Wicked Billionaire Read online

  That piques my attention, stopping me in mid-stride as I’d started to round my desk toward her.

  “I know you said my start time was eight, but I always like to get to work early so I can get settled. A head start on the day, of sorts, but, unfortunately, I had a flat tire.”

  And that immediately changes my opinion of her all over again. Her work ethic is as strong as I had suspected.

  “Of course, it’s been a long time since I’ve changed a flat. Rusty skills and all, or I would have been in much earlier.”

  I’m once again stunned into inaction.

  She changed her own flat? I’m fascinated, and I want to know more. “Why didn’t you call a car service to change your tire?”

  My question obviously confuses her. Her brow crinkles. But when comprehension dawns over her face, I understand. To her, my inherent privilege doesn’t make sense.

  Her words are quietly assured, but they still have a bite. “Because I cannot afford to pay for someone to come fix my flat. Also, that would have taken more time than I could have afforded. I most assuredly did not want to be late to work.”

  Damn. She really put me in my place. After giving her a second to gloat, I pull back on my mantle of superiority. “I thought we’d start by giving you a tour of the entire resort. As my assistant, you’ll need to understand and liaise with all of them on my behalf.”

  I stride toward her and she moves backward through my doorway, intent on getting out of my way. I point to the cubicle that sits catty-corner to my office. “You’ll find an iPad at your desk you can use in addition to your computer. You can introduce yourself to the other staff when we return. I’ll have someone from HR show you how to log in to the system and give you some basic training later.”

  “Okay,” she replies, then I hear her trotting to keep up with me.

  Our executive suite is nothing more than a large square with the management offices on the perimeter and the secretarial services on the interior in cubicles and free-standing desks. I point out every office, not expecting her to remember the names of every important person who helps in running this resort, but giving her enough information so she’s familiar with them. I’ve learned enough to know Bailey is resourceful and has common sense. She can figure things out if she has an inkling as to where to start.

  From there, I show her every part of the resort and explain how it functions. I denote the major departments such as operations, marketing, human resources, dining, spa services, housekeeping, maintenance, grounds, merchandising, retail, and concierge. I explain our bright-line rule on customer experience… that the customer gets whatever they want, whenever they want, and faster than they ever expected it in the first place.

  More importantly, I bestow upon her the authority to make anything happen in my absence and reiterate my expectation that she use her brain to make good decisions. That part was probably unnecessary as she saw me fire my assistant yesterday for just such a failure, but it never hurts to make things doubly clear.

  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.

  “Of course, Mr. Blackwood,” she says, with a knowing smile on her face.

  CHAPTER 6

  Bailey

  I step out of the Uber outside of Caesar’s Palace. I didn’t want to drive on my spare tire to my meeting with my boss and an investor at Restaurant Guy Savoy. As I head into this eatery I could never afford, I admit I’m thankful f
or the clothing allowance he allotted. I would have been tossed out if I’d worn the cheap black suit I’d had on earlier.

  God, it had been somewhat humiliating having my new boss buy me thousands of dollars’ worth of clothing just so I look the part as Declan Blackwood’s assistant. He’d never want anyone to realize I was from the wrong side of the tracks.

  What’s worse, I bet the saleswoman—Flavia, a beautiful Italian former model—thought Declan bought me these clothes because we were lovers.

  It’s the most shameful part… that people will probably think I slept my way into this job.

  I’m sure Flavia does. Especially since Declan came back into the boutique after his phone calls and insisted I show him every outfit I tried on. The dressing area was huge, with three rooms made private with slatted doors. Outside those, a full-length, three-sided mirror was set on an elevated stage, allowing customers to admire outfits from all angles. Below that, two chairs flanked a couch. A private butler attended to Declan, bringing him coffee while he surfed his phone and watched as I modeled the clothing.

  And by model, I mean I grumpily trudged up on that stage, faced him, and waited for his discerning judgment where he either gave a chin lift of approval or a slight shake of his head.

