Smiling, Declan leads me over. After the men shake hands, Declan introduces me as his assistant.
Christopher McGale is the opposite of the man we lunched with. He’s young, probably in his mid-thirties, and incredibly attractive with auburn hair, hazel eyes, and a tall, muscular frame. Between him and Declan, I imagine every woman in the vicinity would kill to be in my place.
The hostess leads us into the dimly lit restaurant, ushering us into a private alcove with a table set for three. The men order scotch on the rocks while I settle on white wine. As soon as we place our orders, they launch into business.
As I suspected, Declan must be considering opening something other than the usual Blackwood hotel or resort, which are usually enormous. Once again focusing on the Cayman Islands, the men discuss size, occupancy, and amenities.
Incredibly bored when they delve into the intricacies of financing, I focus more on their body language, realizing Declan likes Christopher McGale more than he had our lunch companion. I’m not sure if it’s because they are closer in age or if, in my opinion, Mr. McGale seems more transparent and genuine, whereas Mr. Frost came across as a hustler. Regardless, Declan is more relaxed during this meeting.
And frankly… Mr. McGale is more likable. He doesn’t appear to be digging for inroads to exclusively benefit himself. Instead, I’d say he desires a give-and-take partnership based on their mutual strengths of what each brings to the table of the project they want to build together.
At the end of the evening, I’m still not entirely sure I’ve pieced together precisely what Declan wants to accomplish, but I do know a bit. Declan wants to branch out from the Blackwood business model to build something unique. He intends to do this outside of the Blackwood name, presumably to start up his own company, which is why he’s searching for investors.
And he seems to be extremely driven, as evidenced when he’d informed Mr. McGale he’d be making the decision on whom to invite into the joint venture by month’s end.
CHAPTER 7
Declan
There she is… I’ve looked forward to seeing her way too much. As I walk into my office, my new assistant, Bailey Robbins, waits at my door with her iPad in one arm and a cup of coffee for me in the other.
If I had thought that being around her would get a bit easier with time, I was wrong. I was also wrong in my belief that she would stop affecting me so strongly the more I was around her.
She’s been my assistant for a week. Yet, every day that passes only causes me to become more fascinated with her.
As an employee, she’s turned out to be one of the best hiring decisions I’ve ever made. As I’d suspected, not only does her intellect serve me well, but she also has a knack for figuring out tricky situations. More than that, she has enough confidence to be proactive in matters without needing my input. Until she started handling those details, I had no clue how much shit I was doing that should have been delegated. In that respect, she’s shone a spotlight on my shortcomings as a manager.
Every morning, we’ve established a routine of meeting at my office. She brings me coffee, along with a summary report covering overnight issues. Sometimes, she’ll even have suggestions on how to deal with a concern. Occasionally, she’ll handle problems without even involving me.
I’ve never had an assistant be so bloody fucking fantastic at assisting me.
So yes, I appreciate her more than I can say. I’m not about to lose her.
However, now that I’ve realized how capable she is and how effortlessly she operates within my world—the Blackwood world—it makes her infinitely more attractive for some reason.
Being a go-getter sets her apart from other women. She’s never going to be the type who waits for someone to take care of or rescue her. Instead, she enjoys being independent and figuring out how to do stuff herself.
She’s a rarity, which makes her even more intriguing.
It certainly doesn’t help she’s wearing the clothes I bought her. Especially when I know damn well if I were to hike her skirt up, she’d be wearing the silky unmentionables I’d bought, too. Fuck how I’d love to see that.
Just once. Well, at least once, but preferably more.
Yeah… I want her badly. But I keep telling myself I can’t go there. I don’t mix business with pleasure.
Too bad she’s not a member of The Wicked Horse. If she were the no-strings type sex clubs are made for, she might be a safe bet to dally with. She would understand sex is just sex, and once out of the club, there is nothing else to bind.
