Wicked Billionaire Page 2

  Because I have.

  But not one like the Blackwood heir.

  Holy cow, he’s hot.

  Beyond hot.

  Is he really packing that much… size… beneath that towel?

  I take in a breath, pivot back his way, and hold the cup out while resolving to maintain eye contact.

  For a moment, he merely studies me, seeming to pay close attention to my face—surely noting the stain of blush still there—before asking, “What’s your name?”

  I try to give the man some credit. My name tag is pinned to my chest. He could have looked himself, but maybe he didn’t want me to think he was staring at my breasts? He could just be lazy, not wanting to make an effort. Perhaps he is just demanding.

  “Bailey, sir,” I reply demurely. “Bailey Robbins.”

  “Hmm.” Not even a ‘pleased to meet you’. Just a low hum in his throat as if he found my name slightly interesting, but he couldn’t be bothered to form a polite reply.

  Finally, he takes the cup out of my hand. I immediately move to the far side of the kitchen to wipe down the counters. Blackwood moves to the espresso machine and brews another cup, but I refuse to look his way. It’s with relief that he takes his brewed cup and moves back into the living room, supposedly on his way back to his bedroom to put on some damn clothes.

  I finish scouring down the counters, sink, and stovetop, then wipe the fronts of the cabinets and fridge. Just as I’m finishing, I hear Blackwood on his phone, voice coming from the direction of the living room. I move to the left, enough to see inside, and oh my God… he’s still in a towel, but now sitting on the couch.

  And when I say sitting, I actually mean sprawling.

  Long, muscular legs stretched out and slightly spread, not enough I can see under that towel, but enough to spot a dark shadow between his legs. If he were to spread them any farther, he’d give me a show. He has one arm casually draped over the back cushions, the other holding his phone before his face.

  He has it on speaker, and I recognize the voice of a young woman I’ve heard him converse with before. It’s one of his employees in the executive office.

  Just great.

  I’m at the point I’m ready to vacuum the living room floors, but I clearly can’t do that while he’s talking on speakerphone. With a sigh, I move my cart back into the living room, unhooking the vacuum from its slot on the side. Because I have other duties to attend to after his suite, I hope my display makes him realize he’s preventing me from doing my duties. Blackwood doesn’t spare me a glance, though.

  Dicklan.

  Like a dolt, I hover, wondering if I should interrupt him. I’m hesitant to do so because, well… I need this job.

  Blackwood issues orders so quickly I feel bad for the woman if she’s taking handwritten notes.

  When he finishes, he says, “Is there anything else we need to discuss before my next call?”

  After a slight hesitation, the woman finally says, “Um… there is, actually.”

  “Make it quick,” Blackwood orders.

  “The fundraiser for the Canterbury Art Center this weekend,” she starts. I’m not sure if he hears it in her voice, but I do. She’s terrified to say what she needs to.

  Obviously, he has no empathy because he snaps, “Well… what about it?”

  “The venue is too small to accommodate all the people who have RSVP’d,” she mumbles.

  I’m surprised Blackwood actually allows emotion on his face, but surprise and fury emanate from him. “Let me get this straight… The venue I had you book over two months ago—for a specific number of people—is too small to handle the guests? Why in the hell are you just now telling me this, three days before the event?”

  “I’m so sorry, sir,” she says. While I can’t see the woman, I guarantee she’s quivering. I can hear it in her voice. “But you specifically requested this venue. And, um, well, I didn’t want to go against you.”

  “Fucking great,” Blackwood snaps. “My goddamn assistant can’t manage to think for herself or have an original idea in her air-filled head. Once you realized the problem, did it ever occur to you to bring it to my attention in enough fucking time for me to handle it, since you clearly couldn’t be bothered to do so?”

  Ouch. I feel sorry for the woman. She did fuck up, but I suspect Dicklan is such a dick to work for that she was afraid to say anything. Still, she should have pointed it out well before now. He would be pissed, but he’d have had the time to do something about it. Cringing, I wait, already suspecting what he’ll say next.

