“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 for 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.