The Billionaire’s Touch (His Submissive #2)(7)
Author: Ava Claire

"Buona sera,” the host said brightly. “Tavolo per uno?”

When I let out a flustered laugh, wishing I’d been more concerned with Rosetta Stone than trying to figure out what was going out in Jacob’s head, he repeated it in English with a sympathetic smile.

"Good evening. A table for one?"

I shook my head, peering over his shoulder. I scanned the lively crowd, stopping when I saw Allegra’s bowed head. "I’m meeting a friend."

I maneuvered in and out of the tables, my curiosity peaking as I heard her tearing into someone on the phone.

"Non essere ridicolo. Anyone can see you care about this girl. Why do you fight it? You confuse her and you confuse me-"

"Allegra?"

She smiled up at me, gesturing at the seat in front of her.

"We will discuss this in the morning. Unless you join us tonight?" She rolled her eyes to the ceiling. "Understood. Ciao."

She snapped her cell phone closed and gave me the once over, clucking her tongue with approval. "Leila, you look lovely."

"Thanks," I grinned. "You do too." She traded her outfit from earlier with a sleeveless flowered dress that softened her muscled exterior.

She picked up a bottle of red wine. "Do you drink?"

"Absolutely!" I said, probably a little too quickly.

She let out a musical laugh that made her eyes twinkle then poured the ruby red liquid in my empty wine glass. "All a bit overwhelming, no?"

I brought the glass to my nose and inhaled deep, breathing in the vibrant body of it before I took a hearty sip. It was like caramel going down and I savored it before I answered. "I’m still pinching myself every second."

"You haven’t been working for Jacob very long?"

"Right," I said, taking another swallow. "Almost four days now."

She let out an impressed whistle. "You must be very good at your job."

I turned bright as a tomato at that and dropped my gaze, suddenly real concerned with the starch white tablecloth. How could I tell her that my interview ‘supplement’ had probably got me the job?

She placed a wrinkled hand over mine and when I dredged my eyes up, I saw that she already knew. Of course she did…I was far from Jacob’s first assistant.

I opened my mouth, the red of embarrassment turning to shame. "Let me explain-"

"That is unnecessary," she cut in. "This is carriera, your career, yes?"

I bit my lip and nodded.

"And I imagine you have plans that exceed being an assistant?"

"Absolutely," I said without hesitation. "Not that all of this isn’t great, but I want more." I let it all out, finally feeling like someone understood. "I want my own clients, my own agency….my own name over the door."

She gave me a long, pensive look then her face cracked into a grin. “Difficile? No. You got your foot in the door. You’ll get no judgment for doing whatever you needed to do to meet your goals."

I reached for the bread basket, my stomach making a gurgle of hunger. "So since we’re talking about doing whatever one needs to do to get ahead, do you mind if I pick your brain about Jacob?"

She traced the circular base of her wine glass and let out a chuckle. "I was wondering when you’d ask." She ran a hand through her hair before sitting up tall, ready for the inquisition. "Ask away."

"The guy I know is incredibly driven, charismatic but…" I trailed off, trying to figure out the word.

"Guarded?" she finished for me.

"Exactly!" I said, clapping my hands together. "But with you, he’s different. The laughing–hell, the smiling. He just seemed so open. A complete polar opposite."

"Sì," she said after polishing off her wine. A long moment passed as she reached for the wine bottle, refilled her glass and then looked at the burgundy liquid like she was hypnotized. "The lights on Jacob are so bright that you only see the truth if you know where to look."

I fiddled with a curl, puzzled by what she was saying. "So he’s not happy being in the public eye?"

It didn’t make sense–the reality TV show, the high profile celebrity clients, the glitz and glam that I’d been bombarded with since I agreed to be his assistant. None of it seemed to match up with someone that didn’t love the flashing lights and everything they bring.

"What is happiness?" She didn’t wait for an answer. "You are too young to be familiar with his father’s work. He was huge in the pictures back in the 70’s. Well, huge in Europe, anyway. His father, Carlton, came from nothing, so he invested, saved every penny so Jacob could have more." She shrugged her shoulders. "Jacob grew up in wealth. He knows nothing else."

"So, poor little rich boy?" As soon as it came out I regretted it and Allegra’s eyes darkened. "I didn’t mean that as harsh as it came out."

"It’s alright," she said, but I could tell from the way she gripped her glass that I’d just lost some major points. "The world has no sympathy for the lot of those with money. We forget that money can’t buy happiness."

Not knowing what to say to that, I stuffed a corner of bread in my mouth and chewed it nice and slow. I was hard on him, but the truth was I had no idea what it would be like to have my success, failures, loves and catastrophes to be broadcast for public consumption. I figured it was something I should say out loud so she didn’t think I was completely rude when the chatter around us reached a fever pitch. Shouts in Italian mixed with other words, but there were two that I, and most of the free world, were familiar with. ‘Rachel Laraby’.

The sound of my chair creaking back met a chorus of others as everyone’s attention turned to the front and gawked at the statuesque woman at the hostess desk.

Rachel Laraby—America’s sweetheart since she played a plucky high school dropout alongside George Clooney. From there it was a string of romantic comedies and a sprinkle of indie films to maintain her street credit among the critics.

But it wasn’t all red carpets and Oscars for Rachel. At twenty-six, she’d been in and out of rehab three, no, four times.  Unlike most celebrities that never fully recovered in the public eye, after each stint, Rachel regained the hearts and minds of anyone that set their eyes on her.

It made sense, I guess. She was the perfect Hollywood star with impossibly beautiful bone structure paired with bright green eyes and a smile photogenic enough to sell whatever it was tacked onto. Her ebony colored hair was always glossy with the right amount of body. Her curves made her relatable, but she was thin enough that she could wear the hell out of anything. Every woman wanted to be her and every man wanted to take her to bed.