Mr. Romantic: A Mister Standalone (The Mister Series Book 2) Page 5

  “He’s dangerous.”

  “I’ve been warned.”

  “Then I wash my hands.”

  “Consider them clean.” My last words stand final in the ensuing silence and then Claudette shoots me one more angry look and turns away. I don’t watch her as she disappears. Just take my seat and try to pretend that all four diners in this room didn’t hear that.

  They aren’t looking at me, so maybe they didn’t. I’m not sitting close to any of them, but still. Who the hell does Claudette think she is? I might be inexperienced in the bedroom but I’m not one to let people walk all over me. I can be a competitive bitch with the best of them and that Claudette has another think coming if she thinks I’ll cower.

  There’s no way in hell I’m getting this job now. Not with Claudette on the hiring team. But I can show these people what I have to offer. I don’t even want their recommendation anymore. Screw all of these people.

  My new objective is to show them what they’ll be missing when I leave.

  Chapter Seven - Nolan

  “Goddammit, Corporate! Where the fuck are you?” I tab the screen on the phone and end the call. I need to know more about Ivy Rockwell and her file doesn’t give me nearly enough information. Maybe I can call Mr. Mysterious? He’s got connections. I’m not sure what kind or with who, but I am sure that if you need info in LA, he’s the guy you call to get it.

  Nah. I hardly talk to him anymore. And we were never tight. Not tight enough for him to owe me a favor. Plus, Ivy is from the East Coast. He probably won’t have a lot of connections out that way.

  Still, I’m dying to know more about Ivy Rockwell. And if I can’t get it through prying, then I need to get it the old-fashioned way.

  Seduction.

  She’s so self-assured. And while I’m not really turning on the charm or making a play—yet—she’s not very intimidated by me.

  I like it.

  I know Claudette will throw a fit, but I like it. And I need an excuse to get rid of Claudette this evening so I can have that midnight swim. Maybe Ivy will wear that tiny yellow bikini again? Maybe she’ll take my advice and try to find something more conservative in the women’s shop? Maybe she won’t wear anything at all?

  I call Shadows, my main club in San Diego, and get Travis, my long-time head of operations. “Hey, how’s everything down there?”

  “Good, man. Good. No problems. We’ve got that new DJ tonight. Expecting a big crowd. Called in extra security, got a few more waitresses to take an extra shift. It’s gonna go well, I think. Your presence is not necessary.”

  “Not what I wanted to hear, Travis.”

  He laughs. “Tell me why.”

  “I need to get rid of Claudette tonight. She’s cockblocking me, man.”

  “Who’s the girl?”

  I hesitate.

  “Dude,” Travis says, dragging out the word. “Do not tell me it’s a new hire.”

  “She’s not a new hire. She’s an applicant.” I sound a little smug with myself for differentiating.

  “Same thing, Nolan. Jesus Christ. Do you want to get sued for sexual harassment? Because that last one is still pretty pissed off. You can’t afford another fuckup.”

  “I fucked that one before I hired her. And then fired that one before I fucked her again, so she has no case.”

  “It’s not good for business, man. You’ve got a bad rep in this town. Stay away from the employees.”

  “I told you, this one is only an applicant. Claudette wants to send her home tonight anyway. Which is fine with me. But I’d like to fuck her after she’s fired and before she leaves. So I need you to create an emergency and call Claudette to come down and take care of it.”

  “What kind of emergency?” Travis is wary of my plans. As he should be.

  “Something about me, obviously. That’s all she cares about, right? That’s the only thing aside from my father that will get her attention. So tell her a girl is there saying I knocked her up or something. Make me look bad, Travis. Make me look bad and I’ll co-sign the next time you need a loan for one of those fancy boats you like to collect.”

  “It’s not hard to make you look bad. And you’re conveniently forgetting that you were accused of knocking someone up a few months ago.”

  “All lies, my friend. You know I don’t fuck without a wrapper.”

  “You’re sick.”

  “Will you do it?”

  “What time?” He sighs.

  “Six thirty. Thanks, man. I owe you.”

