Читать книгу Seduced By The Mogul - Pamela Yaye - Страница 11

Chapter 3

Jordana was miserable, more depressed than a high school senior without a prom date, and her telemarketing job was the reason why. Only three hours into her shift, and she wanted to go home and crawl into bed. Massaging her temples, she kicked off her gold ballet flats, and took a moment to gather herself. Ringing telephones, animated chatter and country music filled the air. The incessant noise inside LA Marketing Enterprises made it hard for her to think.

Her thoughts wandered, returning to the conversation she’d had with the loud, hostile Texan minutes earlier. Making fundraising calls on behalf of charitable organizations was an honorable endeavor, something to be proud of, but Jordana was tired of being a human punching bag. People insulted her on a daily basis, calling her horrible, vulgar names. But she couldn’t defend herself. She’d worked numerous jobs since moving to LA, everything from waitressing to babysitting and tutoring, but nothing was more intolerable than being a telemarketer.

What have I done? What was I thinking? Why did I leave my cushy job with the Robinson family? The weight of her despair was crushing, but there was nothing Jordana could do about it. Not unless I want to be homeless, she thought glumly, feeling her shoulders sag. A year ago, she was a live-in nanny, taking care of an autistic child in Bel Air, and although she loved the two-year-old boy as if he were her own, she hated the long hours. She couldn’t attend casting calls, lost touch with her girlfriends and rarely had days off. For that reason, she’d resigned, moved in with her best friend, Waverly Burke, and decided to pursue her dreams wholeheartedly. Her agent, Fallon O’Neal, was sweet, but tough when she had to be. Jordana knew the former child star had her best interests in heart.

Jordana straightened in her chair, and adjusted her headset. Slapping a smile on her face, she greeted the caller. “Hello, Mr. Okafor,” she said, with fake enthusiasm. “How are you doing this morning?”

“Who’s this?” croaked a male voice, with a heavy Nigerian accent. “What do you want?”

“I’m glad you asked. My name is Jordana Sharpe, and I’m calling on behalf of—”

“Damn telemarketers,” he grumbled, interrupting her. “Why are you harassing me? Don’t you have better things to do than ruin my day off?”

Jordana pressed her lips together to trap a scream inside. No matter what he said, she’d remain on the line. She had no choice. If she hung up, she’d be sent home without pay, and Jordana needed her paycheck.

“I understand that you are busy, so I will keep this brief.”

“Don’t call here again, stupid.”

Click.

Swiping off her headset, she dropped it on the desk, and slumped in her chair. Jordana released a deep breath, reminding herself not to take the caller’s comments personally. Her job was mentally and emotionally draining, and Jordana didn’t know how much more she could take. She had to put up with being verbally abused—all day, every day—and no one cared. Last month, she’d met with her supervisor, Mr. Lundqvist, but instead of being sympathetic, he’d told her to “suck it up and quit complaining.” Each week things got worse. Jordana wanted out.

But how? If I quit, I won’t be able to pay my rent, or enroll in acting classes. Staring up at the ceiling, with tears in her eyes, Jordana wondered if and when she’d ever get her “big break.” She’d been in LA for six years, and had nothing to show for it except debt, heartache and stress. Maybe her father, Fernán, was right; maybe she was fooling herself. Maybe it was time to pack it up and head home. He had said I’d never make it in this town, and I’m starting to believe him.

Tears pricked her eyes, and emotion clogged her throat, making it hard to swallow. The thought of leaving Los Angeles and returning to Des Moines saddened her. Everything she’d ever wanted was in LA, and she wasn’t ready—or willing—to concede defeat. At least not yet. Jordana snapped out of it, willing herself to be strong. She had an audition tomorrow and a meeting with her agent on Monday. If everything went according to plan she’d be one step closer to fulfilling her dream. She wasn’t giving up now, or ever. It didn’t matter what her dad or anyone else said. She would make it.

A tear spilled down her cheek, and Jordana slapped it away. Needing a moment to compose herself, she put on her shoes, and stood. At times like this, when she was feeling emotional and upset, a change of scenery helped improve her mood. A five-minute break was definitely in order.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

Glancing over her shoulder, she noticed her supervisor standing in the hallway, and strangled a groan. Mr. Lundqvist was a control freak, with bad breath, and his toothy grin made her skin crawl. “I’m going to the ladies’ room.”

“Again?” He raised a thick, bushy eyebrow. “You just went.”

