Lonzo: Book 1 (Tycoon Series Book 1) (4 page)

He tormented her further by pressing just the head of his cock inside her warmth. He made several quick thrusts, with just the head entering her. She tried to move and force him to embed himself balls-deep but one of his hands restrained her hips.

She was so close to losing it.

He knew just how to drive her mad with lust. He knew his way around women.

“Please…I can’t stand it…I need to come,” she was beseeching him, her voice hoarse with desperation.

“Tell me one thing first.”

“Anything!” Natalia wailed.

“What’s your agenda, hmmm?”

That made her pause.

Her reaction confirmed he was right. She was in collusion with her father.

“What are you talking about?” she denied, trying to cover up her slip.

His smile became glacial. His eyes hardened into chips of ice.

“No more games, Natalia. You know what I’m talking about.”

She didn’t answer. He let go of her and was about to get up from the bed when she held on to him with both arms.

“Stop! Don’t leave! Please. It was…it was Papa’s idea. He was still smarting from losing GM and he thinks that an alliance…” she admitted.

“Alliance? Oh…is that what you call marriage nowadays?” he said with thinly-veiled sarcasm. He expected that she had agreed to be the willing pawn to influence him to retain her brothers at GM. But never this. What a laughable idea. They really aimed for the moon.

“Yes. Think about it—an alliance between you and my family will gain you acceptance within the most exclusive social circles. Ours is an old name, one of the most respected families in Europe. In exchange, the family fortune will still be attached to an Agnelli descendant—me,” she recited this as if she was presenting a marketing plan for his approval.

She continued on with her spiel, as if the scheme was the best thing for him to take. He almost laughed out loud but he didn’t give anything away. He said nothing before he stood up to leave the socialite on the bed. He grabbed the dressing robe from the dresser and put it on, his back on her.

“Lonzo?” she asked, confused.

Was she really that confident or was she plain dense?

He partially turned to face her.

“You really honestly think this affair is going to lead into marriage?”

Her face paled.

“Affair? We have a
relationship
!” Natalia shrieked.

Lonzo turned to look at her. Her face was mottled red with anger as she scrambled to cover her nakedness, putting on the red robe she’d discarded last night.

She was moneyed, beautiful, and talented in bed. Most men would fall for her wiles. But he was not most men. She grew overly confident.

“Listen, Natalia. We’re having an affair. No frills. No strings. Don’t guilt me into thinking there’s more.”

Natalia rose from the bed. Her face briefly displayed disbelief before it switched into fury. She ran toward him and began beating his chest with her fists.

“You bastard! You played me! You made me fall for you! Made me believe that what we have is serious. Damn you! I hate you! I hate you!” she screamed tearfully.

Lonzo easily deflected her blows. He held the furious socialite away. She was behaving like a spoiled brat throwing a tantrum after being told no. He wasn’t buying the water display either.

“I never promised anything,” he said, his voice hard. “Stop fooling yourself.”

He then pushed her away in disgust.

The woman was pitiful.

“Papa was right! You’re a bastard!” Natalia snarled as she picked up her discarded clothes from the floor before marching off to the bath, shutting the door forcefully.

He wasn’t sorry. He felt…nothing.

After a few minutes, Natalia stepped out of the bathroom, fully dressed, her make-up perfect. Her face didn’t betray any signs of the crocodile tears that freely fell minutes earlier.

He crossed his arms in front of his chest, his expression impassive.

As she passed by on her way out, her hand came out of nowhere to slap him. But he had great reflexes. He caught it before she can inflict any damage.

She was foaming in the mouth like a rabid bitch.

“You’ll pay for this, Lonzo! I’ll make you so sorry! Damn you!” she threatened.

“I won’t. I never invested. You did this to yourself.” he remarked dryly.

“You let me think we’re a couple! You let me fall for you!” she accused.

He laughed without humor.

“Don’t delude yourself. You don’t believe in flimsy emotional bullshit. Your affections are currency-driven,” he stated matter-of-factly.

Natalia theatrically widened her eyes.

“Bastardo!”
she spat before she turned for the door.

“That, I am,” he supplied to her retreating back. “That’s why I don’t care shit for pedigrees.”

Natalia slammed the door.

Chapter Three

THREE WEEKS LATER

THE PLAZA

MANHATTAN, NYC

The paparazzi were still tailing her, always at her heels.
They hounded her at every corner or social event. Whether she was buying a bagel from a local bakeshop or buying tampons from the pharmacy, they were snapping pictures everywhere. Recently, they began chasing her in motorcycles. She almost ran over one of them while trying to escape. The crazy
paparazzo
even had the audacity to threaten her with a lawsuit. This prompted Leandro to beef up security and designated a driver for her.

She couldn’t believe that her one blip would result to a huge spectacle like this. It was as if her state of
intacta
had an impact on the future of humankind. Ridiculous! Surely people had better things to do?

Will Or Will She Lose Her Cherry Soon?

The Scoop from Jordana’s Exes.

Jordana Almueda: The Vestal Virgin?

Marriage or Nothing for Jordana Almueda?

These were but a few of the headlines she saw at new stands. Sales of gossip mags and tabloids were up, so this circus wasn’t stopping any time from now.
Jeezuuus
, they even tracked her first boyfriend in Brazil. They paid him handsomely for a tell-all so they can earn more buck out of the story. It was absurd because they were only together for a week and he only kissed her once. On her left cheek. He told a different tale to the press from what she recalled.

