by Ava Claire
The Billionaire’s Girlfriend (His Submissive, Part Five)
Ava Claire
Copyright 2013 Ava Claire
The His Submissive Series
The Billionaire’s Contract (Part One)
The Billionaire’s Touch (Part Two)
The Billionaire’s Passion (Part Three)
The Billionaire’s Heart (Part Four)
The Billionaire’s Girlfriend (Part Five)
E-book License Edition Notes:
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Douglas Heights was an unassuming subdivision, lined with modest homes and tailored yards. Since most of the residents were retirees or single families, the most excitement one would find was a cookout or two, a kid’s birthday party or a nail biting game of bridge. As soon as Jacob’s jet landed and I went from the back of a chauffeured Town Car to the worn driver’s seat in my rusty Volvo, normal had never been so appealing; after the whirlwind month I’d had, normal was just what the doctor ordered.
If you would have told me four weeks ago that I'd land a job at Whitmore and Creighton and end up falling in love with the billionaire CEO Jacob Whitmore, I probably would have laughed right in your face. Well, maybe part two would have been believable. With his broad shoulders, bronzed skin, piercing blue eyes and a body that made the rounds in every red-blooded woman’s fantasy, falling for Jacob was a mathematical certainty. But getting to know the man behind the handsome and controlled facade and him falling for me? Impossible.
But Jacob had spent the past month showing me that anything could happen and my wildest dreams could come true. From museums that took my breath away and foods that brought my palette to life to the lush Italian countryside and sultry Venice nights, I didn't want for anything. And in the bedroom, submission had transformed from a foreign thing I'd only read about into something I was born to do and be.
But being Jacob Whitmore's girlfriend wasn't all midnight strolls, private jets, and kinky activities behind closed doors. Because of his high profile business, publicity and public relations for celebrities, he'd become a celebrity in his own right--which meant his personal life wasn't quite so personal. And since I was the mysterious new squeeze, neither was mine. I needed Douglas Heights. I needed the ease and comfort of it; a predictable reality without cameras shoved in my face.
I frowned as I spotted cars peppering the road leading up to the subdivision. They were parked every which way, obviously not caring who they were inconveniencing. I slowly tugged my old sedan between two non-descript vans, cursing under my breath. What the hell was going on at 11 a.m. on a Thursday morning? And why did none of them know the basics of parking a vehicle?
And then I saw them. Men in button down shirts, skittering across the pavement in tennis shoes. Tennis shoes were a must. How else would they dart around to get that perfect, embarrassing shot?
My heart shot to my throat as I slammed on the brakes. I follow the breadcrumbs with my eyes to a familiar white and green shuttered house. A house where the yard was always kept trimmed and leaves never stood a chance. A house where an ancient F 150 was parked dutifully at the curb and an Accord was tucked in the driveway. A house where the paparazzi were huddled like flies on shit.
My parent's house.
I didn't even bother trying to find a space; it would have been pointless since they were practically bumper to bumper. I just put the car in park and hopped out, following a few stragglers to the crowd gathered near the mailbox. Questions and fragments of conversation swirled around me and the beating thing in my throat shot past the heart shaped hole in my chest right down to the cement.
"The kid’s mother said she was coming home today."
"Did you hear her talking about Jacob popping the question?"
I was suddenly grateful I took a page from America's sweetheart and my personal nightmare, Rachel Laraby, and opted for a beanie that mostly contained my wild corkscrews and an oversized gray T shirt and jeggings--not just because the phototogs were clearly camped out for me, but because I refused to believe my mom had sold me out. The only way I’d find out the truth would be if I faded into the crowd.
I froze in the shuffle when I saw my mother’s familiar brown eyes, made up to high heaven. There was so much foundation and blush caking her features that I wanted to scrub my own face just looking at her. I glanced past her, spying my dad who was eyeballing all of them with disdain, making sure no one stepped onto his property.
A heavy set man with a thick accent shoved forward his face tight with impatience. “Where’s the kid? You said she’d be here an hour ago!”
My mouth fell open as shock and hurt swallowed me whole. It was true. She tipped them off.
“Leila texted me a little bit ago and said she’d be here any minute.” Mom’s toothy grin spread a few inches wider. “But if you have any more questions about her and Jacob-”
“How long did your daughter work for Jacob before they became an item?” Someone blurted out, not wasting any time.
“Oh not long at all,” Mom replied with a chuckle. “He was just so taken with my Leila he just couldn’t help himself.”
My eyes nearly bulged from my head as a few of them laughed at the admission and Mom coaxed them on with a wink. “Y’all know what I’m talking about.”
“Did Leila give you the scoop on Jacob in bed?”
“Absolutely not!” I hollered, completely forgetting that I was trying to lay low. I didn’t even notice when all eyes turned to me and the bulbs started flashing. It was total tunnel vision, everything else fading to nothing. It was just me locked on my mother’s surprised face that quickly reddened. It was one of the few things she and I had in common--there was no hiding our embarrassment.
