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“Don’t be so hard on her. Everyone has a bad day.”
Following her down the hallway, he sniffed the air. A spicy aroma tickled his nose, and his stomach grumbled. Dante hated vegan food, but the apartment smelled so good his mouth watered with hungry anticipation.
“How’s the sweatshop?” he asked jokingly. After six years of being a nanny, Jordana had quit to pursue a career in acting. But after months of pounding the pavement with no luck, she’d accepted a job at a telemarketing agency. Dante loved independent women, but it bothered him that she didn’t tell him about her financial troubles. Typical Jordana. She’d rather suffer in silence than accept help. Her I’m-every-woman attitude drove him crazy. He loved showering his family and friends with gifts, and he wanted to spoil Jordana, too, but she wouldn’t let him. “Are you still thinking about quitting?”
“Every second of every day,” she quipped, entering the kitchen. Sliding on her cooking mitts, she bent over, opened the oven and took out the casserole dish. “It’s paying the bills, so I’m trying not to complain.”
“Come work for me.” It was a struggle to be a gentleman, but Dante kept his eyes on the wall clock and off her delicious backside. He’d never seen a pair of jean shorts look better, and he liked how they elongated her long brown legs. “I could use another executive assistant, and I think you’d be an asset to The Brokerage Group.”
“I’d never fit in at your company.”
“Why not? You’re smart, and beautiful, and—”
“Curvy,” she added, with a flick of her head. “You only hire tall, thin, surgically enhanced blondes, and that’s not me. Besides, my dream is to be an actress, not an executive assistant. I suck at answering phones, and I don’t know how to make coffee.”
“I don’t drink coffee. I drink tea.”
“Tea?” Jordana wore a funny face. “And you say you’re not a metrosexual? Right!”
Chuckling, he leaned against the wall and crossed his arms. Watching Jordana move around the kitchen made Dante think of all the times he’d returned home from work and found Lourdes and Matteo baking cookies.
Memories of happier days flashed in his mind. Playing soccer in the backyard, swimming, reading him bedtime stories. Dante talked big, pretended he didn’t need anyone, but he missed having his family around. That’s why he worked nonstop and traveled as much as he did. Work helped him forget his pain, his loneliness. Feeling a pang of sadness, he shook off his thoughts and wiped at his eyes with his fingertips.
“Here,” Jordana said, raising a silver serving spoon in the air. “Try this. It’s amazing.”
The soup was thick, seasoned with Italian herbs and filled with vegetables. It smelled good, like his grandmother’s tortellini stew. Since Dante was starving, he opened his mouth wide. He puckered his lips and scrunched up his nose. Swallowing hard, he forced the liquid down his throat, then rubbed a hand across his chest to alleviate the burning sensation.
“What do you think?”
“I think you should let me take you out for dinner.”
Her face fell. “You don’t like it?”
No, but I like you. You’re sweet and considerate, and you’re great with my son.
“Oh, well, it’s your loss, because my squash soup is not only healthy but delicious.”
“I’d rather have a hundred-dollar steak.”
Jordana pointed at the hallway. “Get out, before I throw you out!”
Dante chuckled. He wanted to talk to Jordana about his argument with Lourdes, but the kitchen was small and cramped, and he didn’t want to crowd her. Matteo was sitting at the kitchen table, coloring in his Batman-themed sketch pad. Seeing his son happy made Dante smile. “Fine,” he said. “I’m going to go watch the Royals game.”
“Knock yourself out.”
Exiting the kitchen, he admired the pictures hanging on the walls. The two-bedroom apartment was filled with knickknacks and secondhand furniture. But since his mother had taught him not to look down on people, he took a seat on the battered beige couch and swiped the remote control off the coffee table. Pointing it at the flat-screen TV, he searched for the baseball game on one of the local stations. His favorite sport was boxing, but since his cousin Demetri Morretti was the biggest baseball star on the planet, and also one of his wealthiest clients, Dante made a point to watch his games.
A sly grin warmed his mouth. They used to party like rock stars, but now that his cousin was happily married to his newscaster wife, Dante rarely saw him. He was looking forward to seeing his brothers and cousins at the end of July at the RaShawn Bishop Celebrity Golf tournament in Tampa. He was planning an impromptu bachelor party for Immanuel as well, and he couldn’t wait to see the look on his brother’s face when the exotic dancers he’d secretly booked stormed his hotel suite. Immanuel was tying the knot at the end of the year, and Dante wanted him to live it up one last time before his walk down the aisle.
“I swear, if I wasn’t madly in love with my boyfriend, I’d dump him and marry you!”
Dante cranked his head to the right, and spotted Jordana’s roommate standing in the hallway. He nodded his head in greeting. Waverly Burke was a heavy-set brunette in her midtwenties who looked decades older. She liked to flirt, and seemed to get a kick out of shocking him.
“I bought LA Business magazine yesterday and almost passed out when I saw the pictures of your new Bel Air estate. I knew you were rich, but I had no idea you were that rich.” Her eyes were wide with wonder, and she spoke in a reverent tone. “I still don’t understand what you do, though. Is a real estate developer like an architect?”
“No. My job is to purchase existing and undeveloped real estate properties and sell or lease the building for a profit.”
“Sounds risky. What if something goes wrong, or the property doesn’t sell?”
“That’s all part of the job. But with great risk comes great reward,” Dante said, repeating his personal mantra. “I work my ass off to ensure that doesn’t happen, and my persistence and determination has served me well in this cutthroat business.”