No, I didn’t. Even if I did, what’s it to you? He was in her cubicle, questioning her no less, and had the nerve to look pissed, as if she was giving him the third degree for leaving his desk. Making a conscious decision not to raise her voice, she forced an easy-breezy smile, and spoke in a soft tone. “That’s not true,” she said calmly, resisting the urge to kick him in the shin. “I haven’t left my desk since I arrived this morning.”

“Fine.” Scowling, his face twisted in anger, he tapped the front of his watch with an index finger. “Hurry up. You have two minutes, not a second more.”

Glaring at him, Jordana wondered how many times he’d been dropped on his head as a child. She wanted to tell Mr. Lundqvist to jump off the nearest bridge, but remembered her rent was due at the end of the mouth, and bit the inside of her cheek.

“Get going, Sharpe. I’m timing you.”

Jordana grabbed her tote bag and fled her cubicle. Walking through the office, she noticed how bleak the mood was and stared out the window. Thick clouds covered the sky, and smog cast a dark haze over the city. The dreary weather mirrored her disposition, but Jordana was determined not to wallow in self-pity. She had a lot to be thankful for. She had great friends, auditions coming up, and the best news of all, her mom was healthy again. Painful memories surfaced, but she quickly shook them off, making up her mind to focus on the future, not the past.

In the washroom, Jordana touched up her makeup and assessed her look. Peering into the mirror, she adjusted her leather beaded headband. Her tunic-style dress skimmed her hips, and her fringed sandals drew attention to her legs. Thanks to her Cuban father and Haitian mother, she had wild, unruly curls, a complexion smoother than honey and more curves than a winding road. Dante told her she had an exotic, one-of-a-kind look, but in a city overrun with beautiful women, Jordana didn’t know if he was telling the truth or just being nice.

Images of him filled her mind and a smile overwhelmed her mouth. Dante was one of her best friends, someone she could count on. Jordana felt fortunate to have him in her life. On the surface, they seemed to have nothing in common. She was a small-town girl from a broken home living paycheck to paycheck, and he was a real estate mogul who made millions in his sleep. Surprisingly, their differences drew them together, not apart. Once a week they met at his favorite pub, and over appetizers, they’d have long, intense discussions.

Curious how Dante was doing—and her favorite four-year-old, Matteo—Jordana took her cell phone out of her bag and punched in her password. To her surprise, she had a new text message from Dante, and although it was only two sentences, it made her feel incredibly special. No surprise. The high-powered businessman was in a league of his own, and his thoughtfulness never ceased to amaze her. He wanted to take her to lunch at the best Italian restaurant in the city, and the thought of seeing him again excited her. Funny, considering the first time they met she thought he was an arrogant prick. Over time, she’d realized there was more to Dante than what met the eye, and they’d become fast friends.

Before she could respond to his message, her cell phone rang, and her mom’s picture popped up on the screen.

Dread churned inside the pit of her stomach. Her mom didn’t call often, only when there was a problem at home, and Jordana feared the worst. What was it this time? Was her mom short on money again? Was she calling to beg her to come back home?

Conquering her nerves, she blew out a deep breath, and hit the FaceTime button. A gasp fell from her lips. Mascara stained her mom’s cheeks, and her hair was disheveled, sticking up in every direction. As a child, she’d thought her mom was the most beautiful woman in the world, but life hadn’t been kind to her, and the dark circles under her eyes made her look older than her fifty-eight years. “Mom, what’s wrong?”

“I—I—I got another letter from Wells Fargo,” she stammered.

Confused, she frowned and shook her head. “Another letter?” she repeated, trying to make sense of her mother’s words. “When did you receive the first one?”

Helene sniffed, hanging her head.

“Talk to me, Mom. I want to know what’s going on.”

“I didn’t want to bother you at work, but when I read the notice I got scared and I didn’t know who else to call...” Trailing off, she wiped at her eyes. “I thought of giving your brothers a ring, but these days they never pick up when I call. It’s like they’re avoiding me.”

“Mom, don’t worry. You’re not bothering me. I can talk.” It was a lie, she couldn’t, but Jordana didn’t want to make her mom feel worse than she already did.

Glancing at her bracelet-style watch, she realized she’d been gone for six minutes, and hoped her supervisor wasn’t actually timing her. Mr. Lundqvist took great pleasure in embarrassing people, especially the female staff. But at the moment, Jordana didn’t care. Helene was upset, and she wasn’t going to abandon her mom in her time of need.