She was a prisoner in her hotel room. She seldom went out unless she had a gig. Even then, these mad dogs found inventive ways to take snapshots of her activities.

She was thankful that the fashion season in NY was through. Next week, she’d be in Europe for the European fashion shows in London, Milan and Paris. For the meantime, she was doing print ads to kill time.

This entire situation was slowly driving her crazy.

She hated the way some guys now look at her. Somehow, she became a challenge for them. She was proposed to five times by very rich men whom she had just met—one of them was a king of a minor emirate kingdom; the other was a short, balding Russian oligarch, who offered ten million euros just to sleep with her.

Even Francesca grew incensed at several persistent ones who tried their best to trick her booker to give out her private number. Even the male models she knew of had changed. A lot of them were now trying to score a date with her, when a few months back, they had kept their distance.

Being a virgin was like waving a red rag to a herd of bulls. It was really silly!

She even heard one of them say that hooking up with her can do wonders for him in terms of bragging rights. She was appalled.

Men were really a bunch of overgrown kids, she deduced.

She really needed a break.

She told Francesca this when she dropped by at the agency yesterday . She frowned at her. The mere mention of the word “vacation” was enough to make her booker’s face switch from cheery to businesslike.

“Sweetheart, I just finished booking you with H&M and Saks. The phone hardly stopped ringing,” Francesca pointed out, her own way of saying that Jordana ought to be thankful she was constantly working and didn’t need to compete for go-sees with other models since clients specifically asked for her. Her modeling book containing her pictures was practically overflowing.

As if to prove a point, the phone started ringing and when Francesca picked it up, Anna Wintour of US Vogue, through her protégé and head fashion editor, Georgia Stevenson, was asking her availability for their next cover.

Francesca would never side with her. Since this circus started, the number of bookings doubled. That equated to a lot of dollar signs. The agency got twenty percent for each job booking—which can range from thirty-five thousand dollars for a photo ad, to multi-million dollar modeling, perfume and cosmetic contracts for the likes of Lancôme, Estee Lauder or VS.

Maybe if she asked Leandro to talk to her booking agent, she’d change her mind. Francesca always had a soft spot for her bestfriend. He can charm the fifty-year old woman like no model can.

She was about to call Leandro when her phone rang.

It was an international number that originated from Italy. It didn’t register in her contact list. Thinking it was IMG’s affiliate agency in Italy, she decided to take the call.

“Hello?”

“Dana?! Is that you?” a woman with a British accent asked.

She frowned, trying to put a face to the voice. “Yes. Who’s calling please?”

The voice sounded familiar…

“Dana! It’s Mel.”

“Mel! This is a surprise! How are you?” she shrieked in delight.

Melissa Fulton or Mel, was the daughter of the late Spike Fulton, the photographer who discovered her in Brazil.

Mel’s late dad was an influential fashion photographer who was also her mentor. He was instrumental in opening doors for her when she was just starting out as a model. But more than that, he was a father figure not only to her, but also to Leandro, whom he also took in as his ward. He referred Leandro to his contacts so that her friend can earn a living and send himself to school.

At that time of Jordana’s arrival, Mel was attending NYU. When Spike introduced her to his only child, they had an immediate connection. Soon enough, they became best of friends.

Jordana and Mel shared Spike’s New York apartment until Spike’s untimely death in a boating accident in the French Riviera.

The last time she saw her friend was during Spike’s funeral. Mel didn’t finish her program at NYU and went back to England to reconcile with her estranged mother. They kept in touch through emails over the years, but it trickled down to an occasional one because of their busy lives—hers because of her fashion commitments, while Mel with her post-graduate course at Exeter University.

They had planned on meeting in London numerous times but were unable to because their schedules wouldn’t allow it.

Talking to her now, Jordana realized how she sorely missed her friend. No matter how famous she got, Mel never treated her any different. She liked that about her. It kept her grounded.

“How are you, Dana? I’m so sorry I wasn’t able to meet you in London, you know how it goes—academic stuff,” Melissa said apologetically.

“I should be the one apologizing, silly! Well, I’m good…same old, same old. How about you? Where are you? Are you well?”

“Oh, Dana! You just have no idea how happy I am right now!”

“Do tell!”

“I’m in seventh heaven! I have to tell someone about the good news or burst from too much happiness. Well, you know that my Mom and I…well…we aren’t really chummy. You’re the first person who came to mind. Luckily, I still have Leandro’s old number…I rang him for a chat,” Melissa happily related.

“Uhmm, as you can see…I am in a bit of a mess lately,” she disclosed.

“So I heard from Leandro! I honestly have no idea about it…I have been…well...preoccupied lately. I didn’t even have the time to watch TV or open my email. Oh, dear. I’m so sorry that these vile monsters were running after you like crazy wankers.”

Jordana smiled after hearing the genuine concern in Mel’s voice. “I’m a big girl. I’m coping so far. ”

Barely.

Melissa laughed at the other line. “You have always been a big girl! I meant that in a good way. Going back to what I was saying…I called you to tell you that—I’m finally getting married!” Mel said giddily.

Jordana squealed.

“You are? Oh, Mel! I’m so happy for you! Who’s the lucky man? Do I know him or did you met him at school?” she questioned.

“Nah. He isn’t one of those fashion Adonises and he isn’t from the University either. As a matter of fact, I met him during a disastrous trip in Tuscany three months ago,” Mel continued.

“Wait…he’s Italian?!”

“He is! A real-life Italian count, too!”