  I sigh as I end the call. Ivy Rockwell. Maybe I can do a search for her online? I open up my laptop and type in her name, adding Brown University to the search.

  Nothing for Ivy Rockwell at Brown, but there is a whole bunch of stuff for Ivy Rockwell at the Bishop School for Girls in Bishop, Massachusetts.

  Holy fuck. She’s in a uniform. Don’t look, Nolan. Don’t look.

  But I look.

  Her hair is long and blonde in this picture, flowing down over her shoulders, partially hiding the school insignia on her left breast of the navy blue jacket. Her face is probably the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen. And she doesn’t look much different than she does now. She has a very innocent vibe going.

  A man and a woman are standing next to her. I read the caption. Rev. William Rockwell and his wife, Sophia, celebrate the graduation of their daughter, Ivy Rockwell, from the Bishop School for Girls.

  Oh, fuck no. She’s a pastor’s daughter?

  I think I get hard just from reading that.

  Well, I might need to up my game for this girl. She’s probably been schooled in the fine art of saying no. And I can see it, actually, now that I know her little secret. The manners. The high opinion of her virtue. It comes out in ways that are unnoticeable, yet still there, in everything she’s done since she arrived.

  Classy.

  I had class once. I went to private schools too. Was brought up in with lessons in manners and all sorts of stupid rules. Rules I preferred to break, but still. I can play that game with the best of them.

  Well, little Miss Ivy Rockwell might deserve my A-game in order to break through her walls. But one thing is for certain. I will fuck this girl before I send her packing.

  Chapter Eight - Ivy

  I wander down a wide hallway after I eat my delicious salad in the dining room—the homemade croutons were to die for—towards the west end of the resort. Not really looking for the women’s shop, but if it happens to come up in front of me, I might as well take a look inside.

  I can’t stop thinking about Nolan Delaney. He was flirting. It excites me in ways I’m embarrassed to think about. I mean, I actually wish I was at home right now so I could masturbate, that’s how horny his attention makes me.

  And he’s counting on me still being here tonight. He wants to have a midnight swim with me.

  What else does he want to do?

  I spy a fancy window filled with pretty lingerie and stop to look at it. The mannequins are faceless and thin, yet still graceful and slender enough to spark a bit of jealousy in me. How is it fair that a fake woman can pull off sexy far better than I can?

  “It’s pretty, isn’t it?” A salesgirl is watching me covet the expensive bits of lace, and silk, and chiffon.

  “Very,” I say. “But all I really need is a one-piece swimsuit. Mr. Delaney said I could charge it to my room? I’m in family cabana number six.” I can’t help but hide the disappointment in my voice. And even though it’s somewhat dishonest to take him up on his offer for a free swimsuit when I know I’ll be leaving soon, I’m going to do it anyway.

  “Well,” the girl says in a low voice. “We have the best selection in that area. Would you like to see your options?”

  “Certainly,” I say, following her inside the shop.

  She stops in front of more mannequins and waves her hand at the display.

  “These are… swimsuits?” I ask.

  The girl laughs. “Yes, and technically, a one piece.” She winks at me f
or obvious reasons.

  The tops and bottoms of the suits are all technically connected, just as she said. But connected is a matter of degree. Slim straps, and in some cases, silver or gold chains, are what keep the two small pieces of fabric from being called a bikini. The one I’m looking at is definitely a bikini, with just a single chain linked from the middle of the bra piece to the middle of the panty piece.

  Would Nolan Delaney die if I wore this for our midnight swim tonight or what? I chuckle, and then stop. Maybe he sent me here on purpose?

  “Do you have anything more conservative?” I ask.

  “Not in this shop. This is what I call the naughty store. We have another shop on the east side with more traditional pieces.”

  So he did mean for me to stop by this place. Hmm.

  “Would you like to try one on? I bet you’d look great in this.” She points to another suit with slightly more coverage than the first. It’s all black and the bottoms have straps of fabric that burst out from between the legs in a starburst fashion and connect to the bra.

