“She’s a showman. Wants the biggest impact.”
A valid idea, and one that didn’t calm my irritation at being treated like any other guest. I was her best friend. I was supposed to know things first, be involved in the planning. Enjoy the headaches and excitement that were part of monumental acts.
Though, I had just had the most monumental act of my life, save my wedding, and she hadn’t been a part of that.
Not that she should have been a part. Still, I felt a little as if I was lying to her by omission. And that guilt was misplaced and unjustified if she was planning a full-out Chelsea Pedicant party without my involvement. I called her again, my hackles rising, but only got voicemail.
I ended the call and ripped off another bite. What the hell was happening?
8
Monday came before I was ready for it, and I squandered the first hour of it following royal drama on social media. There was a lot of drama, most centered on Meghan Markle, who had managed to piss off an entire army of followers over merching, a Wimbledon box, and something having to do with godparents. It was both disturbing and fascinating, and at ten I closed the browser, conflicted with emotions on the newest royal.
Reluctantly, I picked up the folder Tim had given me with the De Luca’s information. Flipping open the top page, I studied the home’s scant MLS history. It’d only been on the market once before, back in 2000, when it sold to Brad De Luca for two point four million dollars. I flipped through the listing photos from that time, which I studied without too much enthusiasm. In twenty years, he could have done anything to the house. Still, the bones of it looked good. Airy and open. Some nice architectural features and a huge yard. A rentable guest apartment overlooking the pool, though no one on OLT would rent. Assuming it wasn’t a train wreck of decor, Tim’s projection of a four-million-dollar sales price had been about right. Maybe even a little low.
I reviewed the rest of the pages, noting that a quitclaim deed several years ago had added Julia De Luca as an owner. They were up to date on their taxes and had filed five permits over the last two decades on various renovation projects, so it couldn’t be in too rough of shape. Setting the folder on the desk, I picked up my energy bar and took a bite, crunching through a chocolate and almond bar that contained no sugar, no carbs, and no fillers. I gagged a little on the swallow and washed down the bite with a sip of coffee. Opening a fresh Internet browser, I did a quick search on Brad De Luca.
The attorney had been a very high profile and busy boy. I clicked on a photo result and hummed in appreciation. Okay… not a boy. All man. He’d probably gone through puberty while most boys his age were getting fitted for braces. In his photo, he glowered at the camera with a handsome face that would fit in well between my thighs. I flipped through the photos, surprised to see an image of him and a brunette on a yacht with Hollywood It couple Cole Masten and Summer Jenkins. Zooming in on the brunette that was cozied up to Brad’s side, I studied her wide smile, the photo catching her mid-laugh.
This was supposed to be us.
The thought snuck up on me, stabbing me in the sensitive place in my stomach where money worries and insecurities liked to lurk. I closed the photo preview before I caught a glimpse of the jet skis on the roof of the yacht, or the uniformed butler, hovering in the wings.
We’d had that lifestyle in our grasp. Famous friends. Invites to yacht parties and private jets. Weekends spent without a care in the world, our meals prepared by a private chef, our afternoons punctuated with massages and wine tours.
We’d had it and—in the split second it takes for a baseball to connect with a temple—lost it.
I scrolled through the website search results, spotting De Luca office locations in the Bahamas and Miami, as well as a few dozen press mentions pairing him with famous names. He seemed to specialize in divorce, and I remembered Tim’s mention that he’d handled Fred’s.
I opened a second tab and searched for Julia De Luca, coming up with a short list of results. I frowned, surprised. There were no photo results, and other than the state verification page of her law license and a few charity donation lists, there were no other results. Intrigued, I checked social media. Nothing. I did a marriage license search and pulled her maiden name from the results, then tried again. Huh. I leaned back in my chair and picked at the remaining chunk of my chocolate bar. Julia De Luca had to be the only wife in Miami with no social media footprint whatsoever. I picked up the phone and tried the next best thing to Google—a text to Chelsea.