  Declan Blackwood doesn’t disappoint. “Your services are no longer needed at Blackwood Hotels and Resorts. Pack up immediately.”

  Without another word, he disconnects the phone. He taps it against his chin, apparently deep in thought. Aloud, he murmurs, “Just where in the hell am I supposed to find a venue in Vegas for a hundred and fifty people with only three days’ notice?”

  I have no clue what this fundraiser is for. What I do know is I like Declan Blackwood even less now than I did before that phone call. That was extremely harsh, even if the woman had clearly screwed up.

  To my great surprise, I start to speak, though I don’t know why I’m helping this jerk. “The Desert Rose Country Club has more than enough space in their ballroom. They were supposed to have a big legal convention in it this weekend, but it just got canceled.”

  Slowly, Blackwood slides his gaze over, pinning it on me. “And you know this how?”

  “A couple of nights a week and on the weekend, I’m a blackjack dealer there. At my table last night, a few attorneys who were scheduled to attend were griping about how the event was canceled because the convention’s sponsor had just gotten arrested for tax evasion.”

  His eyebrows shoot up. It annoys me how my mind immediately decides they’re great eyebrows. Thick but arched to perfection. On the one hand, they make him look sly. But on the other, they make him appear ridiculously intelligent. It only adds to his overall allure. “They were griping about a boring legal convention getting canceled?”

  I shake my head. “They were griping about how the sponsor wouldn’t refund any registration fees, so they were essentially robbed.”

  Blackwood surveys me, his bluish-silver eyes seeming to know stuff that I don’t even know about me. It’s like he can see directly into my thoughts, which is ridiculous.

  He rises from the couch, managing to do so in an elegant fashion without disturbing the towel around his waist.

  Thank God!

  He takes a few steps closer to me, crossing his arms as he contemplates before finally saying, “Get on the phone with whoever runs that place. Find out if it’s available. If it’s not, offer to pay double their normal fee. We’ll have to notify the attendees of the venue change, then coordinate with all the suppliers.”

  I stare at this man, who just ordered me to do something far outside my job duties. That he’s asking me to do it makes me want to laugh. I need this job, but I also have a backbone.

  “With all due respect, Mr. Blackwood,” I say firmly, my chin lifted. “I’m a housekeeper. I have other suites to clean. I simply can’t help you with this.”

  “You can’t help me with this?” he repeats a bit tightly. His expression appears curious, but his eyes darken to the color of storm clouds.

  “Sir, Blackwood Hotels prides itself on customer experience. I have a tight schedule to complete the other suites I’m in charge of cleaning. Those customers will suffer if I have to drop my duties to attend to your problems.”

  At my refusal, his eyes flare. He takes a step closer, dropping his arms. There’s nothing but a wall of naked, muscular chest before me and I have to tip my head back to keep our eye contact.

  “You definitely don’t have a problem speaking your mind,” he muses, sounding shocked. “I’m not sure if I respect you for that or if it pisses me off, especially since I just told you to do something and you refused.”

  I swallow hard, wondering if I’ll be abl
e to find another job with early day shift hours to accommodate my schedule and jarring need for income.

  CHAPTER 3

  Declan

  It’s been a long damn time since a woman’s interested me like this, and oddly, the way I know she’s interesting is that my palm actually itches to spank her ass for her impertinence. I’m not taking it personally as Declan Blackwood, heir to the Blackwood fortune and thus should be obeyed in all things, but as a petite, curvy, hot as fuck woman who doesn’t seem to be intimidated by me in the slightest.

  Also, she appears to have a brain and some common sense. As her employer and one who exacts the best in customer service, I’m even going to give her bonus points for being concerned about meeting her duties to the other suites she’s set to clean this morning.

  No, I want to spank her ass because I have a feeling she’d like it, and I sure as fuck would.

  Regardless, I have a pressing problem, and she seems to have the solution. Plus, she’s assertive, quick thinking, understands the Blackwood philosophies on customer satisfaction, and appears intelligent.