  From Flavia, I soon found out that when he said to provide accoutrements, it meant lingerie to be worn under each outfit. At first, I declined, but when she said I’d have to take it up with Mr. Blackwood, I immediately backed down. I hadn’t wanted to have a public argument, which would have only made the inevitable rumor mill worse. So I accepted the breathtaking lacy concoctions, never having seen anything so beautifully delicate before. I most certainly have never worn a two-hundred-dollar pair of panties before.

  Declan, obviously, did not have the pleasure of viewing those pieces, but if the way he watched me was any indication, he was definitely curious. While some of his expressions may have been due to his appreciation of finely tailored clothing, I’d bet he also fantasized about what was underneath. The gleam in his eyes, curved lips, and wandering gaze were proof. He hadn’t overtly leered. Sometimes, he even appeared bored. Occasionally, though, a hint of lust sparked in his eyes. I hate that it made me feel hot all over. Hated even more that I enjoyed having someone find me attractive, because it had been too long since I had.

  In the end, he approved several outfits—one a stunning mustard-yellow pantsuit with wide legs and a cross-over pleated blouse, which hugged my body to perfection while managing to still look professional. I hadn’t wanted to take it off. Declan, however, insisted I wear a beautiful tweed outfit in light grays and lavender.

  Each outfit had been paired with matching footwear, along with two handbags in muted colors that complemented the entire wardrobe. I tried to mentally calculate the cost, but had to stop when I realized it would probably exceed my yearly salary. My brain simply couldn’t comprehend spending that amount on clothing. I’d been hesitant to bring the purchases home. It seemed sacrilegious to hang them in my small closet next to my cheap wardrobe.

  My first foray into the world of hotel investments had me dressed professionally in a tweed suit, but clueless in every other aspect. I had nothing to offer to the conversation between Declan and the “investor,” Draymond Frost, a portly older man. I’d found myself wanting to interject something concise and helpful. Instead, I’d felt incredibly awkward as I’d sat there, silently taking notes on my new iPad Pro.

  While Declan enjoyed scallops and Mr. Frost had a steak, I munched on a salad as they discussed a boutique Blackwood resort project in the Cayman Islands. For the life of me, I couldn’t imagine why the Blackwoods would need Mr. Frost’s money to build another hotel—they were billionaires, after all—but it wasn’t my place to ask.

  All I had to do was sit there, look intelligent, and take notes.

  Afterward, Declan had asked, “Did you notice anything odd about the meeting?”

  I had no clue what he was angling for. It was the first meeting I’d ever attended where one person solicited another for funds to build a hotel, so I wasn’t in a position to know what constituted as ordinary.

  But one thing had struck me as, well, not necessarily odd, but noticeable. “I thought Mr. Frost seemed overly insistent on being involved in the design process, but I’m not sure if that’s odd.”

  For a moment, Declan appraised me, then nodded. “Good observation, indeed.”

  Now I’m heading into my second business meeting. Per Declan’s instructions, I’m dressed in the off-the-shoulder cocktail dress. It’s cobalt-blue with a sweetheart neckline, the back almost wholly scooped out. It fits snugly through my torso and hips, cascading to asymmetrical but subtle ruffles at the hemline. He’d insisted on a pair of silver spike-heeled sandals from a designer I’d never heard of—not that I know much about fashion—and had cost a heart-stopping bit over a grand. I find myself strolling cautiously so as not to nick the costly leather in any way.

  Restaurant Guy Savoy is a French restaurant I’m unfamiliar with. I’d Googled it while at my new desk this afternoon when Declan ordered me to confirm our seven PM reservations. Apparently, the original restaurant is in Paris. At the sight of the menu and the seventy-five-dollar appetizers, I’d almost swallowed my tongue.

  I am going to be out of my league again tonight. Hopefully, I won’t have a Pretty Woman moment and squirt my escargot across the dining area. Declan already bought me a new wardrobe, so I feel like I’m well on my way to trying to fit in somewhere I don’t belong, just like Julia Roberts in the movie. I don’t need to act her part to feel as if I’m living it.