“I’m going to lose my house...the house I raised you and your brothers in...”

Hearing a bang, Jordana cranked her head to the right. What was that?

“Jordana, are you in there? You’ve been gone seven minutes. If you don’t come out right this instant I’m writing you up for insubordination!”

Startled, she stared at the bathroom door. Her supervisor was yelling her name like a deranged lunatic, but Jordana didn’t move. Screw him. She’d explain the situation to him later, and if that didn’t work, she’d take the matter to HR. She wasn’t letting a psycho with a superiority complex bully her.

The banging stopped, and Jordana released the breath she was holding.

“Mom, I have to get back to work, but can you read me the letter before I go?”

Panic streaked across her face. Growing up in Haiti in a family of eight, her mother had never gone to elementary school. She didn’t learn to read and write until she immigrated to America at nineteen. In spite of the setbacks she’d faced, Helene had tried her best to be a good mother. She didn’t always get it right, and continued to struggle with her own inner demons, but Jordana adored her mom, loved her more than anything in the world.

Her dad was another story.

At the thought of him, her stomach churned. Fernán, was an athletic recruiter for a professional soccer team. The more money he’d made, the less time he’d spent with their family. He traveled the world, living it up like a frat boy with no responsibilities. Jordana resented him for leaving them behind. And for favoring her two older brothers, Carlito and Raymon. She’d never had a good relationship with her dad, not even when she was a kid, and these days they rarely spoke. They’d had a heated argument at Carlito’s wedding, and a year later Jordana was still seething about the hurtful things he’d said about Helene. For that reason she’d never ask him for financial help. “Take your time, Mom. You can do it.”

Jordana heard papers ruffle, watching as her mom wiped her tear-stained cheeks, and put on her eyeglasses. “Go ahead,” she prompted, with a nod of encouragement. “I’m listening.”

Helene straightened in her chair. Holding her head up high, she rested a hand on her chest and cleared her throat.

“Dear Ms. Sharpe. This letter is a formal notification that you are in default of your obligation to make payments on your home loan, account number 573189. This account holds a current sum of thirty-nine thousand dollars, payable on June 30...”

Her mom struggled to read some of the words, but it didn’t matter. It was a foreclosure notice, the worst piece of mail a homeowner could ever receive, and the more Helene read, the sicker Jordana felt. Slumping against the tile wall, she touched a hand to her clammy face. Her mouth watered, craving a cold drink to quench her thirst. In the past, when she felt stressed, she’d hit the clubs with her girlfriends, dancing and drinking for hours.

God, I’d do anything for a— Jordana pressed her eyes shut, blocked the thought from entering her mind. I’ve changed. I’m a different person now. And I won’t live in the past.

“This amount has been overdue for ninety days, and you have ignored multiple requests to make a payment,” Helene continued. “Unless the current sum is paid by the listed due date, we have no choice but to begin the foreclosure process on your home...”

The air thinned, and the walls closed in, making it impossible for Jordana to breathe. Her head was spinning, throbbing in pain, and her throat was so dry it hurt to talk. “Ninety days? Mom, why haven’t you been making your mortgage payments?”

“I didn’t have the money. My hours were cut, and I don’t have any savings.”

Jordana nodded in understanding. Her mom earned peanuts as a housekeeper, and the families she worked for often canceled at the last minute. “I was just there. Why didn’t you say anything? I could have gone with you to the bank and spoken to the loan officer.”

Helene dropped her gaze to her lap. “I was embarrassed and ashamed.”

Jordana’s heart overflowed with sympathy. Her mom was a proud woman who’d rather go without than ask for help. Jordana understood. She was the same way. What am I going to do? Her salary was barely enough to support herself, let alone Helene. But she’d never forgive herself if she stood by and let the bank take her mother’s home. She considered calling her dad, but he’d made it abundantly clear, on more than one occasion, that Helene wasn’t his responsibility anymore. Her parents had never legally married, and after twelve years together her father had checked out of the relationship, leaving her mother to fend for herself. Her mom had been in financial troubles for as long as she could remember, but even during her worst moments, she’d never seen Helene lose her smile. Until today. She was shaking, sobbing uncontrollably, nothing like the strong, confident woman who’d raised her. “Mom, don’t cry.”

“I don’t want to lose the house. It’s all I have.”

“You won’t. We’ll think of something.”

Helene dabbed at her eyes with her fingertips. “We will?”