I have a big listing lead for a Brad and Julia De Luca — local attorneys. Do you know anything about them?
While she had ignored my texts wanting details on the funeral invite, she responded to this one immediately. No but let me dig.
I dropped the wrapper in the trash can underneath my desk and returned my attention to my computer, closing out the windows before I wasted more time on the search. If there was any helpful information, Chelsea would dig it up. She had the nose of an investigative journalist, which was one of the reasons Easton and I couldn’t risk anything else with Aaron. We were lucky to have gotten away with it once, though the jury was still out on whether we had. If we all managed to keep the secret for a month, I’d breathe a hell of a lot easier.
Twenty minutes later I was crouched in front of the copy machine, cursing it to hell, when my phone buzzed against the floor. Scooping it up, I swept my hair out of my face. “Hey Chelsea.”
“Okay, I have good news and I have bad news.”
I wrenched open the top drawer and verified, for the third time, that there was no paper jam in the tray.
“Which do you want first?”
“I don’t care.”
“Oh-kay.” She huffed in annoyance. “The good news is that Kendra’s brother Jake knows a guy at Verizon who has four tickets to Burning Man.”
“And that’s good news?”
“Elle, don’t be like that. It’s great news.”
“We can’t afford—”
“It’s BURNING MAN. There is literally nothing to pay for. They don’t allow money. Remember? We talked about this. It’s a gift thing. Like, you’re supposed to happily give people stuff.”
“So, I’m accepting food from strangers? That sounds like everything my mother always taught me not to do.”
“I’m not going to try to explain the dichotomy of the Burning Man economy. It works, Elle. And we’d bring something to offer. I’m not talking about freeloading off strangers for a week.”
“Yeah, not interested.”
“I’ll talk to E about it. Anyway, the bad news is about your listing people. How much do you want this lead?”
I straightened, the jammed copy issue forgotten. “Badly. Why?”
“Well… it’s the guy. Brad De Luca.”
I thought of Tim’s reference of the attorney. What had he said? That Tim’s looks were wasted on him but that mine would work? Something like that. “Tim said he likes women.”
Chelsea didn’t settle on that comment. “It’s not exactly him, but his family. Apparently, he’s the heir apparent of the Magiano family. We’re talking oldest son. Birth name Brad Magiano, Junior—but he changed it to his mother’s maiden name.”
The hair on the back of my arms stood up. I didn’t need to research that name. I knew the Magiano family. Everyone in Miami did. They were the most powerful crime syndicate in South Florida. Mobsters, the sort that drove Rolls Royces and had abandoned drug dealing and prostitution for white-collar crime but still had a forceful finger in every successful industry south of Orlando. A forceful and deadly finger.
Suddenly, the yacht didn’t seem so tempting.
Suddenly, Julia De Luca’s lack of Internet footprint made perfect sense.
Suddenly, I understood why Tim had been so generous with the lead. Dick.
“So, there is a silver lining. Apparently, Brad De Luca is estranged from the family. Spends most of his time in the Bahamas.”
“Estranged,” I repeated
dully as I struggled to keep my breathing and heartbeat level. Closing the side door, I jabbed my finger on the screen, clearing the warning messages and glaring at the new instruction that appeared. CHECK DRAWER 1. “I’ve checked drawer one,” I said loudly.
“Is it the copier? Try unplugging it and plugging it back in. So, yeah. Estranged is good.” She sounded cheerful, as if we were discussing a Days of Our Lives plot point and not a new listing that could get me killed. I wasn’t sure an estranged member of the Magiano family was any better than a normal member. In fact, it sounded worse. Like, way worse.
I pulled out the power plug and took a deep breath, forcing myself to count to five before I plugged it back in.
“I can talk to my dad tonight,” she offered. “I know he’s dealt with the Magianos before, when we had permitting issues at the civic center. Maybe he knows something that could help.”