“L-Leila!” she yelled over the clamor. “I’m so glad you’re home!”
“I bet,” I seethed, biting back what I really wanted to say. They’d eat up our family drama and it would be plastered all over the rags next week. She quickly pulled my father up beside her, gripping him tight.
“All these lovely photographers just wanted to-”
“I’m going in the house,” I said, marching right past her.
Did she forget that I studied PR? That I’d lived it for the past month? I knew exactly why the photographers were there. It was no secret that the most unscrupulous in my field would tip off paps about their client’s location for publicity. Well, the only publicity or pictures they were getting today would be a shot of my back walking in the opposite direction.
I clenched and unclenched my fists as I stepped inside the house. The warmth of my mother’s favorite Airwick fragrance, apple cinnamon, flooded my nostrils. It should have relaxed me, like it did every time I came home. When I sunk into the familiar grooves of the couch, all of my worries should have been soothed away. But I got no relief, no relaxation at all. Every nerve ending in me was on edge.
The screen door creaked open and I knew it was my dad, his woodsy cologne and the scuff of his boots gave him away. I peered up at him, tears of frustration blurring my view, ruining what was supposed to be a happy reunion.
“How long has she had them on speed dial?”
He ran his hand
over his thinning brown hair, his bright green eyes weary. “One of ‘em called about two weeks ago and the phone hasn’t stopped ringing since.”
I shut my eyes with a groan. Right around the time Jacob and I announced to the world that we were dating.
Dad trudged to his armchair and let out a groan of his own as he sat down. “If I would have known she was going to have them waiting for you…”
I flashed a weak smile. There was no need for him to explain. We both knew that Mom was a force of nature and when she put her mind to something, even he couldn’t slow her down. It was as close to an apology as I was going to get from him. When the door swung open a second time, I didn’t even bother waiting for one from the real culprit.
“Are you insane, Mom? You had no right calling them here!”
She brought a hand to her chest, feigning shock. “Leila, I had no idea-”
“Oh God,” I said disgustedly. “Please don’t insult my intelligence on top of everything else.”
She slowly lowered her hand, eyeballing my dad. “What did you say, Earl?”
“Dad didn’t say anything,” I fumed. “It doesn’t take world-class espionage to figure it out—especially when your new bffs aren’t known for their discretion.”
Her shoulders slumped a little, her face falling as she realized she was caught. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. It’s just been like a real life movie over the past few weeks!” She let out a rueful sigh, like she was recounting something majestic but from the look on Dad’s face I had a feeling it was closer to a nightmare.
She stepped around me, eyes on the old coffee table. Pictures were scattered all over the glass top, creating a virtual timeline of my life. It started with wide eyed baby photos, trailing through the awkward adolescent years, and leading up to snapshots from my college graduation.
Mom swiped a couple, holding them up like they were a prize. “Some were offering money for copies. They said they’d be worth a pretty penny once you become Mrs. Whitmore!”
I looked at her like she’d just grown an extra limb before my very eyes. “Mrs. Whitmore? We’ve barely been a couple for a month and you’re already planning our wedding?”
She let out a dismissive chortle. “People have gotten married with a lot less time under their belt than that.” She kicked off her heels and fell back into the loveseat. “Don’t try to play coy with me Leila Rae. I’ve seen the pictures of you and that boy gallivanting all over the world, looking positively cozy.”
The emphasis she put on cozy made my cheeks darken but I reined the embarrassment back in. I wasn’t a child anymore. Her meddling had real consequences now. I wouldn’t allow my mother’s desire to create a gossip sensation dictate my love life.
“I thought I made myself crystal clear on the phone,” I began, “But just in case, I’ll say it again. I don’t want you talking about me or Jacob to the press, paparazzi, your book club, the bingo girls, anyone.”
She pouted, blinking up at me through spider like eyelashes. “I really don’t see the harm.”
“We both know that’s not true.” She opened her mouth to plead her case, but I didn’t even take a breath. “I don’t want you talking to them. I’m begging you, Mom. For me.”
She chewed on her bottom lip, her brown eyes conciliatory as she gave me a slight nod. “Okay.”
“Thank you,” I relaxed a little, even though I knew that she’d probably conveniently forget about our agreement in a few days. A week, tops.
“So tell us all about your trip,” she said, changing the subject like a pro.
I gave her a small smile. “Italy was amazing. The architecture, the smells, the food, the art…”
Jacob made sure we did everything under the sun, but I still felt like there were countless things to unearth and discover. Her eyes widened as I told her about the hotels and dresses and the jets and cars. I left out the bits about Rachel, she still was a client and now that my mother was buddies with people dying for a juicy story, the last thing I needed to do was serve Rachel up on a platter.
“So when do we get to meet Jacob?” Mom was practically salivating, rubbing her hands together with anticipation. I didn’t dare tell her that he wanted to come home with me today, but I wasn’t quite ready for the ‘meet the folks’ stage.
“He’s pretty busy getting settled back in after the trip.” I lied, almost blushing at how easily the lie rolled off my tongue.