  Nice way to draw the eye down to… well, the goods.

  “Yes,” I say. “Yes, I really would.”

  Twenty minutes later she’s wrapping the suit up as I stare at the lingerie again.

  “Want to continue shopping, Miss Rockwell?”

  “No,” I say, coming to my senses. A provocative bathing suit is enough for one day. Besides, I’ve already decided I won’t be sleeping with Nolan. That lingerie I long for will have to wait until a more suitable man comes along. I sign the slip that will charge the suit to my room, and then notice there is no price on it. “How much was this? I completely forgot to ask.”

  “We haven’t priced them yet. We’re still setting up shop. None of the ladies Mr. Delaney invited to the soft opening are interested in this store. It’s for younger women, like yourself.”

  “OK. But how much?”

  “Sorry,” the salesgirl says with a shrug. “Mr. Delaney stopped by earlier and said you might be by. He said to make sure you left with something pretty and not to tell you the price.”

  “He did, did he?”

  “He did,” the girl answers back, as she hands me the fancy bag.

  That snake is very sure of himself. Very sure of himself.

  And you walked right into it, Ivy.

  What was I thinking? Why would I ever want to lose my virginity to a man like him?

  “Well, thank you so much for your help,” I say, taking my bag and walking out of the shop.

  “See you around, Miss Rockwell.”

  Not for much longer. I’m fairly certain my time here is just about up. Claudette Delaney will get wind of this transaction, and the instructions from her brother that precluded it, and have me on that jet in no time. I’ll probably be lucky to make it to the six o’clock meeting.

  When I get back to my cabana it’s almost five thirty. There was no sign of Nolan when I walked past his cabana, but I assume he’s already in the office getting ready for his applicants’ presentations.

  I put my cream-colored linen suit back on from earlier today and freshen up my face and hair before walking out of the cabana and heading over to the main building. Here goes nothing, Ivy.

  Oh, stop. It’s not like I have a chance in hell of getting this job. Even if Nolan is impressed by my analysis, Claudette won’t be. Face facts, I’m out of here tonight, tomorrow morning at the latest.

  But I’m going out in style.

  The front desk ladies greet me by name when I approach, and then point to a set of stairs that wind up to the office. I arrive on the second floor at five minutes to six, and smile self-consciously at the two men sitting in the outer office waiting room.

  “Hello,” I say.

  “Hello,” they say in unison.

  I’m screwed. They are both in their mid thirties, slightly older than Nolan. They are both wearing expensive suits, and they both look like men who have most certainly done this before.

  Well, there goes my grand exit. I bet they have all the same ideas I’ve come up with for adding value to the Hundred Palms Resort customer experience, and then some.

  “Oh, good,” Claudette says from off to the left. “Ivy has finally arrived so we can get started.”

  I was early. Five minutes. She is really out to make me look bad.

  “Come on in to the conference room, everyone. We’re doing this together. Nolan?” she calls. “She’s here.”

  God, I wasn’t late.

  Nolan Delaney appears from an office down the hallway and smiles at us. He’s wearing a suit again. Perfectly tailored, black suit with a yellow silk tie. “OK, everyone. I can’t wait to hear what you’ve come up with.”

  We file in and take our seats around a long oval table. I sink into my chair when I notice the two other candidates pulling out presentation material. One guy is setting up a projector.

  I have nothing and even worse, this is painfully obvious to everyone in the room.

  “Ivy,” Claudette says from across the table. “Do you need to grab anything?”

  “Um, no.” I smile and tap my head. “I’ve got it all up here.”

  I look self-consciously at the two men, but they don’t seem to be gloating quite as much about my lack of props as Claudette is.

  Suck it up, Ivy. You’re smart, capable, and you have good ideas for this place.

  I glance over at Nolan and find him smirking at me. He cocks his head and raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t comment.

  “Mr. Miller,” Claudette says. “You can present first.”

  “Thank you, Ms. Delaney. Mr. Delaney. As you know—”

  “Wait, wait, wait,” Nolan says, interrupting him. “We haven’t all met. Let me introduce everyone for Ivy’s sake.”