It’s also ironic I’m fantasizing about getting her in a sex club when I’m in the process of creating my own. She hasn’t been clued in, but I’m meeting with potential investors because I’m building an exclusive vacation resort that blends the luxury of the Blackwood name with a little kink by adding a sex club to the available amenities.
What would Bailey think if she knew those boring investment meetings she had to attend were to facilitate the construction of kinky hotels?
“Good morning, Mr. Blackwood,” she says. And, goddamn, even the way she so formally says my name turns me on. Not for the first time, I imagine her in a collar attached to a chain, crawling across the floor toward me.
Once again, I can’t help but wonder if she’d approve or be disgusted by my plans to create a sex club resort.
“Good morning,” I reply when I reach her, taking the offered cup of coffee. She follows me into my office, seating herself in a guest chair while I move around my desk. I set the cup down, bend slightly to log in to my computer, then lower myself into my sumptuous leather executive chair. It’s big enough to accommodate Bailey, too, should she ever get the urge to crawl onto my lap.
Fuck. Get her out of your goddamn mind, Blackwood.
“I had to push your lunch appointment to one thirty,” Bailey says as she reads notes from her iPad. “Mr. Iverson’s flight is delayed.”
I study her, looking crisp and professional in a cream-colored dress with geometric block patterns done in navy blue, brown, and black. Her heels are black peep toes, and I’m even fucking turned on by her apricot-colored toenail polish.
Christ.
Not sure what compels me—the lap fantasy?—but I make a snap decision to figure out precisely what she thinks about my plans.
“Mr. Iverson is the last investor I’ll be interviewing,” I inform her. “I’d like you to block off the rest of my afternoon so you and I can discuss the project’s next steps.”
“Next steps, sir?”
Fuck… what it does when she calls me “sir.”
“Even though you’ve attended meetings, you haven’t inquired about why I need investors.”
“I didn’t feel it was my place,” she murmurs. “I thought if you wanted me to know—”
“I intend to open a unique type of resort,” I interrupt. “One which will be separate from the Blackwood empire.”
“Why wouldn’t you want it to be part of the Blackwood empire? The brand itself seems like it offers guaranteed success.”
That makes me chuckle. Nothing about building a new resort—Blackwood name or not—is ever guaranteed to be successful. But she’s not wrong… the Blackwood money would grease the wheels.
I tap my fingers on the desk, studying her. Should I reveal my true intentions for the result? Fuck it. I brace for her reaction. “I’m going to create a boutique luxury resort, which will contain a sex club as its main focus.”
At first, her expression blanks, but then her eyebrows raise slightly in surprise. I’m stunned when she merely says, “Interesting… I assume you think there’s a market for it?”
Once again, I chuckle. “Oh, there’s a huge market for it. The wealthy will pay a premium chunk of change for the privilege.”
“And you want outside investors because you cannot associate the Blackwood name with such an endeavor?” she concludes.
“My family would not be happy about it,” I concede. “In fact, I would be the silent partner in
the project while my investor would be the public face.”
When she frowns, I figure this is where she’ll reveal just how progressive—or not—she’ll be in this matter. “I still don’t understand why you want to do this. I mean… as the Blackwood heir, you don’t need extra income. And if you will only be a silent partner in this project, you won’t get any recognition from it, so why even bother?”
My body relaxes. She’s focused on financial and business recognition merits, not on morality. “Let’s just say I have a personal interest.”
“A personal interest?” she repeats, brow furrowing.
“Yes, as in I personally enjoy going to sex clubs,” I say, tone challenging.
Once again, her response surprises me. It looks as if a bright light has flipped on above her head as something dawns on her. “So that’s why you don’t date and are rarely seen with women.”
I’m the shocked one now. I didn’t realize she paid that type of attention to my personal life. For some odd reason, it pleases me.
“I like no-strings-attached sexual encounters,” I reply in a crisply professional voice. I want her to believe we’re still talking about business, but, truthfully, I’d like insight into her thoughts, too. “I find it easier with how busy I am, and sex clubs offer that.”
