes studied me. He knew me, and he knew I wasn’t being honest. After I pecked him on the cheek and slid onto the stool beside him, he dropped the investigation.

  “So I take it the two of you are acquainted?” he mused.

  Isabella cracked an egg with a flourish. “I’ll have to ask Blanka to come in the morning since I wasn’t aware that your guest—”

  “She’s not my guest, Bella,” Jacob corrected gently. “Leila is my girlfriend.” He threaded his fingers through mine and brought my hand to his lips. The kiss was a whisper on my skin, echoing over me when I met his eyes. They were filled with stars, each one shining for me. The light pierced through the dark, bursting through my doubts. How could I hold onto my reservations, my worries when he was looking at me like I was the only girl in the world?

  I cut my eyes over to Isabella, wanting to flash her a smug little smirk of my own, but she was not glaring at us with disapproval. The look she wore was a pained one, agony pulling her skin tight over her perfect bone structure.

  Jacob’s face clouded when he saw my surprise, glancing over his shoulder at Isabella.

  Catching herself, she turned from both of us.

  Jacob pushed from the counter. “Isabella, are you—”

  “Since she’s not a guest,” Isabella interrupted, whisking the eggs furiously, “I assume she can help me with breakfast?”

  “How about both of us help?” Jacob said. He leaned toward her like he was about to tell her a secret. “Trust me, I’ve had her eggs.”

  “Hey!” I elbowed him playfully, holding my smile until he stepped away to gather ingredients. I stole a look at Isabella, but she caught me and flashed a smile that almost looked real.

  It was too little too late. She clearly had a problem with me and Jacob.

  Not Jacob, I corrected silently. She has a problem with you.

  Great.

  Chapter Four

  I folded my legs beneath me, staring at the screen of the iPad. Gmail was up, a new message waiting to be penned. I started typing the email address of my best friend, Megan Scott. I only had to tap out the first two letters before her information popped up.

  My inbox was filled with email conversations spanning the length of our friendship. From reflective emails sent during freshman year and nervous jitters over my first college party; to crying into the keyboard as she consoled me after my first heartbreak and musings on life after college. Megan had always been the one person I could tell anything. My secret keeper, my loudest cheerleader, my sister even though we didn’t share blood.

  I had only managed to send her a clipped text before Jacob whisked me away to Italy a few weeks ago. So much had happened since I climbed on that jet. There was so much I wanted to say—but I just stared at the screen, not sure where to begin.

  I put the cursor in the body of the email, the blinking an indicator of the moments lost. I could write paragraphs on how the air was different in Venice. How every street called to me, promising adventure and history as brightly colored as the buildings that surrounded me. I could type until my fingers cramped telling her about the amazing museums. The Palazzo Ducale with its over the top architecture, the Galleria dell’ Academia with its paintings. St Mark’s Square...and how I nearly went into cardiac arrest when I was charged thirty euros, around 41 dollars, for a latte and scone. I could even flesh out the quiet moments when I just paused, in awe that this was my life.

  I drew my hands from the keyboard. Negativity was becoming uncomfortably familiar, settling over me like a wet blanket. It soured the happy memories. I glanced around, shaking my head. I was staying in a multi-million dollar villa in Italy, lounging near the pool; not to mention the fact that there was a guy upstairs who loved me. Instead of basking in that, I was stuck beneath a storm cloud, unable to enjoy the sun shining down on me and the birds whistling in the trees.

  I could not shake the feeling that there had to be a catch.

  There’s your opening. You don’t have to say any more than that. Any more than the truth.

  But I could not make myself plunk out the letters. Not after her flabbergasted response when I told her I was being whisked away to Italy in the first place.

  The phone buzzed on the bedside table, snapping me from sleep. I let out a groan, considering ignoring it since it was probably my mother calling for the umpteenth time, fan-girling over me and Jacob’s trip abroad.

  Business and a little bit of pleasure, I thought mischievously, remembering the note Jacob left after our argument on the plane. I had put my self out there, heart on the line, and he shut me down. But he didn’t leave it that way.

  I opened my eyes, his letter fresh in my mind. Words crisp and clear, even if his mixed signals were confusing.

  Be patient.

  The phone stopped humming. I turned to the wall, drawing a pillow to my chest. I wondered what he was doing at this very moment. I wondered—

  My phone started going off again—and patience was no longer an option. I rolled over, snatching the phone to my ear. “Mom, I don’t know what time it is there, but here—”

  “I’m not your mother.”