  Well, that was nice.

  “Ivy, this is Bram Miller, current brand manager for Beachwood Resorts in the Caribbean. How many resorts do you oversee, Bram?”

  “Ah, seventeen, Mr. Delaney.”

  “Bram got his MBA at Harvard and specializes in golf course promotion. Our professional course will be competitive and we think it will be a major draw for Hundred Palms.”

  “I have you covered, Nolan,” Mr. Miller says with a confident smile.

  Bram? Nolan? Well, they got cozy fast.

  “And this,” Nolan says, pointing to the second candidate, “is Daniel Davies. He got his MBA at Stanford and is the project marketing director for the Shell Island Luxury resorts in North Carolina.”

  “That’s right,” Mr. Davies says. “I’m particularly interested in the high-end amenities. Aside from the golf course”—he chuckles as he trades a smile with Bram—“I think of the spa as a gold mine, Ivy. It’s usually the most expensive service, and the most lucrative, offered by luxury resorts. Who can’t resist some pampering on vacation?”

  “Right,” Nolan says, pleased with his two options. “Well, Miss Ivy Rockwell just recently graduated with honors from the IE Brown Executive program.”

  Wait. What? Did I just hear him correctly?

  “Ivy might be inexperienced and young”—they all have a nice chuckle at my expense—“but she comes highly recommended from Weston Conrad.”

  “Ahhhh,” the two other men say. As if that explains everything about my sudden presence here.

  “He knows his stuff,” Bram says. “He chose me too, after all.”

  Hahahaha from the gang of men.

  Jesus Christ.

  But I’m still wondering why Nolan Delaney thinks I have an MBA. I’m twenty-two. He knows this.

  “Ivy worked on her MBA at Brown simultaneously as she completed her undergrad degree,” Claudette explains, like she’s reading my mind.

  “Wow,” Davies says. “I’ve never heard of such a thing. Impressive, Miss Rockwell.”

  “Thank you?” I say weakly. But what the hell is going on?

  “Ivy has no formal experience, of course,” Claudette adds. A sudden wave of fear threatens to overtake me. “But if Weston
Conrad says she’s up for the job, well, we can’t just dismiss her outright, you both understand, right?”

  What a bitch.

  “Of course,” Bram says.

  “Totally understand,” Daniel adds.

  I smile through my humiliation and nod as the formal presentation about the golf course starts, headed up by Bram. But I can’t even begin to pay attention to what he’s saying, even though he’s got a full-on PowerPoint presentation on screen filled with data tables and projected profits for the next ten years.

  Why the hell do the Delaneys think I have an MBA? And why would this Weston Conrad guy tell them this?

  I look nervously at Nolan, who is sitting on the same side of the table as me, but two chairs forward. He’s asking Bram something about a slide. I glance down at three folders open on the table in front of him. One for each of us, I presume. Two are thick, like there are many documents inside them. But it’s the thin one I’m interested in. That has to be me. I crane my neck a little to get a glimpse of what’s in there and see a fancy letterhead on a résumé.

  My résumé. But that’s not my letterhead. My letterhead is an elegant embossed gold script and this one is in bold black.

  What is happening? Do they have me mixed up with someone else?

  Someone else named Ivy Rockwell, Ivy? Don't be ridiculous.

  But what other explanation is there?

  Should I stop this? Should I tell them they’re mistaken?

  I ponder that for a while as the meeting continues. Bram has all kinds of thoughts about the golf course that I’m not even remotely interested in. And then before I know it, Daniel is standing—not with a PowerPoint, thank God, but he’s got handouts. Full-color graphs and charts, documenting every detail of the most profitable spas around the world and what services they offer.

  My hands start sweating as I volley my options back and forth. Tell them the truth? Or give it my best shot and walk out with my dignity intact?

  I can’t stomach the thought of standing up and admitting that my meager accomplishment is a lie. Will they accuse me of lying? Of tricking them into this expensive meeting? How much did it cost to fly me across the country in that private jet?