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!”
“Is he? You lucky girl!”
“We’re getting married in two weeks’ time. I know it’s short notice…but he was adamant when I told him we should wait. And, no…I am not pregnant,” Mel’s lilting voice was full of sunshine.
For a moment, Jordana almost envied her friend’s happiness.
“Dana, can I ask you to be my maid of honor? I know you’re really busy…I’ll understand if you can’t…”
“Of course, I’d be glad to!” she confirmed right away.
“Really? You’re sure? What about your schedule? Leandro regretfully said he can’t come, and he told me that your schedule gets pretty hectic—”
She bit her lip when she realized she didn’t check her schedule first. She could almost see Francesca’s face if she suddenly backed down from a gig.
Ah, let Leandro deal with Francesca. Her female bestfriend was getting married and she would make time for her!
“Of course, Mel. I’m absolutely sure I’ll be there. I’ll work around my schedule. Don’t worry about it. Your wedding will come a week before the Milan Fashion Week, and right after London Fashion Week. There’s a gap, so it’ll be perfect,” she said.
Mel screamed in delight. “Thank you! You have no idea how big this means to me! So, when can I expect you?”
“Wait…I’ll check first to be sure.” She quickly skimmed her appointments for the next two weeks. She had an editorial shoot for Vanity Fair two days before Melissa’s wedding. She knew the editor and she was pretty positive she can get it rescheduled to a later date.
“Well?”
“I’ll be there, Mel. Expect me on the eve of your wedding.”
“But you’ll be jet-lagged!” Mel exclaimed.
“Don’t worry, I promise not to trip during the wedding ceremony,” she joked.
Mel laughed happily.
“It’s really lovely hearing your voice again, Dana. I know these past weeks had been difficult for you. Hey, you know what? Treat the wedding as a mini-vacation for you. The paparazzi can’t follow you here,” her friend offered.
Jordana thought for a minute. Paparazzi-free? It was a very tempting offer.
“And oh! Before I forget…Rocco’s best friend and best man will also be here for the wedding….maybe you could—” Mel was hinting heavily.
“Ha! You still haven’t changed! You’re still trying to pair me off with someone!”
“Can you blame me? I have two hundred six bones in my body…all of them romantic at the moment.”
They laughed together and happily spent the next two hours catching up and planning for the wedding.
VI HEADQUARTERS
ROME, ITALY
“You drunk? You’re talking shit,” Lonzo exclaimed at his bestfriend’s bombshell.
“Come on, man. Be a pal. Can’t you even fake a happy face for your oldest mate?” Rocco Romolini replied, brushing his jibe off.
“You’re stoned. Your cousin Joey must be around and gave you a joint.”
Rocco smirked. “I’m not stoned! But I have to agree with you there. Joey always has great hash.”
“You can’t be serious about this! Damn, you just met this girl…what…three months ago? And now you’re marrying her? You fucking swallowed your nuts or something?” he derided.
They shared the same principle when it came to women: love them, indulge them, then make a run for the door before they can have a chance to tie you up. Marriage was a word he never associated with Rocco. His best bud wasn’t even choosy or particular. The man was a veritable lady-killer and they had been each other’s wingman since their teens.
And now he’s getting hitched? Monogamy? Christ, what has the world come down to?!
His friend looked affronted.
“Lonz, my fiancee is a great woman. I have to say, not my usual type. She’s got brains, that one, not just looks,” Rocco explained with a dreamy look in his eyes.
Fuck, no! The unknown woman had turned his pal into a wimp.
“Look at you. She’s got both of your balls and now lead you by your dick, you wuss.” he said sarcastically.
Rocco frowned. “Hey, hey…keep your dirty thoughts to yourself, asshole. That’s my fiancée you’re defaming. And for your perverted mind’s info…I haven’t slept with her…yet,” Rocco answered in irritation.
“You’ve grown a vagina. What’s with you, man? You just turned up here all fucked up in the head. What did she do to you? Brainwashed you with her pussy?” he continued.
He couldn’t fathom why Rocco had to marry the woman. If he wanted to have a kid to inherit someday, that could be arranged through surrogates. But to actually get married? Shackles? Lunacy!
“Fuck off, Lonzo. She’s not just some random chick, you know? She’s the real deal, man. I just knew she’s the one the moment I met her. It’s inevitable. I just fell like a ton of bricks.”
What a bunch of bullcrap. The woman conditioned Rocco, Lonzo was sure of it.
“Three months, man! You’ve known her for three months! You’ve known your dog longer than her. Did you even had the smarts to have her background investigated first? What if she’s just after your money? What if her father’s a sociopath and her mother’s serial killer? Stop thinking with your dick! You could be raising future suicide bombers—”
Rocco laughed heartily at his tirade.
“I know her well enough to know that she’s the woman for me. And I do know something about her family. Her dad was a famous photographer and her mother is the youngest daughter of a marquis in England. So I think my future children won’t be carrying bombs and blowing themselves off. They will be perfect and good looking like their dad.”
He regarded his friend with a quizzing look.
“So, you’re marrying for pedigree now? Since when did you start caring about bloodlines? You don’t even bloody need it. You’re a fucking conte since your dad died!”
Rocco just grinned.