“I’d say. You’re rich and famous and your mansion is bigger than the White House!”
Jordana poked her head into the room. “Money isn’t everything, Waverly. Celebrities have fears and insecurities just like the rest of us, if not more.”
That’s right, Jordana. Tell her! The more money I make, the more problems I have.
“As if. Deciding what to wear to a movie premiere is hardly a serious dilemma.”
“I was a nanny for several high-profile couples, and trust me, being an A-lister is not as glamorous as it seems. They have zero privacy, and everything they say and do is scrutinized.”
Waverly snorted. “Wah, wah, wah. Cry me a river. That’s what they signed up for!”
“You’re not being fair.”
“Spare me. Celebrities have the best of everything, but they’re always bitching and complaining about how hard life is. Ugh. Rich people make me sick.” Her cheeks turned beet red, and a sheepish expression appeared on her face. “Present company excluded of course.”
Jordana caught Dante’s eye and mouthed, “Be nice. She’s my best friend.”
Nodding, he smiled to assure her everything was okay. And it was. Dante was used to women talking crazy and asking him personal questions, especially about Emilio—one of the best race-car drivers of all time—so he didn’t take offense to her roommate’s comments. Waverly was hilarious, outspoken and brash, and Dante wanted to get to know her better.
Yeah, agreed his inner voice. So she can help you win over Jordana!
“Is it true you have five brothers?” Waverly asked.
“Yes, and three are single.”
Waverly licked her lips. “Do tell.”
“Romeo is an investment banker based in Milan, Enrique is an entrepreneur with a slew of successful exotic-car dealerships in Europe and Markos is a celebrity divorce lawyer here in LA.”
“I’ll take the divorce attorney,” she said quickly, with a girlish laugh. “Mrs. Waverly Morretti sounds classy and sophisticated, don’t you think?”
“One tall, dark and handsome attorney coming right up!”
The women cracked up, and the sound made his chest puff up with pride. Dante loved making Jordana laugh, and would poke fun at himself just to see her smile. Always positive and upbeat, she was a light who glowed from within, and he enjoyed spending time with her—even though her heart belonged to another man.
“Dinner’s served,” Jordana announced, gesturing to the table. “Let’s eat. I’m famished.”
“You guys go ahead.” Dante found the Chicago Royals game on TV, used the remote control to increase the volume, and scanned the dugout for his cousin. “I’m not hungry.”
Her eyes narrowed, darkened. “You’re still expected to sit at the table.”
By whom? he thought, confused by her words. “I’m watching the game.”
Planting her hands on her hips, she flashed him an are-you-out-of-your-mind expression and Dante knew he was in trouble. He’d seen her angry only once—when he’d “accidentally” deposited money into her bank account—and he shuddered at the memory of their explosive argument on Christmas Eve. She’d returned the money, after cursing him out in English and Spanish. To this day he still didn’t understand why she’d gone ballistic on him.
“My house, my rules,” she quipped, pointing at an empty chair. “Now, sit.”
Her bossy, take-charge attitude made his erection rise and his mouth wet. Jordana was a freethinker who wasn’t afraid to speak her mind, and Dante enjoyed her fiery, spirited personality. They couldn’t be more different, and had nothing in common. Logical and decisive, Dante knew what he wanted out of life, where he was going and how to get there. Jordana, on the other hand, was still finding herself. She was as carefree as a butterfly in the wind. “You’re too pretty to be so mean,” he joked, hoping to make her laugh. “Be nice, Jordana, or I’ll call your mom and tell her you’re bullying me!”
Jordana’s scowl deepened, wrinkling her smooth skin, but Waverly cracked up.
“Good one,” she said. “And if you need her mom’s number just let me know.”
Hearing his cell phone beep, he took it out of his pocket. The text was from Lourdes, and she wasn’t happy. Reading her message annoyed him. For the second time that evening Dante wondered what he’d ever seen in the celebrity hairstylist.
Where are you? Bring Matteo home now or else...
A scowl curled his lips. Lourdes had some nerve telling him what to do. But since he wanted to keep the peace, he stood, took his car keys out of his back pocket and switched off the television. “I better take Matteo home. It’s a school night.”
“I understand.” Jordana nodded, dropping her hands at her sides. “Maybe next time.”
“But I don’t want to go. I want to stay for dessert.”
Crouching beside Matteo’s chair, she smiled and touched his cheek. “You can take some brownies with you. How does that sound?”
“Great!” Beaming, Matteo gathered his things, throwing them inside his backpack.
“Thanks again, Jordana. I owe you one.”
“No problem. That’s what friends are for.”
Minutes later, Dante left the apartment with Matteo in tow, carrying a container filled with vegan brownies. As they boarded the elevator, Dante noticed Jordana waving at them, and he smiled in return. He loved her energy, how bubbly and effervescent she was, and as the elevator doors slid closed a curious thought—one he’d had many times in recent months—popped into his mind. Why couldn’t I have married someone like Jordana? Someone warm and loving and caring who puts others’ needs above her own?
It’s not too late, said his inner voice, drowning out the doubts playing in his mind. Make your move and let the chips fall where they may.
Dante rejected the thought, refusing to consider it. Jordana was smart, with a great head on her shoulders, but they could never be a couple. There were just some things a man didn’t do, especially a man of his stature, and hooking up with a friend’s ex was one of them. He desired her, sure, but some rules weren’t meant to be broken.
Chapter 3 (#ulink_99fd8ecc-482c-551f-a1e1-dd0aa81e996a)
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?”