“Okay. Thanks.” I watched as the machine hummed to life.
“Can you decline the listing? I know he’s estranged, but just in case…” her voice trailed off.
“I don’t know. I’m going to go and talk to the guy who referred them to me. I think he already set up the appointment.” I worked my fingers over my temple and watched as the welcome screen faded, replaced with the all caps notification that the copier was jammed.
“Okay, let me know how it goes.”
I ended the call and stared at the blinking copier screen, fighting the urge to slam the phone into the display. Opening the top feed, I pulled out my flyer and tossed it into the trash, abandoning the task.
I needed to find Tim and wring his perfect little tan neck. Then, I had to beat the lunch traffic and head to E’s office. I had keys to pick up at the Keller-Williams franchise by his building, and I could use his advice, prior to that errand, on how to handle this new bomb of information.
9
I wandered through the hallways of the wealth management firm and eased into Easton’s office, immediately recognizing the sharp accent of Nicole Fagnani. E nodded at me and picked up the receiver, cutting her off speakerphone. I glanced at my watch, irritated at myself for forgetting his call was today. A good wife would have sent him a good luck text, something that would push him to pull up his big boy pants and put down his foot with her. Nicole had jerked his chain around long enough. She needed to make a deposit, and we needed the resulting commission check. Badly.
“Uh-huh.” He spun a pen on the desk.
I settled into the chair across from him and pulled out my phone, opening an incoming text from Chelsea.
Two things—when’s your big listing appointment?
-- On Friday.
Not enough time to emotionally prepare, but four days was better than nothing.
E’s cool with you doing it? Despite the Magiano connection?
I glanced at my husband. I could predictably anticipate his response. A flat denial that I take the listing, one that would waver in strength when I pointed out our dire financial situation. I really didn’t want to point that out, or see the tight shift of Easton’s features, or feel the weight of his guilt over putting me in what he would see as a dangerous position.
-- I haven’t told him yet. At his office now. Maybe I’ll just wait until I meet and feel them out for myself.
You know that’s not the right move.
For a woman with such a fluid stance on personal morality, she was horrifically accurate on calling me on my shit. I changed the subject. What was the second thing?
Oh, my funeral. You need a veil or anything? I got extras.
Of course she did. I swallowed my dozens of unanswered questions about the party and shot back a quick reply. No, I’m good. Thx
I locked my phone and returned my attention to E’s conversation, picking up bits and pieces of her voice as he spun to face me. I heard the words video game and stood, approaching the glass window that separated him from the reception area.
“It’s definitely worth a meeting.” Easton watched as I adjusted the row of vertical blinds, cutting off his view.
“Next Thursday?” He unlocked his computer screen, then pulled up his calendar. I moved closer and watched his mouse scroll down through dates. He had it wide open.
He hesitated and I wondered what he was debating over. Pushing away from the desk, he leaned back in his chair, his face hardening in determination.
“Nicole, let’s be brutally honest with each other for a moment.”
My ears perked at the same time that my chest constricted in fear.
“I have to follow the money. At the moment, you’re not technically a client of mine. I have to focus my attention on growing the assets of my clients, not chasing possibilities on a California beach. If you’re ready to make a commitment to me, then I’ll adjust my schedule and invest my time in evaluating this investment. But I can’t do that without a serious seven-figure commitment from you.”
He paused and I struggled to keep my place at the edge of his desk. On the other end of the phone, all chatter from Nicole had stalled. Easton continued on. “And if you can’t make that investment at this time, then I think we should step back from any further communication and let you find an advisor that you trust.”
Oh, sweet baby Neptune. I was suddenly on my knees, crawling the few feet toward him, my hands sweeping up his thighs as I headed for his belt. He was risking everything. Potentially scaring away the only real lead he was working. But fuck, it was hot. Hearing the authoritative bite in his tone? Listening to the breezy confidence that didn’t hint at our financial troubles?