  Not Mom—but the deep, northern accent was still familiar. Megan. My partner in crime. My bestie. The girl whom I could count on t
o help me bury any skeletons in my closet. But presently, she sounded like the only person she wanted to bury was me.

  “Megan.” I pulled into a seated position, folding my feet beneath me. “How’s it going?”

  “How’s it going?” she repeated, her voice rising. I pictured her in her living room of her studio, pacing back and forth as she fiddled with one of her fiery red strands. “You don’t text me that you’re leaving the freaking country with Jacob Whitmore then ignore the ensuing freakout!”

  Freakout was right. She’d left a series of texts, each one composed of question marks spilling down the page.

  “We’ve been busy,” I lied. “I was going to call you once we got settled.”

  “We?”

  I blushed, lowering my voice like he was in the room with me. “I meant I. Me. Not we.”

  “Yeah right,” she scoffed. “I’m happy for you, Lay. But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t worried. Jacob Whitmore isn’t just any guy. This whole situation is kinda insane.”

  My nostrils flared indignantly. The last person I expected to say Jacob and I were ill-paired was my best friend. “Don’t worry about me, Meg. I can take care of myself.”

  “Not with someone like him, I...I don’t want him to break your heart.”

  I discarded the empty message. With a level head, I knew her words were innocent enough. Jacob Whitmore had a reputation of being a playboy. Even though I knew he only had a D/s relationship with a couple of women before me, he was no monk in the romance department.

  Magazines were filled with pictures of him with some Glamazon on his arm. When the relationships dissolved, the gorgeous women were given space to air their grievances. None of them had trash talked Jacob or given any details on why they were no longer with him. They shrugged it off, chalking it up to busy schedules and growing apart. But their tight little grins matched the chill in their eyes. They had become a statistic. A notch on his bedpost. Deep down, they hoped they would be the exception to the rule...and he had broken their hearts.

  I knew I needed to get this out of my system. I needed her to tell me I was wrong; that I was different—but I was not willing to risk her saying the opposite.

  I pushed my shades to the bridge of my nose, trying to pretend the sting in my eyes was the sun and not tears brimming the edges. As nice as it was to be in this beautiful place and have someone order me not to worry about price tags, I was not there for the glitz and glamour. None of it would mean anything without him.

  He was the thing I couldn’t lose.

  “And you won’t have to lose him,” I said aloud, my voice firm. He let me in; opened up to me when he only let others peer through the iron wrought gates. He made me happier than anyone before...and I made him happy too. I saw it in the way he looked at me.

  There is no catch. You deserve this, dummy!

  I refreshed the page. That was exactly what I needed to say.

  The page reloaded, and the first name in my inbox turned the blood in my veins to ice.

  Not her.

  Not Rachel.

  But what other Rachel Laraby could it be? There was only one.

  The one that tried, and nearly succeeded, in her efforts to ruin me. Who poked and prodded me until I was ready to throw away a career in public relations before it even began.

  She blackmailed me, using my love of Jacob to weasel her way back into his life. She had even used suicide as a last ditch effort to prove that while I was with Jacob, the world still revolved around her.

  My fingers itched to grip the edge of the iPad and put it to sleep. Hell, I was even entertaining the thought of hurling it into the pool. But there was no point in acting like I was going to do the smart thing and send the email directly to the trash, where it belonged.

  My finger drew up, hovering at the message line. There was no subject. Of course she wouldn’t accurately label it as,“My Latest Attempt to Break-up You and Jacob”.

  It still floored me that someone that had everything was so utterly miserable. Rachel Laraby was America’s sweetheart and the critic’s darling, even when she dabbled in grimace inducing romcoms. Despite multiple stints in rehab, producers still clamored to have her in their films...and audiences rushed to the cinema to see every single one.

  She could have anything in the world—except Jacob.

  And it drove her crazy.

  Just remember that. Nothing she says can change the fact that he chose you.

  Feeling a little stronger, I clicked on the message. I frowned when it was not what I expected, some bitter diatribe about how she belonged with Jacob; nor was it a reiteration that I was different from anyone he had ever dated before and once the novelty wore off, he would drop me like a bad habit.

  Shockingly, she’d spared me the drawn-out diss, condensing it to two sentences:

  Found this and thought it was pretty spot-on. I didn’t have to lift a single finger to destroy you...you did a fantastic job all by yourself.

