Nobody's Girl

by Love, Michelle

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  I thought I was going to pick up a toy for my little’s girl’s birthday when we went to the toy store that day. I got that and a hell of a lot more.

  Joy was the customer service rep my daughter invited to her little birthday lunch. They hit it off right away.

  The fire inside me had been extinguished, or so I thought, it began to smolder for Joy that afternoon.

  After only knowing the young beauty for less than an hour, I asked her to come live with us and be my daughter’s nanny. And to my surprise, she accepted.

  Once I had her within my walls, I couldn’t think about anything other than getting my hands on her, using her body to quench the fire that had grown inside me. Taking her in every way imaginable and making her beg for more!

  So, I went to her and made her an offer I hoped she couldn’t refuse…

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  Nobody’s Girl

  A Billionaire Romance Novel

  By Michelle Love

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  ©Copyright 2017 by

  Michelle Love- All rights

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  In no way is it legal to reproduce, duplicate, or transmit any part of this document in either electronic means or in printed format. Recording of this publication is strictly prohibited and any storage of this document is not allowed unless with written permission from the publisher. All rights are reserved.

  Respective authors own all copyrights not held by the publisher.

  Table of Contents

  Free Gift

  Nobody’s Girl

  Part One

  Part Two

  Part Three

  Part Four

  Nobody’s Girl Extended Epilogue

  Billionaire Games

  The Billionaire’s Wings Of Thunder

  He may be the world’s most successful art dealer, but, on a trip to Paris, Ivo Zacca realizes that he is bored with the high society life, and is uninspired by the artists he has come across.

  Going off grid – to the despair of his staff – he spends a week in Paris trying to be as anonymous as possible.

  Sofia Amory was raised by her mother and rich step-father only to be abandoned by her step-father when her mother died. Having her trust broken, she reacts suspiciously to Ivo’s motives but cannot help being attracted to the gorgeous man.

  Meanwhile, her ex-stepfather, Fergus, egged on by his vicious daughter Tamara, is steadfast in his decision to cut Sofia out of their lives. The death of his wife, Sofia’s mother, has hit him hard and instead of dealing with the grief, he has become cold and distant. His son, Jonas, who was close to Sofia, is disgusted with his father and sister and attempts to search for Sofia with no luck. He confronts his father just as news comes through that Sofia had landed a huge exhibition in Paris. Jonas tells Fergus that he is glad Sofia is finally making it on her own. Not wanting to be exposed as a bad father, he travels to France to see Sofia and tells her to come home. Sofia refuses and Fergus threatens to have her deported back to America. In revenge, Sofia marries Ivo to stay in Paris, not realizing the consequences.

  Newly married, Ivo and Sofia realize they know very little about each other and wonder if they have made the right decision. Complicating matters is Ivo’s ex-fiancée, Celine, who is pregnant with Ivo’s child, and a man called Grant Christo who takes an intense and disturbing interest in Sofia.

  Can Ivo and Sofia overcome their differences to find their love for each other, or will outside forces disrupt the path of true love?

  Part One

  Chapter One

  New York City

  Clemence Brochu looked at the man who, until a few moments ago, had been her fiancé. “You can’t mean it? Ivo…”

  Her distress apparent, Ivo Zacca, his green eyes full of sorrow, reached for her hand. “Clemence…you cannot be surprised by this. We have been growing apart for months, if not longer. We barely see each other.”

  Clemence snatched her hand away and got up, pacing the floor of her New York apartment. Ivo watched her, his expression one of concern. She stopped and gazed at him. Ivo Zacca. One of the most gloriously handsome men on the planet. Successful art dealer, son of two movie stars, his dark curls and green eyes made him a target for every gold-digger in the circles they spent their time in. Clemence had always prided herself on not being like them; she genuinely loved Ivo, had seen beyond the sheen to the man beneath, a man who loved his job, but not the social aspect that went with it. When he had to attend openings and parties, she had been by his side, ever ready to take up the conversation when she knew Ivo struggled with his shyness. Her field, biochemistry, was at the opposite spectrum to the art world, but she was adept at schmoosing whereas Ivo loathed it. She was his perfect foil.

  And now he was telling her it was over. “Don’t think it’s because I don’t love you, Clemence,” he said quietly now. “That’s not the case. It’s just…I don’t think either of us are in love with the other and, in that case, I don’t see the point.”

  Clemence sat down heavily in her chair. She had to hand it to him – he didn’t arrange a public dinner where she would be unable to scream or shout at him. He asked her to meet her at her apartment, where she could cuss him out, or punch him or…

  Except Clemence didn’t do either. Because Ivo was right – they weren’t in love anymore. She sighed, rubbing her eyes then looked up to see the pain in his.

  “Can we still be friends?” He asked softly and Clemence didn’t know how to answer him.

  “Maybe,” she started to cry softly, “Maybe one day, Ivo. But not yet.”

  He got up and came to her and she went into his arms for one last time. “I’m sorry, Clemence.”

  “It’s okay,” she sniffed, “it’s okay. You’re right. It just hurts at the moment.”