“Makes sense,” she muses, her eyes going slightly hazy in contemplation. I’d bet a million dollars she has no idea she’s doing it, but her teeth sink into her bottom lip, nibbling at it. It’s sexy as fuck.
“Penny for your thoughts,” I murmur.
Her gaze focuses, snapping to me. Shaking her head, she smiles sheepishly, her cheeks flushing. “Sorry… just thinking. I recently had a friend suggest a sex club to me.”
Now I wasn’t fucking prepared to hear that. It’s not that I think Bailey’s a prude. I genuinely thought there was only a slim chance she’d be offended by my project. But I never thought she’d actually entertain the merits of that type of hedonism.
“Well, it’s your lucky day,” I say before I can stop myself. “After I decide which investor to partner with, we’ll be moving to the design stage. I could use your help.”
“But I don’t know anything about sex clubs,” she exclaims, her eyes bright with interest despite her words.
“That’s what research is for,” I say, leaning forward to cross my arms on my desk. “We’ll visit a few local clubs to compare the elements, which will help in deciding on the attractions for my new resort.”
“You want me to go to a sex club… with you?” I don’t miss the slightly hysterical edge in her tone, but she remains composed in all other respects.
“For research,” I remind her almost primly, to mask the underlying lust. “We’ll simply observe. Nothing more.”
“Um… well, okay,” she replies uncertainly.
“This is strictly business, Miss Robbins,” I say pointedly. “Nothing more.”
“Of course,” she hastens to assure me. “I understand that. And you need me to…”
Her voice trails off. It’s obvious she’s a tad overwhelmed at the idea of researching sex clubs. In a steady, bland tone, I continue, “So far, you’ve been adept at learning as you go. I think you’ve shown an aptitude for what it takes to make this career work for you. You understand the interplay of the various departments, and I’ve come to trust and rely on your opinions. So I would appreciate your assistance with this project. However, if it makes you uncomfortable—”
“It doesn’t,” she reassures me. With her chin lifted, the worry in her expression dissolves completely. She sits ramrod straight in her chair, shoulders tossed back with confidence. “I can absolutely assist you with this project.”
“Excellent,” I reply, beaming. I feel a strange sense of pride in her for pushing out of her comfort zone. Strange.
But I hope like hell she doesn’t unmask my more deep-seated desire to see how she interacts in that environment. Because she will have a reaction, no doubt. No one can walk into The Wicked Horse without being affected by what they see. “No time like the present to get started. Tonight, we’ll visit a club where I’m actually a member. It’s the most exclusive in Las Vegas, and it has many aspects I think can be incorporated into my new resort.”
“Of course,” she replies, then bends over her iPad. “I have one thing I need to take care of this evening, but I can meet you there.”
“I’ll pick you up,” I reply, interjecting enough command into my order that, as my employee, she can’t refuse.
Her head snaps up, and she swallows hard. “What should I wear?”
Another image slams into me… Bailey naked, splayed on silk sheets, while covered in my semen. That’s what I’d like her to wear.
Instead, I gesture toward her. “You can wear what you have on. This is, after all, just business.”
CHAPTER 8
Bailey
I’m so freaking nervous that I’m sweating. And there’s nothing sexy about sweaty pits.
You aren’t supposed to be sexy, Bailey, I admonish. This is business.
Still, I can’t deny that the thought of walking through a sex club with Declan Blackwood isn’t affecting me on all kinds of levels. Emotionally, mentally, in my nipples and between my legs.
Shit. Why did I agree to this?
Because he’d said it was only business. He’s not interested in me in a sexy way.
Yet, when we’d stepped into the lobby of the Onyx Casino and he’d placed his hand on my elbow, my entire body felt electrified.
Oversensitive.
Needy.
Shit, I’m in so much trouble.