“I know what you’re trying to do. Stop. You can’t change my mind. I’m marrying her. It’s a done deal, get used to the idea. So give me your freaking answer now because I have to leave for a fitting and then meet my future wife for lunch. Don’t want to be late. My little darling’s too British.”
“Answer to what?”
Rocco raised his brows. “You as best man at my fucking wedding, what else? I didn’t brave the traffic just to see if you’re wounded with the barbs that the Agnellis are throwing at you in the media. I know that your hide is too thick to be pierced by those cazzos. Because you’re a bigger cazzo.”
“No,” he said to annoy his friend.
“Yes, you will! Mama actually insisted that you’ll have to be in the entourage. Care to say that to my mother?”
“Shit,” Lonzo muttered. He wouldn’t be able to say no to Rocco’s mom. She was like a surrogate mother to him. One of a handful of women he held in the highest esteem.
His evil friend knew how to use his aces well. Dickhead.
“So are you coming or not?”
“Do I have a choice?”
He hated the idea of attending weddings.
Rocco cackled like a hyena. He knew he got his affirmative in the bag. Douche. His friend whistled a soundless tune as he locked his arms behind his head.
Lonzo wanted to shoot him.
“I am busy. You know your way out,” he replied dismissively.
“By the way, here’s an incentive for your attendance: Mel’s asking her best friend to be the maid of honor. You may want to check her out.”
“And why would I do that?”
“Duh. Because she’s a supermodel.”
He sneered at Rocco. “And so? Aside from the height and their more-than-average vanity, they’re no different than other women. Unlike you, my friend, I know where women stand in my life. Or rather, I prefer them on their backs.”
“She’s Jordana Almueda. Half of my male relatives are actually hankering me for her number.”
The name rang a bell. Then it registered inside his head. She was the swimsuit and Victoria’s Secret supermodel who swore she was a virgin.
He snorted.
She was in no way different from the supposed virgins who auctioned their hymens over eBay. She had asked for the attention. The media went crazy over her ‘revelation’ and was now on the paparazzi watch list 24/7.
A glamorous profile picture of her flashed on television a few nights ago. Quite a stunner. Beautiful, in fact. In an unconventional way. He’d never met her in person. Not that he was interested. He didn’t go out of his way to meet women. They came to him, not the other way around.
She’s got curves in all the right places, all right. More than likely, she’d be lacking in gray matter. Not that he cared about a woman’s mind either. He had never let any woman get into his mind or near his heart. Only his cock.
“I’m not one of your relatives, Rocco. Thank God for small mercies. Besides, she’s one of those publicity-hungry types who needs constant attention.”
“You’re becoming too cynical, man. Mel stands by what she said. My bride says her best friend really is a virtuous woman. She walks the talk. I even heard she reads the bible while getting primped.”
He finally snorted. Virtuous women? Hah! No such creatures. They were just women who never got themselves caught while doing something naughty.
“Rocco, really…you now subscribe to gossip mags?! You actually believe that crap manufactured by publicists? She poses in racy mags, wearing practically nothing to rouse us poor males into a frenzied state and you want me to believe that she’s untouched?” he said incredulously.
“Haven’t met her yet. But I do believe my bride-to-be. Mel says she’s innocent. So that’s that.”
“Then you’ve been turned into a gullible fool. Sheesh. Virginity and lingerie don’t mix. They just don’t. She’s just putting on a publicity stunt for additional media mileage. That’s how it’s done now in the era of the Kardashians and the Bored-Housewives-of-Jersey.”
Rocco just shook his head at him. “Jesus, Lonzo…you really are a lost cause! You already wrote a hundred-page position paper without even meeting the woman! I can’t believe you really despise womenfolk like that.”
“I don’t hate them. I’m no misogynist. They are thoroughly enjoyable in another exercise. See, I just happen to know them too well. I know how they operate. Unlike some people I know, I will never allow a woman to take the reins.” There was finality in his voice when he said every word. “You should know better, my friend. Run. Now. There’s still time.”
Rocco just sat there grinning as he listened to Lonzo’s rant.
“Never say the word never, man. It may bite you in the end,” he said with a smirk. “I should know. It bit me.”
“You wish, you ass. Okay, I’ll be at your shackling ceremony. Not for your sake but for your madre.”
Rocco’s grin grew bigger.
“Don’t forget to wear a monkey suit. My bride insisted and Mama concurred.”
“I already said I’ll be there! Now get out of my office before I call my security guys and have your sorry ass thrown out.”
Rocco was too pleased with his acquiesce, whistling on his way out of Lonzo’s office.
“You will be singing a different tune a year from now. By then, you’ll come to your senses and will be begging me to give you Capolinera’s number,” Lonzo called out, referring to the best divorce lawyer in Rome.
But it seemed that no amount of insult can knock that stupid, happy look on Rocco’s face. He had seen that exact same look on the faces of his unsuspecting male friends who were hypnotized into marriage.
“No, by next year, I will be the one ribbing you for putting on the shackles, my old friend. No doubt about it. And Lonzo, please don’t be late. You won’t be upsetting my dear old Mama, will you?” Rocco was really squeezing every drop of enjoyment from his visit.
“Go fuck off,” Lonzo said in a parting shot.
He heard Rocco’s loud laugh from outside his office, reinforcing his assumption that his friend’s head was whacked.