  He tilted her chin up so she could see the honesty in his eyes. “For me too, Clemence. You are my best friend.”

  She nodded, then pulled away from him. “Best you go now, Ivo.”

  “Can I call you?”

  She hesitated then shook her head. “No. I think it’s best if we make a clean break for now.”

  Ivo nodded, his whole body slumping with sadness. For a second, she wished he would looked relieved or happy, just so she could hate him for doing this, but she couldn’t. She walked him to the door, but before he went, he kissed her forehead. “Love you, Clemence.”

  “I love you too, Ivo. But it isn’t enough, is it?”

  It was only after Ivo had gone that she finally burst into tears.

  Westchester, New York State

  Sofia felt as if her heart had been ripped from her chest as she stood at the front of the congregation. She couldn’t take her eyes off her mother’s casket. Devaki, fifty-six years old, beautiful, kind, funny, dead from a brain aneurysm. So swift, so sudden. So final. Her step-brother Jonas, put his hand on Sofia’s shoulder and she was glad of the comfort. Her step-father, Fergus stared straight ahead of him, not looking at her. He was holding his daughter, Tamara’s hand. He didn’t glance at Sofia at all, didn’t comfort her, nothing. Sofia couldn’t understand what the hell had been going on since her
mother’s death a week ago.

  Since her mother had married Fergus, when Sofia was nine, Fergus had been her father, no questions. He had been loving, fun, caring, protective – he even personally helped Sofia move into her college dorm room – not many billionaire patriarchs did that. Whenever she visited home, he would be the second person after her mother to wrap her in a bear hug. “Welcome home, pumpkin,” he would say then pick her up and twirl her. Sofia stood at only five-feet-two, compared to her tall step-siblings. Tamara was the only dark spot. She had hated Sofia, the beautiful, half-Indian, half-American girl on sight – Sofia was the warm counterpoint to Tamara’s own icy blonde good looks. They had avoided each other mostly, but at family gatherings, Tamara could never resist getting a few digs in. Sofia knew better than to complain about Tamara. Her brother, Jones, more than made up for it. Jonas, a tall and thin, shaggy-looking teacher, was kind and generous and he and Sofia were closer than if they had been related. Neither of them cared about Fergus’s great wealth, unlike Tamara. When Sofia had graduated from college, Jonas was her biggest cheerleader.

  Now, though, Sofia felt something shifting in her family. Tamara kept shooting her triumphant looks, which although she tried to ignore, Sofia felt like pounding the blonde’s face into the ground. Is she actually celebrating Mom’s death? It wouldn’t surprise Sofia – her mother and Tamara had fought constantly, even though Devaki swore to the young woman that she had no intention of replacing Tamara’s mother, Judy. Judy had died, from a fall, when Tamara was fifteen, and when Devaki married Fergus, three years later, Tamara had been beside herself. She didn’t speak to any of them for another three years and it was only through Jonas’s gentle peace-making that she returned to the family, aged twenty-two. Eight years later, and now Sofia sensed that Tamara would do anything to become her father’s number one girl again.

  Sofia closed her eyes as the pallbearers took her mother’s casket out of the church. She let Jonas take her arm and lead her out and she watched her mother being lowered into the ground. Another insult – Tamara had flown into a rage when Fergus had told her Devaki would be buried in the Rutland mausoleum. His daughter’s fury had made him back down and now Devaki was being buried just outside of it. Fuck you, Tamara. Fuck you for being this petty. Sofia opened her eyes to see Tamara staring back at her. Her mouth hitched up in a grin on one side…and Sofia lost it. She lunged at Tamara, screaming, kicking, punching, until Tamara toppled backwards…into an open grave. She screamed as Jonas and Fergus pulled Sofia away, and other shocked mourners helped Tamara out.

  Fergus wrestled a still raging Sofia to his car. “Get in,” he said, his voice like ice, and Jonas locked his arms around Sofia and gently steered her into the backseat. “Jonas, go back to the others. Tell them I’ll meet them at home. I’m going to take Sofia back and I’ll meet you there. Son, give me a head start of fifteen minutes.”

  Jonas hesitated, looking at a now sobbing Sofia but Fergus shook his head. “Go. Now.”

  Jonas reluctantly left them alone and Fergus started the car, driving in silence back to the Rutland mansion. Once there, he took Sofia’s arm and steered her into his study. He poured them both a large shot of whiskey but didn’t ask her to sit down. Sofia wiped her eyes.

  “Dad, I’m…”

  “No.” He interrupted her with a sharp motion of his hand. “I’m speaking now.” He still had not looked her in the eye. He walked to his desk and picked up an envelope. “In here is your mother’s estate, everything she brought into the marriage. It’s yours. Your stuff has been packed and is waiting for you in one of the limousine’s. Davide will drive you into New York City. From there, it is entirely up to you where you go, but let me be absolutely clear. You are not welcome here. You are no longer a part of this family, Sofia. I do not wish to see or talk to you ever again; do you understand me?”

  Sofia did not understand him. “What?”

  Fergus finally looked at her in the eye. “Your mother is dead. I no longer have to tolerate your presence.”