You want to meet them?
Of course I do. Why wouldn’t I want to meet the two people that helped create the most deliciously stubborn woman I’ve ever met?
“Well maybe you can bring him to Mass one Sunday.” When she saw the ‘hell no’ written on my face, she added. “Or Sunday dinner.”
My mother was from the South, born and bred in the church and since my dad was pretty much a Catholic in name only, he adopted her faith. I had not so fond memories of Sunday school and spending summers at bible camp. Once I was eighteen and living on my own, church was the first habit I kicked and I had a feeling Jacob had no interest in spending his time in church when we’d spent the last month doing all sorts of highly sinful things.
“I’m starved,” I said, diverting the conversation to safer waters. “Anyone want a sandwich?”
She stood up immediately. “Let me get you some leftover spaghetti.”
I followed her in the kitchen, finally beginning to unwind—until the house phone shrilled to life.
“I bet that’s Lucy,” Mom said with an uncomfortable chuckle when she saw the dark glare I threw at phone. “She and I usually catch a matinee Thursday afternoons.”
“Uh huh,” I grunted, not believing that for a second. We both knew that was some photographer or tabloid writer, dangling some juicy carrot in exchange for a picture or lead on me and Jacob. But once the phone stopped ringing and the room filled with the fragrant aroma of tomatoes, peppers, and garlic, I forgot my annoyance and turned to grab a couple of plates. My mom began spooning out pasta and I stepped forward to help.
“Let me do that, Mom.”
“I got it.” The firmness in her tone left no room for contestation. “You can set the table.”
I went to the fridge and pulled out a pitcher of tea, filled the cups, put out napkins and lined the placemats with utensils. I sat in my seat, my mouth watering as she brought over two plates. We both ate in silence for a few minutes and it was pure bliss to not focus on anything but the taste of the food.
“This is delicious,” I said finally. Even though I’d had her spaghetti countless times before, it felt like the first time.
My mother flashed a warm smile before she took a sip of her drink. “It’s Grandma Nathalie’s recipe.” Grandma Nathalie was my father’s mother. She’d come to the states from Sicily with her family when she was a child. “She gave it to me after I married your father.”
I knew what was next, but it didn’t stop me from hoping she wouldn’t go there. “And I’ll give it to you when you marry Jacob.”
I stabbed at my salad with swift, vicious strokes. “Even if I did cook, I won’t need the recipe, Mom.”
“Of course you will. Even if he can afford fancy restaurants, there’s nothing like a good, home cooked meal.”
Other than the obvious fact that Jacob and I were nowhere near the wedding planning stage of our relationship, my mother was conveniently forgetting that the last time I’d tried making a home cooked meal I’d nearly burned our house down.
“Actually, I think Jacob is more likely to the cook the meals.”
Her brown eyebrows arched in surprise. “He is?”
“Well, I’ve only had his breakfast,” I said after swallowing a forkful of spaghetti. “But it was killer.”
“Huh,” she said with a chuckle. “I would have guessed the only thing he knew about cooking was it being something the help did.”
“Nope,” I said, pride settling on my skin like a warm blanket. “He’s actually full of surprises.”
I wished I could take t
he last bit back as soon as it came out but it was too late, Mom was already on the edge of her seat, hoping my admission was the opening for some juicy tidbit.
I shook my head and laughed despite myself. Even if I was going to share anything, the last person on earth I’d share it with would be my mother—even if she hadn’t planned to set me up with the vultures.
She thankfully didn’t push the issue. “So I can tell you’re enjoying the new beau...how about the new job?”
I dropped my eyes to the flowered tablecloth, flushing even though I knew there was no way my mother knew about the contracts or its sexual contexts. Still, it was impossible to not think about submission when I thought about my position as Jacob’s personal assistant. And when I thought about submission, it was impossible not to think about how right it felt to be bound, exposed, and completely at his mercy. Those thoughts sent all sorts of needs and pangs to the most inappropriate places in the world considering my mother was sitting a few feet from me.
I cleared my throat and forced my eyes back up to meet hers. “The job is great. I think I told you over the phone that we were in Venice for a junket. It was really cool to be behind the scenes and actually see what it entails and managing our client to make sure everything went off without a hitch.”
She propped her chin on the palm of her hand, looking at me with stars in her eyes. “You should have seen the girls’ faces when I told them you were working at Whitmore and Creighton. Everyone just loves that PR show.”
PR was one of the highest rated reality shows on TLC and had recently been renewed for another season. I remembered watching it, wishing, hoping I’d get a chance to work at Whitmore and Creighton. I still couldn’t believe I was an employee, or that one of the producers had approached me for some on-air segments before I’d even gotten back stateside. I wasn’t silly enough to think that they were interested in me alone, but since I was dating Jacob, I was suddenly a person of interest.
“Maybe we can have lunch one of these days,” Mom said dreamily. “I’ll take the train out to the city and we’ll eat at one of the places where a salad costs thirty bucks.”