  Inside the lobby of Caesars, I’m surprised to find Declan waiting for me. This afternoon, he’d merely left instructions to meet him at the restaurant, then he’d left the office to work from his suite for the remainder of the day. I’d stayed at my desk, learning the computer system and flipping through the human resources manual. In addition to the hefty salary and signing bonus he promised, I get 401K, health insurance, three weeks of paid vacation, and seven sick days.

  Taking a—hopefully—surreptitious second, I revel in how gorgeous Declan Blackwood is. In my opinion, there’s no better pairing than dark hair and blue eyes. Declan’s hair is thick, more black than brown, and his eyes have a flash of silver in their blue depths. I have no clue if his hair will gray as he ages, but if it does, he’ll wear it well. His wavy locks are swept back from his forehead and face, accentuating his strong jawline and slightly hollowed cheeks, which make him appear of European descent.

  His suit is a navy so dark it could pass for black. Of course, it’s expertly cut to his frame, which is packed solid with muscle, as I can attest by seeing his near nakedness yesterday.

  “Miss Robbins,” he says in greeting.

  “Mr. Blackwood,” I reply. Even internally, I’d made myself drop the Dicklan nickname. If I didn’t, I’d end up getting irritated one day, and it would slip out.

  Then I’d be fired and out of luck.

  To my surprise, he holds his arm out, slightly bent at the elbow. It’s a silent demand, so I curl my fingers around there, allowing him to escort me into the restaurant.

  As we traverse our way to the Augustus Tower of Caesars, I find myself not minding the heat of his body through his suit jacket or the hardness of his arm muscles under my fingertips.

  “I knew that dress would be a great choice,” Declan says, and I almost stumble I’m so stunned by his comment.

  “Pardon?” I mutter, managing to smooth my gait once again.

  “Look at all the attention you’re drawing,” he says quietly.

  I look around at the people milling about. Some people who will be lodging here, others just on a tour of the famed Caesars Palace. Many people—men, women, old, young—are watching us.

  Well, watching Declan. Surely not me.

  He doesn’t allow me to refute him, though, continuing, “We’re meeting a gentleman tonight by the name of Christopher McGale. Do you recognize the name?”
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br />   The name is sadly not familiar, and thus I can’t impress my boss. I shake my head. “I’m afraid I don’t.”

  “He’s a hotelier himself, but he’s made his name on small, trendy type boutique lodgings in secluded places.”

  “And you’re considering doing something like that with the Blackwood brand?” I ask.

  “Considering it,” he admits. “I want you to do the same thing tonight… take notes, feel free to ask pertinent questions if something comes to that fascinating brain of yours, and keep your senses open to anything odd.”

  I stop walking, forcing him to do the same and turn my way. “I don’t understand why you need me to try to judge these people. I’m sure you’ve done lots of business meetings without someone like me to observe.”

  “That would be true, but I have you now. You’re a resource.” The detached tone indicates I’m nothing but a tool in his arsenal, but then his voice drops an octave, and he bends slightly toward me. His gaze runs down the length of me, and his lips curl slightly. “Now that I have you, why wouldn’t I use you?”

  I can’t suppress the tiny shiver that tingles up my spine. We’re talking business, and there’s nothing in his words to suggest anything different. But his tone and expression seem to insinuate a decidedly unprofessional meaning.

  And I have to wonder… did he hire me, buy me a new wardrobe, and bring me with him to meetings all under the guise of getting me into his bed?

  Studying his face, I search for clues to dissuade my notion. I mean, surely not. He’s Declan freaking Blackwood. He could have any supermodel or movie star at the snap of his fingers. Wealthier than God, he’s also panty-dropping gorgeous. He wouldn’t have to go to such lengths to get laid.

  Not that I’m willing to let him take me to bed.

  Nope. Not at all. Not even if Jeff seems to think I’ll feel better about myself if I’d just go out and get some action.

  “Declan,” a man calls from our left. With a subtle pressure, Declan shifts me toward whom I assume is Christopher McGale, waiting outside the doors of Restaurant Guy Savoy.