I’m on edge because I’m terrified that Declan can tell I’m on edge. That I’m plumped, primed, and every other embarrassing scenario that could take place in front of this gorgeous, enigmatic man.
“Are you nervous?” he asks as we enter the elevator that will take us to the top floor that houses The Wicked Horse.
“Not really,” I reply.
I’d done some research on it, surreptitiously, this afternoon. It’s a private membership club with a hefty fee I could never afford, but I don’t think this is what Jeff meant when he’d suggested a sex club. He knows I could never afford this place.
Separated into themed rooms, it seems as if pretty much anything goes. Surprisingly, Declan had told me today that over fifty percent of the membership were actually monogamous couples that came here just to play in an open environment. He assured me everything was safe and tasteful, but that things could get a little “crazy” at times.
The thought of what might constitute “crazy” has my nerves feeling like electrified wires.
When the elevator stops and the doors slide open, I brace for what I might see. Declan ushers me out, and, frankly, I’m… well… let down. It looks like we’re in an upscale bar with plush seating, dim lighting, and a massive bar with three bartenders serving drinks to sexy, well-dressed couples.
From behind a podium, a hostess greets us. “Good evening, Mr. Blackwood.”
Declan doesn’t respond. He merely inclines his head.
Hand tightening on my elbow, he asks me, “Would you like a drink?”
“Uh…” I demure.
“You’re tense,” he mutters, guiding me to the bar. “I can feel it pouring off you in waves.”
I don’t disagree, and yes, a drink would relax me. “I’ll take bourbon… neat.”
Declan chuckles as we head to the bar. “Relax, Miss Robbins. Just remember that what goes on in here is consensual and fun. Everybody has sex. It’s nothing to be embarrassed about.”
“I’m not,” I assure him, pulling my arm from his grasp to look up. “It’s just… I’m a little nervous in an environment with my boss that is about as far from what an employee and a boss should be doing.”
“I promise I won’t bite,” he says with a wicked grin, then turns his attention to the bartender to order two bourbons. When he angles back toward me, his eyes twinkle as he adds, “Unless you ask me to.
”
A blaze of lust and need sweeps through me, causing my spine to tingle and my skin to warm. I can feel the heat in my cheeks. Declan must see it, too, because he’s far too observant not to. Plus, he’s smirking.
The bartender brings our drinks and I don’t respond to his last baited statement. Instead, I pick up my glass as I glance around. “To be honest, I sort of expected to walk into a porn movie.”
“You’ll get there soon enough,” Declan replies as my gaze comes back around. “But there’s a civilized component to this club I enjoy, and that’s an element I wish to carry over into the new resort. The ability to have a few drinks to unwind and relax. Maybe enjoy some conversation.”
One eyebrow arches involuntarily, denoting my skepticism. “Conversation? Really?”
Declan shakes his head, an amused twinkle in his eye. “You must have a conversation before sex, Bailey. Otherwise, how do you truly know if your attraction is well-matched and mutually returned?”
That momentarily sets me back. I have a hard time envisioning Declan Blackwood making a personal connection before sex. It’s the antithesis of what I saw when that woman stormed out of his suite, calling him an asshole, a couple of weeks ago.
I’m not quite sure what he sees on my face, but he explains. “Now, I’m not saying I want to hear about a woman’s dreams and aspirations, nor do I care about her political ties or her fiscal responsibilities.”
He leans in a bit closer to me as we stand at the bar, lowering his voice. “But I most certainly want to know her intimate preferences. Is she only into vanilla or does she like a little kink? Is she a fan of anal or is she too afraid to go there? Does she spit or swallow?”
His words are crude, yet shockingly sexy. Making a split-second decision, I stop looking at him as my boss. Instead, in this wanton environment, I decide to treat him as any other member of an exclusive sex club. I consider this outing to be market research of sorts, which lets me be affected by his words without feeling guilt over fantasizing about my employer.
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