The Bishop Affair (Dominated by the Billionaire Brothers - Part Four) by Jennifer Simms
Authors: Jennifer Simms
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Chapter 7
The harsh sound of my breath
filled my ears as I fled the back room where Jordan’s lips were crushed against
Vanessa’s. Weaving through the tables and well-dressed attendees chatting
merrily with one another, my face flushed, my heart threatened to burst from my
chest, and a familiar feeling pricked my eyes. I fought to hold back the tears
but couldn’t. Passing by turned heads and concerned stares in a whirl, I
couldn’t care less about fitting in anymore. It wasn’t like I’d ever see these
people again or they’d even remember me.
Dashing down the hall to the
entrance, my heels clacked loudly against the cream marble tiles and I clutched
my purse to stop it from swinging wildly at my side. The stilettos I borrowed
from Sam wrought hell on my feet forcing me to hop out of them. I hiked my
dress up and carried the shoes under one arm, hurrying toward the entrance,
hoping to avoid as many people as I could. Once outside, I could see the
parking lot below. Thank God it had quieted down; most of the photographers had
either left the area or perhaps snuck inside. The evening had grown darker but
the tribal torches placed around the exterior of the building helped light my
path.
By the time I reached the
stone steps that curved down to the lot, I half-hoped to hear Jordan’s
lumbering footsteps charging after me to tell me it was all a misunderstanding,
that that conniving Vanessa had somehow drugged his champagne or blackmailed
him into kissing her...but I was afraid that if I stopped moving, I’d hear
nothing behind me.
In the parking lot, I darted
through a veritable fleet of sports cars and hummers waiting for their
passengers until I spotted the driver that took us to the event. Dressed in all
black except for a pair of white gloves and shirt that matched his hair color,
he stood near the limo, reading a folded up newspaper. A sweet old man, he had
introduced himself as George, the same driver who drove me home that day Jordan
and I first had sex; he had joined us on the plane to Los Angeles. I recalled
him winking at me when we arrived in an attempt to make me feel comfortable in
front of the paparazzi’s flashing cameras. I had still been nervous, but the
fact that he’d shown a little sympathy made an impression on me.
George lifted his head at my
noisy approach.
“Miss Gable?” He tucked the
newspaper away and furrowed his brows in concern.
“What’s the matter? Where’s
Mr. Bishop?”
Hearing his name made me
flinch.
“Jordan wants you to take me
back to the airport ASAP,” I cried, my chest heaving.
“Back to the airport?” He
glanced at my dirty bare feet and tear-stained cheeks.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, positive. And
quickly.” I knew I sounded and looked desperate but I just needed him get the
limo started and get me the heck away from this place.
“Pardon me then. Off we go,
Miss Gable.” He didn’t seem convinced but opened the door for me anyway. I
threw my purse and shoes into the backseat along with myself, grateful for an
escape. George stepped around the front of the car and got into the driver’s
seat. Within moments, I heard the rumble of the limo’s engine. As we began to
move, I hazarded a glance at the top of the stone steps I had descended. When I
saw a tuxedo and a hand waving out, my heart leapt. But when I realized the man
was too small to be Jordan and that he was waving toward his chauffeur, my
hopes came crashing down. Once we had left the lot, George engaged the privacy
divider, and I buried my face into my hands.
God, Jordan, why? Why did
you do that of all things? I swept my tears miserably from my cheeks and pushed bundles of sweaty hair
away from my forehead, my chignon having been lost long ago. Not finding a box
of tissues in the backseat, I settled for wiping my tears on my expensive
dress.
I’d been living a fantasy
with him. After months of self-loathing and trying to get over
The harsh sound of my breath
filled my ears as I fled the back room where Jordan’s lips were crushed against
Vanessa’s. Weaving through the tables and well-dressed attendees chatting
merrily with one another, my face flushed, my heart threatened to burst from my
chest, and a familiar feeling pricked my eyes. I fought to hold back the tears
but couldn’t. Passing by turned heads and concerned stares in a whirl, I
couldn’t care less about fitting in anymore. It wasn’t like I’d ever see these
people again or they’d even remember me.
Dashing down the hall to the
entrance, my heels clacked loudly against the cream marble tiles and I clutched
my purse to stop it from swinging wildly at my side. The stilettos I borrowed
from Sam wrought hell on my feet forcing me to hop out of them. I hiked my
dress up and carried the shoes under one arm, hurrying toward the entrance,
hoping to avoid as many people as I could. Once outside, I could see the
parking lot below. Thank God it had quieted down; most of the photographers had
either left the area or perhaps snuck inside. The evening had grown darker but
the tribal torches placed around the exterior of the building helped light my
path.
By the time I reached the
stone steps that curved down to the lot, I half-hoped to hear Jordan’s
lumbering footsteps charging after me to tell me it was all a misunderstanding,
that that conniving Vanessa had somehow drugged his champagne or blackmailed
him into kissing her...but I was afraid that if I stopped moving, I’d hear
nothing behind me.
In the parking lot, I darted
through a veritable fleet of sports cars and hummers waiting for their
passengers until I spotted the driver that took us to the event. Dressed in all
black except for a pair of white gloves and shirt that matched his hair color,
he stood near the limo, reading a folded up newspaper. A sweet old man, he had
introduced himself as George, the same driver who drove me home that day Jordan
and I first had sex; he had joined us on the plane to Los Angeles. I recalled
him winking at me when we arrived in an attempt to make me feel comfortable in
front of the paparazzi’s flashing cameras. I had still been nervous, but the
fact that he’d shown a little sympathy made an impression on me.
George lifted his head at my
noisy approach.
“Miss Gable?” He tucked the
newspaper away and furrowed his brows in concern.
“What’s the matter? Where’s
Mr. Bishop?”
Hearing his name made me
flinch.
“Jordan wants you to take me
back to the airport ASAP,” I cried, my chest heaving.
“Back to the airport?” He
glanced at my dirty bare feet and tear-stained cheeks.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, positive. And
quickly.” I knew I sounded and looked desperate but I just needed him get the
limo started and get me the heck away from this place.
“Pardon me then. Off we go,
Miss Gable.” He didn’t seem convinced but opened the door for me anyway. I
threw my purse and shoes into the backseat along with myself, grateful for an
escape. George stepped around the front of the car and got into the driver’s
seat. Within moments, I heard the rumble of the limo’s engine. As we began to
move, I hazarded a glance at the top of the stone steps I had descended. When I
saw a tuxedo and a hand waving out, my heart leapt. But when I realized the man
was too small to be Jordan and that he was waving toward his chauffeur, my
hopes came crashing down. Once we had left the lot, George engaged the privacy
divider, and I buried my face into my hands.
God, Jordan, why? Why did
you do that of all things? I swept my tears miserably from my cheeks and pushed bundles of sweaty hair
away from my forehead, my chignon having been lost long ago. Not finding a box
of tissues in the backseat, I settled for wiping my tears on my expensive
dress.
I’d been living a fantasy
with him. After months of self-loathing and trying to get over
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