  Since I just fired mine, I also happen to be without a personal assistant right now.

  “I’m going to have you work as my personal assistant.” My authoritarian tone comes naturally when I’m making business decisions. “I’ll call my assistant general manager to inform him to find someone to cover your duties today. You can start by calling the Desert Rose—”

  “With all due respect,” she says, speaking firmly. “I decline your offer to be your assistant.”

  My body goes taut. People don’t say “no” to me. Surely I heard her wrong. “Excuse me?”

  She should look ridiculous with the thin efficiency vacuum gripped in one hand. Instead, she looks formidable. My palm itches even more.

  “I enjoy my job in housekeeping,” she says, but I sense the lie.

  I cock a skeptical eyebrow, taking a step closer. “Really? You enjoy cleaning toilets and breaking your back every day for nine dollars an hour?”

  She blinks, mouth falling open in surprise. I can tell she never expected me to know how much I pay housekeepers, but I know every dollar that goes in and out of my hotel.

  “Well, no, I don’t enjoy the work, but I’m satisfied—”

  “The assistant’s position starts at forty thousand a year, with health insurance and a 401K. Because of your quick thinking to help save this event, I’ll even give you a five-thousand-dollar signing bonus.”

  Her eyes widen. I know I’ve hooked her with the money. I expected no different because who turns their nose up at such an opportunity?

  But she doesn’t jump at it. Instead, her brow furrows, appearing thoughtful. Sucking her lower lip between her teeth, she seems to be doing mental calculations.

  I have a billion-dollar enterprise to run. Impatience rolls over me. I don’t have time for this, so I try to help with the math. “It’s not rocket science… um… What was your name again?”

  “Bailey Robbins,” she replies vaguely, now holding up her fingers to count something out.

  “I can assure you, forty thousand a year is way more than nine bucks an hour,” I say dryly. “Take the damn offer, Bailey.”

  Her eyes narrowing, she snaps, “I’m sorry… but I have more than one job. I’m trying to figure out if I can manage it all, but you won’t stop distracting me with your scowl. And, for the love of God, can you put on some clothes?”

  Yeah… my palm itches so badly I have to resist the urge to scratch it. When I feel a stirring beneath my towel, I realize she most definitely won’t take the job if I get an erection in front of her.

  Stiffly, I nod, because I rarely do anything people demand. And if she were anyone else, not jumping to take this offer while talking to me with such impertinence, I would have shown them the door long ago. But, for some reason, I want to work with this woman. I want to discover just how much fire and sass she truly has. Need to know if I can break her sweetly or if it will take a mighty effort.

  Because not only do I want her in my employment to help with the basic tasks of my daily job, but I would also love to get that luscious body beneath mine.

  “You have five minutes to decide,” I bark before turning on my heel to head for my bedroom.

  It takes me less time to put on my work attire. Today, it’s a custom-tailored Italian suit in charcoal gray with subtle silver pinstripes. I have business meetings outside of the hotel, so I must dress accordingly. But I give her the allotted five minutes, fiddling with my hair in the bathroom mirror to pass the time. It’s wavy and slightly too long, but it only takes a few rakes of my fingers to settle it into the natural style women seem to like. It gets yanked a lot, which is proof enough.

  By the time I return to the living room, I expect her to immediately accept my offer. Instead, she has her head bent over her phone, tapping away on the screen. As I approach, I see she has a calculator app open.

  Lifting her gaze to meets mine, she calmly says, “I need fifty thousand.”

  Now this, I wasn’t expecting. My palm doesn’t itch, but my business savvy rumbles with respectful appreciation at her attempt to negotiate.

  I’m up for the challenge. “The offer isn’t open to negotiation.”

  “Then I guess it’s back to housekeeping for me,” she replies with a shrug. I’m astounded when she grabs the vacuum, starting to unwind the cord from the back.

