The Billionaire's Wife (Part One) (2 page)

He drove inside me in a single, absolute thrust and I let out a mournful cry of bliss. Sad because I'd never get enough of him. Elated because I'd get to spend the rest of my life finding out just how deep this rabbit hole went.

I clutched the chair helplessly as it rattled with every pounding thrust. He moved in and out of me like a man possessed. There was no rhyme or reason. He was wild, consumed by his lust. And I was a few little words away from exploding.

"Jacob, may I-"

His raw, guttural cry drowned out my question and I felt his warmth spread inside of me. I stood there, chest heaving, body so close to finding my own ecstasy. Clutching his still hard cock. Ready.

And then he pulled out of me.

I didn’t move. Still gripping the chair. Eyes looking straight ahead. My release slipping out of reach.

He always let me come.

Well, until just now.

I stood upright, questions volleying around my head like some brutal tennis match: He said he wasn't punishing me because of something I did, so what's going on? That can't be it—he gets his fill then goes on his merry way?

But I faced him and he was practically redressed. I watched in silence as he grabbed his coffee and advanced towards me. I took a little solace in the fact that he was at least giving me a kiss. He leaned in...and planted his lips on my forehead.

"You can get dressed."

I watched him go, hurt squeezing my vocal chords. And then I obeyed.

****

I
stared at my reflection in the chrome doors of the elevator. My chestnut curls were pinned up and away, a bun perched at the crown of my head. The scoop neck of my black sheath dress elongated my neck line...and drew my eyes to a red mark near my ear.

A little memento from Jacob.

I quickly tugged my hair free from the bun, the curly tendrils masking the redness. Not that it mattered, since my cheeks were more than picking up the slack in that department.

"Cut it out," I muttered, yanking my hair behind my ears and standing a little taller. The doors opened and I didn't teeter, despite the four inch heels. Despite the fact that my Saturday morning with Jacob had gone from best. Saturday. Ever! to Womp womp.

I walked down the sleek executive corridor, my heels clicking on the floor. I gave Jacob's secretary, Natasha Lancaster, a crisp nod. We wouldn't be having any slumber parties since she had treated me like a gnat in her martini from the day Jacob brought me to his office, but we'd called a ceasefire of sorts, keeping things as cordial and professional as possible.

Most days.

"Miss Montgomery—" she feigned frustration, letting out a heavy sigh. "I mean Mrs.
Whitmore
." When I glared at her, she shrugged a petite shoulder and flipped her white blonde hair. "I apologize. I guess I'm still getting used to it."

"Understandable," I said bitingly, not returning her fake little smile. "It has been only a year." And on the rare moments when she spared actual words for me, she called me 'Miss Montgomery', conveniently negating my marriage to Jacob and name change. "If there's nothing else, I have a busy morning ahead of me."

"And it just got busier," she continued, turning her attention back to her computer. "Robert Lenoir is having his daughter sent over this morning."

"What time?"

Her fingernails clacked on the keyboard. "What time is it?"

I glanced down at my cell. "9:07."

"Any minute now." That phony little smirk curled her lips. "If you could handle Mia Kent, I'm sure you'll do just fine."

She didn't mean it as a compliment, but I decided to let it go. Mia
was
doing well. She decided to take some time out of the public eye and when we talked a month ago, she was getting pretty serious with someone that wasn't toxic.

But Jessica Lenoir was a totally different story.

She was twenty-eight years old, but you'd think she was eighteen. Fresh out of some convent or uptight boarding school, drunk off the first taste of freedom. The tabloids were splashed with headlines about the heir to the Lenoir fortune. If she wasn't on a yacht, barely clothed, she was drugged out in some bathroom in New York or LA. She was far from the first party girl heiress spending thousands of dollars a night at the most exclusive clubs in the world...but she was the only one that would become the CEO of a billion dollar multinational corporation any day now.

Her father, Robert Lenoir, was terminally ill. He had no other children. And despite the advice of his board, he wanted his daughter to take over the company.