It was the first moment I had seen him really fit into his shoes in this office—in this new career as Easton North, Wealth Manager. He was a long way from the dugout and I worked his belt open and gave him a proud smile.
He didn’t stop me. He watched, his eyes darkening, and we both held our breath as the silence on Nicole’s end of the phone lengthened. Fuck me, we needed this. I jerked open his zipper and slid my hand inside. He was soft, the cocoon of his underwear warm, and I rubbed my fingers along his flaccid shaft, waking it up as I massaged his balls from outside his pants.
A single word came from the phone and I tried to decipher it. Easton’s expression didn’t change, his gaze tight on mine and I stayed quiet. She said something else, the words transfer and million audible from my spot on the floor, and Easton dropped back his head in relief.
I smiled as his cock stiffened. Had it been my hands or her words? It didn’t matter. I freed it and inched forward, tilting it toward me and closing my lips around its head.
“I’ll send you the wire instructions now and book a flight once the deposit clears. We can discuss in LA where that initial million should go, but some of the more lucrative opportunities will require a bigger investment than that.” The closing line was straight out of his sales scripts, ones we had practiced around the dining room table, a box of pizza between us, and I mentally urged him on as I worked my mouth on and off the tip of his cock, my cheeks suctioning from the effort as my hand stroked his shaft in a matching rhythm.
“I’ll send it now.” His voice cracked and he wheezed out a breath, the next sentence more labored as he fought the pleasure. “Forward me the materials they sent you on the game and I’ll have our attorney take an—an initial look at what they’re offering.”
The floor was uncomfortable and I readjusted my stance, dropping my butt to my heels to alleviate some of the pressure off my knees. We can discuss in LA? Is that what he had said? I’d been so happy over the prospect of income that I’d blocked everything else out.
“Easy,” he whispered, his hand covering the phone. “That’s going to—” He cursed, his thighs tightening and his feet braced against the floor as his hand bit into my shoulder.
My hand tightened on him as I continued, knowing what he liked and using every trick I knew. Consistent downward jerks against the bottom of his shaft. Heavy suction from my mouth. An occasional bob of my head where I took him all the way, as best I co
uld, into my mouth.
From the next office over, a phone rang and the muffled sound of a male voice carried. Arousal hummed through my body as I focused in on the sounds. A conversation out in the hall. Another phone ringing. Was his door locked? I hadn’t thought to flip the latch on my way in.
“A million sounds good. I’ll look for it this—this afternoon.”
With his one percent management fee it wouldn’t be a lot but it was badly needed and would lead to more.
“Goodbye.” He almost gasped out the word as he leaned forward and placed the phone in the cradle. The change in position brought him closer to me and he stayed in place, sweeping my hair off my shoulders and back into a makeshift ponytail.
“You’re so bad for me,” he murmured. “Sucking my cock in the middle of my call. What else would you do? Would you sit back on my desk and show me your pussy? Fuck yourself with your fingers as I checked my email?”
I pulled my mouth off of him, my hand taking up the slack as I stroked his rigid shaft and looked up into his face. “I’d do anything you told me to do.” I rose up on my knees, my cleavage close enough that if he came right now, it’d splatter across my breasts.
He groaned, his eyes heavy with arousal. “What if I had an important client? Would you bend over my desk and let him lift up your skirt? Would you let him taste you?” His hand took over the work, relieving the strain on my triceps as he jerked his cock faster, the movements becoming rougher and rougher as he strained beneath me. “Put your mouth back on it,” he gritted out. “I’m about to—”
I closed my mouth on his head just before he came, sucking it hard as he trembled, tensed, then broke, his hand gripping the back of my head and pulling it tighter and deeper down on him as he filled my mouth—right in the middle of the loud and busy office floor.
10
As if to laugh at our minor success, eight hours later, we were struggling with crap. Crap that wasn’t going away, no matter how many times I held down the handle.
Twisted Marriage (Filthy Vows Book 2) Page 5