  Okay, there is far more to this woman than I thought to give her credit for. She’s not only piqued my interest, but she’s also made me downright curious as to what drives such an attitude. Am I so out of touch I don’t even know how ordinary people operate if they don’t have a need I can fulfill?

  “I’ll make it fifty-five thousand, but you’ll be at my beck and call, morning and night,” I reply, tugging on one shirt cuff to fiddle with the onyx link there. “This is a salaried position, semi-autonomous, and I’ll expect you to figure things out proactively, not wait around for me to direct you. If I call you at three in the morning to do something for me, I expect you to do it. I’m a hard taskmaster, and I demand absolute loyalty and dedication. More than that, I require you to use that brain you have shown you possess, unlike my last assistant. Let it get lazy, and you’re fired. If you exceed my expectations, I’ll give you a raise in thirty days. Any questions?”

  I almost laugh at her incredulous expression. I’ve managed to one-up her by offering more than she demanded. I can tell she’s wondering if she’s sold herself short. Frankly, I would have paid whatever she demanded. I don’t expect she’ll last long. The people who work directly for me never do. I demand a lot and people rarely meet my expectations. For now, she has an immediate solution to my problem, and she sparks my interest in the otherwise monotonous world I seem to occupy lately.

  If she ends up in my bed, even better. I have a feeling she’d be a fantastic fuck, especially if she channels all that sass into her lovemaking.

  “Um… do you want me to finish cleaning your suite?” she asks, and I’m disappointed she has to ask.

  But she doesn’t know me yet. She doesn’t know I follow through on every single promise and offer I make. So I’ll give her a pass. “No. Like I said, I’ll make sure your duties are covered by someone else. I’d like you to get that Desert Rose venue secured. Afterward, come down to the executive offices. You can work on getting the suppliers updated with the new location and the attendees notified of the change of address.”

  “Yes, sir,” she replies. Given the tone of her voice, I half expect her to give a sarcastic salute of her hand.

  My palm tingles again, but I ignore it. This is just business now.

  CHAPTER 4

  Bailey

  “Bailey,” my mom calls out from the living room. Actually, it’s more of a long wheezing plea. Without hesitation, I leave her kitchen, which I’d been cleaning, to see what she needs. She smiles sheepishly as she adjusts the nasal cannula that delivers the life-saving oxygen to her body through her nose.
“Honey… this tank is almost out. Think you can exchange it before you leave?”

  “Of course,” I reassure her, glancing over at my dad in his recliner. He has it fully cocked back, watching Wheel of Fortune, ignoring my mom and me. My mom immediately tries to defend him. “His back is terrible today, or else he’d do it.”

  “I know, Mom,” I say gently, giving her a smile. Neither of us buys the excuse, but it’s the game we play every time I come to visit.

  It sucks having parents who have seemingly turned old and infirm way before they should have. My parents are both disabled, yet only in their early fifties. My mom has chronic obstructive pulmonary disease, thanks to her years as a cotton textile factory worker. She’s never smoked a day in her life, but her lungs are shot. She’s dependent on oxygen now.

  My dad has a bad back—worker’s compensation injury years ago—and while there are many things he can’t do, he can most definitely change out my mom’s small bottles of oxygen. It’s just a matter that he doesn’t want to, and, moreover, he knows I’ll handle it.

  Honestly, I don’t mind, though. I love both of my parents—warts and all. My mom I hate to see suffering this way, because she was just always on the go and active. It kills her to sit in her house day in and day out, not being able to work or get out into the world as she wants.

  My dad took to disabled life, not requiring much to keep him happy. As long as he had good TV to watch and a comfortable chair for his back, he was a satisfied man. While it doesn’t make him a bad person in my eyes, because I do indeed love him just as much as my mom, it just makes it glaringly apparent I got my drive and determination from my mother.

  I come by several times a week to check on them. Each visit, I perform a household chore to keep their place clean and habitable. My mom doesn’t have the stamina to move around for more than a few minutes, and my dad doesn’t have the motivation.

  “You need anything?” I ask my mom. “Want me to make you a cup of tea?”