Jessica had a big image problem...and I was in charge of taking her from Hot Mess to Bad Ass Businesswoman. And apparently, that task was starting any minute now.

I dropped my satchel near the door and opened the blinds, letting the sunshine in. I hated that the first thought that sprung into my mind was how warm the sun felt on my skin on the balcony. How it stroked the heat between my thighs. A heat my husband created, then snuffed out. The wave of rejection crashed into all the questions. I asked him if everything was okay, and he looked at me with those bright eyes. He thought my question signified that
I
wasn't okay, and somehow it became about me and not in the way I wanted. I couldn't form the words to explain to him that I felt rejected. That for the first time since we met, I felt hollow after we'd been together.

I snapped the blinds shut, trying to block out the unwelcome dread that was doing numbers on my stomach.
Not here
. I had to check this stuff at the door. Wait until the clock ticked 5pm to meltdown.

"Are you Leila?"

I spun on my heels, trying to keep my annoyance on its intended target. Like Natasha who had a penchant for just letting people stroll into my office.

But when I faced Jessica Lenoir, I didn't feel remotely guilty for the scowl on my face. It went perfectly with the haughty expression on hers. I'd been expecting the woman from the gossip columns; bleary eyed, still dressed in her wrinkled dress from the night before, smudged makeup, teetering all over the place because she was still a little drunk.

The woman before me looked like she wouldn't just dominate a boardroom, but she'd chew it up and spit it out. She wore a blood red blazer with a ivory blouse beneath and tailored black slacks. Her heels knocked against the hardwood floor as she made herself at home, behind
my
desk.

She tossed a curtain of deep brown hair, jade green eyes cutting me off at the knees until I felt two feet tall. "So I'm here. Now what?"

I may have felt slightly off kilter by her abrupt entrance, not prepared to help build up someone that obviously had their shit together, but I wouldn't let her know that. I could tell from the way she didn't even blink that she was used to intimidating people. Walking all over them. Well, I had a killer poker face too.

"For starters, you can get out of my seat."

She made herself comfortable, sinking into the leather with a sigh. "You're my publicist, right? Which means you work for me. Which means technically-"

"You can get out of my seat, or I can call security and they'll remove you from this building."

Her fiery glare scorched the earth. I didn't back down but I was hoping she didn't call my bluff. I'd seen publicists do all but wipe the client's ass to keep them happy and hopefully, scandal free. But I had a feeling that this was a pivotal moment. It would determine how effective I could be. Someone like Jessica wouldn't respect someone that kissed her feet. What could I offer her, how could I help her if I was just like everyone else in her employ?

I had to separate myself. Show her that I was a fighter, and I'd fight to ensure that the world and investors saw that she was born to sit at the head of the table.

She blinked, then silently pulled herself to her feet. I bit back a smile as she circled back to the front of the desk, head still high like she was doing me a royal favor.

I didn't rub her nose in it, taking my place and getting right to it. "Why the charade?"

Her mouth twisted in confusion. "Excuse me?"

"Not a single hair out of place. Your makeup is perfection, enhancing your beauty without shouting it from the rooftops. Your outfit says young, sophisticated professional, and you walked into my office like a CEO would." I didn't mince words. "You've got the whole world believing that you're some spoiled brat who can't stay sober enough to stumble into your mansion without flashing the world a view of your coochie. No one takes you seriously, and I can tell from the way you're flaying me with your eyes right now that it drives you crazy." I folded my hands on my desk and gave her my full attention, because I was sure this would be one hell of a story. "So I'll ask again: why the charade?"

She pursed her lips, indignation scratching at her cheeks. "Are you my therapist or my publicist?"

"Are you going to answer my question so I can do my job?" I countered.

She gave me a long, quiet look, showing the first signs that there was more to her than meets the eye. She opened her mouth, her lips quivering and I could have clapped with glee because for the first time ever, I had a high maintenance client that wasn't going to make me chip away at the layers to get to the root of why they needed me in the first place. Because when it came down to it, I was kind of a therapist. I was the number they called when the shit inevitably hit the fan. I picked up the pieces and I made sure the world didn't notice the cracks.