  “Tolerate? What the fuck are you talking about? Dad…”

  “Mr. Rutland to you. Now, leave this house and never come back.”

  Sofia stared at him in abject horror. Where was the man who used to swing her around? Where was the man who called her pumpkin and helped her hang her art up his study walls? What the hell was going on?

  There was a knock at the door and Davide, one of Fergus’s chauffeurs came in. He looked uncomfortable. “Mr. Rutland, everything is ready.”

  “Fine. Miss Amory is ready to go.”

  Sofia gaped at Fergus, the envelope limp in her hand. For a moment, she wanted to throw herself on Fergus, hug him, but instead, she turned and walked out with Davide. The limousine was stuffed with her things. Davide had tears in his eyes but he remained silent as he helped her into the front seat.

  The journey into New York was a silent one, but when they reached Grand Central Station, Sofia turned to him. “Davide…what the hell happened? Why is Dad being like this?”

  Davide shook his head. “I don’t know, Miss Sofia. We didn’t know anything was happening until just before you all left for the funeral.”

  Sofia wanted to ask him so many questions but she knew she might get him into trouble. She tried to smile at him. “Thank you for everything you did for me and Mom,” she said in a voice which broke, and then without another word, she got out of the car. Davide helped her drag her cases from the trunk. She could feel by the weight of them all her books, her art materials, her clothes, everything was squeezed into them. Her whole life. In a large backpack, she found all her papers, including her birth-certificate and her passport. Davide helped her pull her bags down to the seating area, then Davide gave her a piece of paper. “A friend. She has a spare room. She lives in Philadelphia, but there’s a train later. She’s expecting you.”

  Sofia hugged him. “Thank you, Davide.” And then he was gone.

  Sofia sunk onto one of the benches in the huge hall and let out a shaky breath. What now? She pulled out the envelope Fergus had given her and opening it. Inside, a thousand dollars in cash, her mother’s favourite necklace – a gift from Sofia when she was small. Sofia turned it over and over in her hand. She knew it wasn’t worth anything – was only silver plated, but her mother had worn it every day until she died. The little charm was of the Eiffel Tower – her mother had loved Paris – and Fergus had taken them all when Sofia was ten. She’d spent all of her chore money on the necklace.

  She fastened it around her neck now. They can’t take you away from me, Mom, not ever. Sofia looked at the address in Philadelphia. At least she could be sure of a warm, safe bed, and a hot meal tonight if she took the train.

  She twisted the little metal Eiffel tower in between her fingers, deep in thought, then suddenly, not caring who was watching, opened both suitcases, dumping the contents of her backpack into one of them. She gathered all her clean underwear, two pairs of jeans and a selection of no-iron shirts and stuff them into her backpack. Her art supplies – her beloved Sennelier watercolors – were next, followed by a couple of her favorite paperbacks and all her personal papers.

  She dumped the suitcases – open so the security wouldn’t think they were suspicious – and went to the ATM, drawing out as much cash from her account as she could. It gave her another few hundred bucks. She went to the restrooms and put on as many clothes as she could comfortable walk in, her best sneakers on her feet. The rest of her clothes, she put on a bench for anyone to take, along with the rest of her treasured books. She hated to let them go but at this moment, she couldn’t care about that. She went to one of the little drugstores and bought toothbrushes, toothpaste, deodorant, shower gel and shampoo, shoving them deep into the backpack’s outer pocket. Finally, tucking her passport into her jeans pocket, she made her way out of the station and towards the bus depot.

  There she bought a one-way ticket to JFK. She wasn’t going to Philadelphia. If the Rutland family wanted rid of her, so be it. />
  She was going to Paris.

  Chapter Two

  Los Angeles, California

  Six Months Later

  Winter in California is no different from summer, Ivo Zacca thought, as he drove up to the gate of his father’s house in the Hollywood Hills. Too damn hot. He let himself in as he always did, but there was no answer to his welcoming call. He heard laughter from the terrace and walked out.

  “Darling!” His mother, seventy years old and still stunning in a two-piece and wrap, got up from her lounger, drink still in hand and came to greet him.

  “Buongiorno, Mama,” he said and she beamed. Adria La Loggia adored her only child as only an Italian mother could – completely, and, sometimes, overwhelmingly. Ivo was the love of her life, the reason she had given up her successful career as a movie star to raise him, just as she was beginning to make her mark in Hollywood. She still made her mark of course; her dark hair and bright green eyes, as well as her ample curves, made her a legend of the screen.

  Ivo smiled at her now. “I thought I heard laughing, Mama, where’s Pa?”

  “Right here,” said a voice behind him and his father grabbed him in a bear hug. Walter Zacca had been – as was still to many – a golden god of Hollywood. A charmer, a blonde matinee idol of the old school, Walter still worked, mainly cameos in big blockbusters for obscene amounts of money. He was fun to be around, a total man-whore who reveled in his good looks. He and Adria had divorced when Ivo was a child, but had remained each other’s best friends and, Ivo suspected with a grimace, each other’s booty calls when one or the other wasn’t seeing someone else – the someone else invariably being much younger than either of them.