Boxed Set: The His Submissive Series Complete Collection (Part One-Part Twelve) (29 page)

Where Jacob’s office and penthouse were all style with cool lines and sleek furnishings, hers was warm and homey. She had her blinds removed and replaced with sheer curtains that let the sunshine in, breathing life into the plants perched on stands. There was an off white armchair that seemed perfect for curling up in. Her desk had an antique finish punctuated by photos of smiling faces and exotic locations. I sat down in a cozy high back chair, realizing I’d been wrong about her, thinking she was as cold as Natasha and Missy since she’d barely said two words to me since I’d been back.

She finished the rest of her conversation, her French impressive, especially since the extent of my vocabulary was ‘bon jour’ and ‘au revoir’.

She rose from her chair, extending her hand. “Thanks so much for coming in. Is it okay if I call you Leila?”

I was taken aback, surprised because everyone else just called me that by default. Even as Jacob’s assistant, my place was still relatively low on the totem pole.

I shook her hand heartily. “Leila’s just fine.”

“And you can call me Claudia,” she said with a kind smile. “It’s nice to see you before an incident and not after.”

I thought back to Rachel’s phony suicide attempt and Mrs. Joy’s frantic, worried gaze. She was still way more together than I would have been facing Jacob when he was angry. And even though our current circumstances were less than ideal, I’d seen enough episodes of
PR
to know that when shit hit the fan, you wanted Claudia Joy in your corner.

“Can I get you anything?” she asked. “Something to eat or drink?”

I had to force myself to not blurt out ‘YES!’ but she gave me a half smirk and offered me a slice of her flatbread pizza and passed me a bottle of water. I scarfed it down before I had time to be embarrassed.

“Jacob called me early this morning.”

From the way she said early, I wondered if he called her after I finally succumbed to sleep at 3am. “Sorry.”

“Oh, you don’t have to apologize,” she wiped the slate clean with a flick of her wrist. “We don’t really work in a vacuum. We’re needed when we’re needed.” She leaned back in her chair. “He didn’t seem to know much more besides the photographer snapped a picture of you kissing Cade Wallace.”

I nearly choked on water. “I did
not
kiss him.”

Claudia gave me a long, sympathetic look before answering. “That’s all well and good, but this job is all about appearances. Even if it looked like something inappropriate was going on then that’s all that matters.”

She slid a sheet of paper across the desk with names and addresses printed in red ink. “From his description of the photographer, I connected with my resources and have narrowed it down to three possibilities. There’s a slim chance he’s freelance, but I doubt it. There’s nothing on the wire yet, so he’s probably just sitting on the pictures until the price is right.”

I looked down at the sheet, nodding slowly as I read the names. James Kent with R&I Pics, Luis Salazar with Perfect Shot and Mike Warsaw with JNS. I gave her my full attention, waiting for further instructions, but she just watched me like it was my turn at the mic.

"So what’s next?” I asked. “We make contact and figure out an arrangement?"

"‘We’?" She looked at me strangely then closed her eyes and let out an 'oh' of realization. "I just assumed he would have explained this.”

My cheeks heated. He hadn’t really done much explaining. Or talking. “I haven’t, uh, touched base with him this morning.”

“I see.” She cleared her throat and nervously tucked her inky black bangs behind her ear. “Mr. Whitmore didn't even want me to narrow down the names, but I told him unless you have experience it would be like finding a needle in a hay stack. He put his foot down as far as me making any contact on your behalf."

“What?” I said, completely lost.

"There is no ‘we’, Leila,” she elaborated. “You can use the expense account if you need to purchase the photo and rights, but you will be the one face to face, brokering any deal."

I blinked, not sure I heard right. "Me? But...why would they even talk to me? How could I make them talk to me?"

"You handled the situation in Venice like a pro," Claudia answered. "Just make them an offer they can't refuse." She smiled right through my leery gaze. "You can do this, Leila. I know you can.”

She said it so simply that I rose and took the paper with a confidence I didn't feel, strutting out of her office like I was the one with my name over the door. It wasn't until I was pulling into downtown traffic, steering toward JNS, that it hit me.

I was scared shitless.