  Below that, there was a link. When I saw the URL of a popular gossip blog, my heart dropped to my stomach. My hand trembled as I clicked the link, knowing it had to be bad, or Rachel wouldn’t bother.

  I gasped when the page loaded. My picture screeched from the screen, stricken with fear and anger. My brown eyes were double their normal size, wide and crazed. My hair looked like I had just been doused with static electricity, chocolate brown curls standing at end.

  My mouth...oh God, my mouth.

  My lips were spread in an open cry, strings of saliva glittering from my teeth to my bottom lip. I looked deranged. The picture could easily terrify small children.

  But the terrible picture was not what made me feel nauseous.

  The headline read, “First Look: Jacob Whitmore’s New Squeeze is...”

  “Oh no,” I whispered, squeezing my eyes shut.

  I had seen stories like this before. The blog author solicited input and their readers were more than willing to oblige. They filled in the blanks, tearing into whatever poor soul was featured. I was embarrassed to admit I’d scanned the comments, chuckling at some and shaking my head at others. People could be cruel, but it was always in good fun, right?

  Don’t read it. Don’t read it. Don’t read it!

  But I’d already found the comments section.

  -The ugliest thing I’ve ever seen.

  -Terrifying!

  -After his money, obvs.

  -Probably really good on her knees. Why else would he be with her?

  It wasn’t so amusing when my face was on the dart board.

  Chapter Five

  Grinning and bearing it was going to be the death of me.

  The taxi pulled to a stop, engine still running. My nails cut into my thighs, a futile attempt at calming my nerves. It just magnified the tremors, making my teeth chatter.

  Jacob leaned forward, murmuring to the driver. My Italian was spotty, and I did not understand their exchange, but when Jacob reached for the door, the meaning came through loud and clear. There would be no more putting it off; no stay of execution. I would actually have to get out of the car and pretend I did not want to hole up in the villa until the world moved onto the next celebrity scandal. I had to sell the lie I had been telling Jacob, and myself: That I was okay.

  “Ready?” he asked, blue eyes flashing over to me.

  I cleared my face of all signs that I was not remotely prepared and gave him an awkward nod. It helped that my oversized shades shielded my eyes from his view. I glanced at my reflection in the window. My curly hair was tucked under a silk scarf, and the collar of my trench coat was popped.

  It was painfully ironic that I always smirked at celebrities in disguises; XXL shades and hoodies, trying to be incognito. Loss of anonymity was the price paid of a life in the public eye—but now that photographers camped at Jacob’s property line, eager to find out more about his dumpy, possibly disturbed girlfriend, I saw why celebrities went bat shit on the paparazzi. I had retreated into the house like
a recluse, stealing peeks between the blinds and jumping at every creak and sound.

  Jacob had work that prevented him from seeing me at my craziest, but when he asked me to join him for a meal in the city, I had almost broken down. Before he personally ended every person outside with a camera in their hands, I had told him I was fine. Pulled my lips into a smile and said a day in the city was exactly what I needed.

  I stepped out of the car, my legs still liquid with fear. I debated hopping back in and telling the driver to make a getaway while we still could. One look at Jacob and I felt guilty for entertaining the thought. Cowardly. He had no disguise. In fact, he looked genuinely excited, scanning the cobblestone street. Not for people lurking in the shadows, but in quiet awe of the beauty around us.

  He pointed at the building behind us. “Allegra used to live in an apartment up on the sixth floor.”

  I followed his line of sight, my heart leaping in my chest when I saw a flash. I let out a sigh of relief when I looked closer and realized it was a sun catcher, not a camera flash.

  I covered my momentary freakout, looping my arm through his. “Is Al joining us?”

  He shook his head, guiding us toward the back entrance of the cafe. “She couldn’t get away. She sends her love though and wants to meet up for coffee while we’re still in the city.”

  “I’d love that,” I said truthfully. I had only known Allegra De Luca for a few weeks, but we’d been fast friends. She was the first person I had met that gave it to Jacob straight. Completely unfiltered.

  When I first met Allegra and saw them together, it was the first time I had seen any playfulness in the billionaire. He had laughed with her, turning into a man that was nothing like the cool businessman I was acquainted with.

  But Jacob and Allegra had a complicated past. Jacob’s father, Carlton Whitmore, was a popular actor in the seventies and came to Venice for movie projects. He had fallen for Allegra, the one woman immune to his charms. Despite her best efforts to avoid her attraction to the married, notorious womanizer, she succumbed.