Jessica snapped her mouth shut, jerking to her feet in a single, angry movement. "I just remembered I have an appointment I can't miss." When her lips curled she made a smile look like a snarl. "I'm throwing a welcome home party tomorrow night at my apartment on 25th. You should swing by...or wait for the pictures."

And with that she breezed out of my office.

Did she just dismiss me? And threaten me with some party that was sure to make my job that much more difficult?

I mowed a hand through my unruly hair with a groan. I loved my job, but some days...

Needing someone to vent to, to tell me that I could handle the spoiled rich girl masquerading as a sorority girl, I abandoned my post and made the walk down the corridor toward Jacob's office.

Natasha's eyes lifted from her task, taking in my dejected expression. She smiled like Christmas morning. "Tough meeting?"

I ignored her. "Is Jacob with anyone?"

"No, but he's on the-"

Done with the conversation, I started down the hall towards my husband. I could already feel his hands around me, holding me tight. Telling me I had this under control. Telling me that we were okay.

The sound of Jacob's voice stopped me cold. Jacob Whitmore had a reputation for being a force to be reckoned with when you crossed him. His voice always commanded attention, an innate power that made you want to take a knee like he was a king on a throne. But whoever he was talking to would get no mercy.

"After what happened in Venice, I told you that I wanted no more lies. No more secrets. And then you come to me with this." He let out a growl that made me take a step back. "Mom, this changes everything!"

"Ahem."

I went rigid, my body so tight that I turned to face Natasha as slowly as possible to keep from snapping. And I was in no hurry to see the look of amusement on her face.

Mrs. Whitmore, ear to the door. Too afraid to walk in and face her husband.

As much as Natasha was smiling today, you'd think she was a kind person. You'd be wrong.

"Trouble in paradise?" she mused, all teeth.

I fled back to my office, not confirming the obvious.

****

"S
o I think we should flash them."

"Sure," I grunted, practically inhaling my glass of wine.

"I’ll rip my shirt off and do a shimmy. Maybe even a strategic nipple slip."

I coughed, nearly squirting Merlot from my nose. I looked at my best friend, Megan Scott, who stared back at me with green eyed innocence like she hadn't just threatened to go Girls Gone Wild. "What did you just say?"

"Does it matter? I've been talking for the past five minutes. Apparently to myself,” she spat.

I winced, pushing the wine glass a few inches away.
Like that'll stop me.

She propped her chin on her hand with a sigh and leaned forward until she created a strawberry blonde wall that she hoped the cameras couldn't penetrate. "I'm still not used to it. Cameras following me when I'm running errands, waiting for me when I leave school-"

"I wish I had some sagely advice for you," I interrupted. "But I'm fresh out."

I expected her to pry, to at least call me out for not even flinching as people inched by, probably wondering if someone legitimately famous was near, then continuing on their way when they discovered we were just famous by association. I'd landed the billionaire playboy, and Megan was with Cade Wallace, an actor who currently had two movies tearing up the box office.

But Megan's gaze softened, her green eyes narrowing with concern, not suspicion. "What's going on? When we met last week you could barely take the smile off your face."

Memories hit me in a wave and I swayed in my seat. Or maybe that was due to the second glass of wine I'd nearly polished off in the last hour, paired with little more than cheese and crackers. I chalked up the warmth that took my face hostage to the alcohol, because admitting I was remembering how happy I was, and the cause of it, I was just reminding myself of how far I was from that place.

"I'm pretty sure you popped over fresh out of bed that day-"

My eyes bulged, imagining that everyone on the patio was tuned in to our conversation. "Megan!"

"It's not like I said the 's' word," she snorted, then raised an eyebrow with mischievous intent. "Then again, you're so hush hush about what happens behind those penthouse doors. Maybe you guys are a little closer to the 'f' word." Her lips split into a full on grin when I gasped. "Maybe the 'k' word?"

"That's none of your business," I spat, my cheeks on fire. "Do I ask what your sex life is like? No, because it's private. So just drop it."