No amount of psyching myself dulled the fact that I was about to face the very people that I painstakingly avoided. Photographers. Paparazzi. Locusts whose sole purpose was to snap and devour anything that could make them a quick buck.

A shot of an overly thin starlet stuffing a greasy slice of pizza in her mouth. A suave leading man in his Sunday worst, looking nothing like the drool worthy eye candy women flocked to the cinema to see. The seasoned actor and family man snuggled up to someone that was definitely not his wife. Or a fish out of water girl who had the attention of two celebrity suitors, cementing her place on the black list of females all over.

I pulled into a parking space at the grungy looking building on Eighteenth Street. It was the kind of building that gave off a bad vibe, the aged concrete and steel more of a prison than a place of business.

There were no pictures hung with care or guard watching the comings and goings. There was no one to get rid of the homeless guy that followed me inside, like harassment would make me empty my pockets.

An older woman with gray hair and a no-nonsense stature stopped shuffling through her mail a few feet away, peering at us over the rim of her glasses.

"Jimmy, I think the young lady told you no,” she growled.

He gave her a gummy smile, flipping his personality like Jekyll and Hyde. "I didn't mean no harm, Jules."

"Uh huh," She crooked her thumb at the door. "Get outta here before I whip out my taser."

The man practically kowtowed, throwing me one last look of disgust before hustling out the exit.

"Thank you so much," I told her, relaxing with a sigh.

"No prob," she said nonchalantly. "You gotta be firm, honey. Otherwise people can smell the fear on ya."

I wasn't sure what to say to that so I just gave her a nervous chuckle and glanced down at my paper. Sweat blurred the suite number so I scanned the lobby for a directory. I found what was left of one and JNS wasn't even listed.

"Whatcha looking for?" she piped behind me.

"JNS?"

She folded the papers under her arm. "Well ain't that a coincidence? I'm the J in that acronym." She gave me the once over before settling on my face. "Julie Kaplan." Before I could even say my name, she cut right to the chase. "What firm you work for?"

I swallowed. "Whitmore and Creighton."

She let out an impressed whistle and started down a narrow hallway, moving with a surprising speed for her girth. She was practically to the elevator before she turned around and looked back at me like I was a kid doing something ridiculous like eating glue.

"Whatcha waiting for? I know you didn't drive all the way here to get felt up by our honorary doorman." She pulled up the elevator gate and made a grand flourish. “After you.”

We slid into the old elevator and it crept upward at a snail’s pace. I gave my skirt a futile smoothing, shifting my weight from foot to foot.

“So what picture is Jacob trying to get rid of?”

I froze. I wasn’t sure where Jacob and I stood or what I was going to say to the photographer, but I was pretty sure that he didn’t want his name to be anywhere near this situation.

“I, um-” I looked at the floor indicator, willing the elevator to move faster so I could get off the hook. I glanced down at the paper, a name jumping out at me. “Mike Warsaw. I wanted to see if he took a picture of a...client.”

“Warsaw’s out of the office today, but if it’s juicy enough for you to come down here, I’m sure I could help you. Who’s the picture of?”

“An actor and a-” I cleared my throat and decided to be vague as possible. “Local girl.”

She scratched her chin, forehead winkled as she thought it over. She snapped her fingers, just as the elevator shuddered to a stop on our floor.

“The action guy, right? Cade Wallace?”

I nodded, my whole body tensing.

She stepped out of the elevator. “That picture set was sold this morning.” She frowned. “I still don’t understand why you’re here though.”

I swallowed the knot in my throat. I was so close. “I was hoping we could settle it before you sold it to a magazine.”

“We didn’t sell it to a magazine,” she said, crossing her arms. “We sold it to Cade Wallace.”

****

I
dove head first into work. I fleshed out client dockets, updated calendars and delivered all messages to their appropriate recipients, trying to keep it together. Jacob still hadn’t talked to me in two days. And then there was the whole Cade thing.

Why would he buy the picture? What did he have to gain?

I turned my attention back to the task list on my screen, forcing Cade from my mind. Naturally, the next thing on the list was contacting Lisa Jones, Cade’s personal assistant.

I begrudgingly clicked open a new tab, searching for Lisa’s contact number.