“Of course. We’re in this together, right, Mom?”

A sad smile touched her lips. “But, the letter says—”

“I don’t care what the letter says. I’ll get the money.”

“How?” Helene reached into her blouse, took out a Kleenex and blew her nose. “Your brothers will never help, and you earn minimum wage.”

Mom, I know, don’t remind me.

“I’ll think of something. Just trust me, okay?”

“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” she said quietly. “You’re such a good girl.”

“Mom, I have to go. Are you going to your meeting tonight?”

The silence was deafening, lasting so long Jordana had to repeat the question.

“I don’t feel like it. Not tonight. I want to stay home.”

Jordana didn’t push. Not this time. “Okay, Mom. I’ll call you later.”

“Have a good day, honey. I love you.”

“I love you, too, Mom. Try not to worry.”

Ending the call, she dropped her cell in her purse, and tiptoed toward the bathroom door. Opening it, she peered down the hall, in search of her crotchety supervisor. Finding the coast clear, she hustled down the corridor as fast as her ballet flats could take her.

Approaching her cubicle, she heard male voices, and frowned. Her supervisor was talking to someone, and the person sounded a lot like Dante. No way. It couldn’t be. He was surely at his fancy downtown office, not at LA Marketing Enterprises shooting the breeze with her cranky boss.

Turning the corner, she felt her eyes widen and her legs wobble. Jordana stood there, with her mouth agape, unable to believe what she was seeing. Is this for real? Is my supervisor actually laughing with Dante, or am I dreaming with my eyes open?

“There you are!” her supervisor said brightly, his smile showcasing every crooked tooth. “I was just telling Mr. Morretti what a valuable member you are of the LA Marketing team, and how much I enjoy working with you.”

That confirmed it. She was dreaming. Had to be. There was no way in hell her supervisor was publicly praising her. Yelling and screaming, yes; compliments, no.

“Ms. Sharpe, are you okay?”

Dante moved in close, and rested his hand on her arm, giving it a light squeeze.

Goose bumps tickled her skin, and her temperature rose. He was a friend, but he was also a man—a very attractive man who reeked of masculinity—and his touch excited her. In his designer sunglasses and impeccable black suit, Dante was the picture of a young debonair professional at the top of his game. He was hot, no doubt about it, but his appeal didn’t lie in his soulful eyes, and dreamy grin, but in his extraordinary generosity.

“You look upset. Is something the matter?”

Before Jordana could answer, her supervisor spoke up. “Of course not. She’s excited about your business lunch, and anxious to tell you about our wonderful agency.”

Jordana reclaimed her voice. “What business lunch?”

“Ms. Sharpe, I hope you haven’t forgotten our plans.”

What plans? We don’t have any! she wanted to scream, giving him a bewildered, what-are-you-talking-about look. And why are you calling me Ms. Sharpe? We’re friends, not strangers. Heck, I’ve known you for almost two years!

“No, no, of course not,” Mr. Lundqvist said, adamantly shaking his head. He gave Jordana a shove, practically pushing her into Dante’s arms. He spoke in a loud, booming voice, drawing the attention of everyone in the office. One by one, her colleagues poked their heads out of their cubicles. They all wore curious expressions on their faces, and the women were slobbering all over their fancy designer clothes.

That was no surprise. Dante attracted attention everywhere he went.

The real estate mogul had a reputation among women, and the house parties at his Beverly Hills mansion were legendary, but he was more than just a handsome face and hot body. He had a keen mind for business, was as gregarious as they came, and was a great listener. He was, without a doubt, the smartest person Jordana knew, and she valued his friendship. He was always teaching her new things—such as how to select the perfect bottle of wine for a pasta dinner—and if not for his support she probably would have returned to Des Moines a long time ago.

“Ms. Sharpe has been preparing for your meeting for several days now, and she’s anxious to tell you about the charities we support here at LA Marketing Enterprises.”

“I’m happy to hear that, sir.” Dante put on his sunglasses, and took his keys out of his pocket. “It’s been a pleasure speaking with you, and I look forward to doing it again soon.”

Pride covered his fleshy face. “Thank you, Mr. Morretti. I’d like that very much.”

“I’m ready when you are, Ms. Sharpe. Shall we go?”

A giggle tickled Jordana’s throat.

“Do whatever it takes to impress him.” Mr. Lundqvist spoke just loud enough for her to hear. “And don’t come back until you have a sizable donation. Understood?”