The Billionaire’s Desire (His Submissive #9)(10)
Author: Ava Claire

“More booze?”

“Another guest.” I’d frowned and he’d finished, “My mother.”

I’d recoiled like he’d just said the most ludicrous thing ever before he laughed. Jacob, my gladiator of a man who was so used to hiding away anything that made him vulnerable, had thrown his head back and laughed.

It was a joke; one I’d agreed was a good one because I thought we were on the same page–Alicia Whitmore in our home=a very bad idea. But he’d called her. He was the reason she was lounging in our living room like she was some goddess come down from Olympus, gracing us with her presence and infinite, useless knowledge.

Jacob ran a hand through his dark locks and I noticed things I’d missed because I was so tuned into Alicia. He was in a navy button down shirt and deep, nearly caramel colored khakis. To the passing eye he was the picture of collected. But I saw now that his shirt was riddled with wrinkles as were his pants. His hair had the rough, I’ve-been-running-my-hands-through-it-for-hours look about it. And I saw the shadows beneath his eyes. I couldn’t be mad because he didn’t tell me about wanting to talk to her and invited her here. He’d already beaten himself up about it.

“I asked you here because I don’t believe you can look us both in the face and say no.”

Alicia frowned, confused. “What?”

“I want you to tell me why you won’t give me my grandmother’s ring. To tell us.”

I brought my hand to my heart, almost like I was trying to remember it was there. That I was alive and this was all happening.

I wanted to move to Jacob, to tell him to brace himself for the worst because despite the animosity he held for her, it was clear he still cared about his mom. That he believed that somewhere, somehow, she could still be reached. And I knew from the way her lip curved upward, her eyes lingering on me before they returned to her son, that she was about to do something she thought would hurt me but would really just hurt the person neither of us truly wanted to bring any pain.

Jacob.

“Your grandmother left the ring to your father and he entrusted it to me. When you meet someone worthy of her memory, I will give you the ring. But I’m telling you, both of you, as long as I have breath in my body, Leila Montgomery’s fingers will never touch it.”

****

After an engagement dinner filled with my mother finding several different ways to ask about the lack of a wedding ring, having to play nice as Mark cozied up to Megan, and Alicia Whitmore reaffirming her dedication to keeping me away from the family ring as long as possible, I couldn’t wait to get back to work. Mia Kent, Whitmore and Creighton’s newest client, would be just the challenge to take my mind off the disastrous evening.

Mia couldn’t keep her name out of the tabloids lately. Golden hair, cherubic features and a voice that gave singers twice her age a run for their money made her a household name. She starred in bubblegum pop TV series on a kid friendly channel until she hit eighteen and decided to shed her good girl image in favor of something on the other side of the spectrum. Shots of her public intoxication, flipping cameras the bird, and unabashed drug use had everyone playing Dr. Phil, trying to save Mia from herself. But public scrutiny intensified and she spiraled further into dangerous territory.  She shaved one side of her head, let some poor excuse for a tat artist doodle all over her body and started hanging on the arm of a different skeevy guy every night of the week.

While her public image had taken a beating, she hadn’t alienated the music industry. Top executives were still clamoring to sign her, hoping to be the launching pad for her unreleased album.

She’d come to us herself, the first sign that all hope wasn’t lost–she could admit there was a problem.

I pulled up the agenda, scribbling a couple of notes. There were several charity functions coming up–one of which was a concert for needy children. If we could get her in a gorgeous dress…

“I think I owe you a cup of coffee.”

I nearly snapped my pen in half. I didn’t even have to look up to know it was Missy. I recognized the entitlement, the subtle notes of ‘I’m better than you’. The edge that cut when she deigned to speak to me, making it crystal clear that she’d rather be doing anything other than giving me her precious time. But why was she here?

I narrowed my eyes, confusion lasting for a split second. Coffee–that’s right. We’d attempted a truce before and she tried to buy me coffee. I made it clear that I wasn’t good at pretending and didn’t want to owe her anything. It was no secret that she thought my input was worth less than nothing, so I was surprised she was standing at my door doing the exact thing that caused drama the first time around.

She held out the cup. “I wasn’t sure how you liked it so I just threw some splenda and a little bit of skim milk in.”

My mouth twitched at the skim and zero calorie sweetener, “What are you trying to say?” on my tongue. But I remained silent, my eyes trained on her as she strolled in with no invite and plunked the coffee on my desk. This woman had some serious nerve.

“It’s not spiked,” she said with a smirk. “I promise.”

I didn’t accept her peace offering. Maybe she wasn’t trying to poison me, but I didn’t believe that her intentions were honorable either. “I’m good.”

Her face twisted like she was sucking on a lemon before she shrugged and picked it back up. “I’ll be more than happy to drink it myself.”

“You do that.”

“It’s not always you against the world, Leila. Why can’t I do something nice for you?”

“Oh please,” I scoffed, leaning back in my chair. “I would be all kinds of stupid to believe you’re completely above board. You’ve had it out for me since I walked through the door. And you’re buddies with Rachel–”

“Friends with Rachel?” She laughed like that was the funniest joke she’d heard in a long time. “I know you’re not talking about Rachel Laraby.”

I didn’t even crack a grin. “I think we both know that’s exactly who I’m talking about.”

Missy flipped her bone straight midnight hair over her shoulder with a snort. “Rachel Laraby and I aren’t friends. She treats anyone that works for her like they were born for the sole purpose of being at her beck and call.”

I faltered. I hadn’t been expecting our Rachel’s to line up. I was expecting her to sing Rachel’s praises and talk about how they bonded over caldrons, full moons, and a mutual dislike of me. But they’d been together at the party…it didn’t match up with the slighted disposition in front of me.