Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 72648 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 363(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72648 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 363(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
As we make our way back onto the main floor of the resort, I head toward our in-house boutique store that provides brand names such as Fendi, Prada, Hermès, Gucci, and Armani, as well as a dozen others.
As Bailey’s sturdy heels clop along the tiled floor, I say, “I have a business lunch today with a potential investor. You’ll accompany me to take notes. I also want you to be observant of his demeanor. I’ll be expecting your thoughts.”
“My thoughts?” she inquires. I stop, shifting to face her. Nearly running into me, she draws up short.
“Your thoughts,” I reiterate. “Tell me if you think he’s being genuine or trying to yank my chain. If he’s all in or holding back.”
“But… but… I don’t really know much about investing or hotels or what happens in business meetings.”
Fuck, she’s cute when she’s unsure of herself. For such a confident woman, the moments of vulnerability she lets slip through are attractive.
“Relax,” I assure her, turning on my heel and moving to the boutique named Blackwood Row. The retail store is all sleek hardwood floors and minimal amounts of racked clothing so customers feel both alone and exposed. The price tags alone help to ward off anyone except the serious shopper, but the fact that there’s very little to choose from ensures only the most discerning will walk in and plunk down the type of money it takes for high-end, editorial fashion.
A retail assistant approaches, a waif-thin woman who looks like she could walk the runway in Milan. She’s wearing a black pencil skirt, a polka-dot high necked blouse that knots at the throat and four-inch Louboutins. Her hair is pulled back severely from her face into a tight bun at the base of her head, and her pale skin is embellished only with bright red lipstick.
“Mr. Blackwood,” she says in respectful greeting. “This is a pleasant surprise. What can we help you with?”
I don’t know this woman’s name. She’s not high enough on the ladder for me to care. I merely sweep my hand toward Bailey. “My assistant, Bailey Robbins. Since she’ll be attending important meetings with me, I want her dressed appropriately.”
“Excuse me?” Bailey exclaims, her offense evident.
When I turn, her eyes are blazing. She’s practically baring her teeth. In response, I make my tone bland when I say, “Consider it a clothing allowance.”
“I don’t need a clothing allowance,” she grits out, keeping her eyes locked on mine. “What I’m wearing is perfectly fine for a business lunch.”
Christ… but her temerity in daring to question my will turns me on as much as it pisses me off. I have a sudden and way too clear image of us wrestling in bed, her valiantly trying to get the upper hand with me, but me easily pinning her down into submission.
Not wanting to embarrass her in front of the retail assistant, but unwilling to budge an inch from my stance, I take Bailey by the elbow and lead her a few steps away.
“Miss Robbins,” I say quietly, so only she can hear my words. “As my assistant, you represent the Blackwood brand. And while yes, your suit might be fine for a business lunch for any other hotel in Vegas, it does not measure up to the standards of refined elegance the Blackwood is known for. My apologies if that offends you, but it’s my standards you have to meet, not your own. So kindly accept this clothing allowance I’m giving you, or kindly return to your housekeeping position. I’ve asked them to only fill it with a temp person in case this arrangement doesn’t work out.”
Oh, she’s pissed. I can see it in her eyes, but I also see exactly what I expected. She wants this job. Not just for the income—which is vastly higher than what she was making in all her menial jobs—but she is one that enjoys the challenge. I can see she won’t be cowed into backing down because of something that might offend her lower-class sensibilities.
At this moment, I should hate myself, because, truth be told, her black suit is fine. It’s noticeably off the rack, but for the purposes of this job, it is functionally adequate. But to myself, I admit I simply desire to see her in beautiful clothing.
And because I have the power to do so, not to mention the money, I intend to see it through.
Ultimately, Bailey gives me a stiff nod of ascent and moves past me toward the sales assistant.
“I have to make a few phone calls,” I tell the woman from behind Bailey. “Let’s start with eight outfits for daytime wear, three suited for evening wear, and one cocktail dress. Make sure to include matching accoutrements.”
And by that, I mean the high end, sexy lingerie that should be worn under three thousand-dollar dresses. I’m not sure if Bailey understands what that means, but the saleswoman does.