I put the phone on speaker and dialed the number. I was being silly. It wasn’t like I had to deal with Cade. The third ring ended abruptly and a voice much too deep to be Lisa’s flowed through the speakers.

“Lisa Jones’ phone.”

My throat tightened and my eyes nearly bulged from my head.

“Helloooo?” Cade held the o, trailing off suggestively. Taunting me.

I needed to say something because calling right back would be infinitely more awkward than the first time around.

“Hi.” My voice was tiny, a hoarse, pathetic whisper. I coughed and gave myself a swift kick in the ass before I said it again. With feeling. And not like I was still that girl gazing at the contours of her favorite actor’s body. “Hello, this is-”

“Leila,” I heard him rearranging, giving me his full attention. “What’s up?”

I closed my eyes, gathering my wits about me. “Mr. Wallace-”

“Cade.”

“Mr. Wallace,” I said pointedly, ignoring him. “I was trying to reach your assistant. Is the number on her card was incorrect?”

“Nope,” he said smoothly. “She’s right here.” He let out a chuckle. “Giving me the evil eye for answering her phone. When I saw Whitmore and Creighton flashing, I thought it might be you and-”

“Could I please speak with Ms. Jones?”

“Well, I can tell you she likes that Mr./Mrs. stuff even less than me.” After he realized his chuckles weren’t contagious, he got serious. “What’s up? I know you called for Lisa, but I’m the next best thing.”

My first thought was to stand my ground and refuse to carry on a conversation with him, but I realized that the quicker I just spit it out, the quicker I could disconnect.

Ask about the pictures!
“I’m just confirming the schedule for tomorrow night,” I said, ignoring the stifling curiosity. Inquiring minds did
not
need to know. The pictures weren’t on TMZ and that’s all that mattered. “I wanted to advise you about-”

“I took care of the pictures.”

I gulped, not sure what to say. Not sure what he expected from me.

“Hello?” he snapped. “Still there?”

“Y-Yes,” I turned my chair to the corner and dropped my volume. “What do you want me to say?”

“Thank you, maybe?” he bit off. “I did it for you.”

I fingered the phone cord, hating how his last sentence made me feel. I couldn’t go there. I wouldn’t.

“To be honest,” he continued, not letting me clear the air, “I figured the guy would fare better with me. Whitmore would have probably threatened the poor guy for just taking a couple of harmless pictures. Busted kneecaps, horse’s head, financial ruin or something like that. He seems like a fairly creative guy.”

“Are you being serious right now?” I found zero amusement in his shootout to
The Godfather
or Jacob insults tucked in a joke. “You don’t even know him. And not that it’s any of your business, but I was going to talk to the photographer. I was going to take care of it.” The line went silent but I knew we were still connected. “I didn’t ask for your help. I don’t need your help.”

He finally found his tongue. “Is that right?”

“That’s right.”

“And how were you planning on taking care of it? Wielding the mighty Whitmore and Creighton bank account? Or maybe you were going to wear something low cut?”

I tightened my grip on my phone, trying desperately to choose my words wisely. He insulted Jacob and apparently I was next in line. The guy I’d gotten to know was playful, but this wasn’t fun and games. He was being downright mean.

“If there’s nothing else,” I said icily. “I have other things to take care of and I’m sure you’re a busy guy.”

“Would it really have been so horrible?”

I slackened my grip, expecting something sarcastic, but the change in his voice caught me by surprise. “What?”

“If we had kissed.”

“Yes.” I didn’t miss a beat, even though my heart was pounding. “It would have been horrible. I have a boyfriend, Ca—Mr. Wallace. I shouldn’t have met you for coffee in the first place.”

“Then why did you?”

“Because...” I faltered, unarmed and unprepared to answer his valid question. It was one I’d asked myself. One Jacob asked with his glare when I came clean. And I had an answer. “Because I’m a fan of your work.”

“Bullshit,” he scoffed. “You can tell your billionaire playmate that lie, but I was inches from you. Close enough that I could really see, Leila.”

My nostrils flared angrily. I just wanted to hang up the phone, to throw it across the room, but I didn’t. I listened to him poke holes in my logical explanation, peeling back the layers until he got to the chilling truth beneath.

“You like me, Leila.”

“As a client,” I hissed stubbornly. “I’m not interested in anything more than that.”