Spencer’s brows drew together. “You mean Sergio’s assistant? He’s been after me every week since Sergio premiered his new collection to get us to buy the entire line for Maximillian, but I’m not ready for us to take the plunge.”
“Is that all?” Christo asked.
Donald’s fake sympathetic smile stretched over his lips. “Are you sure you and Roberto never had more of a…hmm…personal relationship?” He blinked, big brown eyes gleaming.
Oh, you little bastard. You’re loving this, aren’t you?
“Relationship? No. A few years ago we kissed. Once. Nothing big. It never got serious.” He frowned. “I guess someone found out.” Indignation fired his blood. “You know I never let my personal life interfere with what goes on here.”
“And yet you’re touching the assistants of the designers,” Christo interjected.
His jaw dropped. “What? Touching…Christo, wait a second. First of all, I didn’t touch him. Ever. I kissed him, but it never went beyond that, and if he said it did, he’s lying.”
“That doesn’t make it better.”
Shoulders squared, he hardened his jaw. “You’re right. It doesn’t. And trust me, it won’t happen again.” He zeroed in on Donald. “What are you, a spy? Or are you still pissed off that I didn’t choose you to help me with Todd’s show? Now I’m more certain than ever I was right.”
Donald flushed. “I couldn’t care less. I don’t want people to think I got my job by sleeping around. You’ve never made it a secret that you sleep around with models and designers.”
Ignoring Donald, Spencer appealed to Christo. He’d known Christo for almost ten years, since his first job at Maximillian as a men’s underwear buyer, which was why it was surprising to be called into what amounted to the principal’s office for a lecture.
“I’ve never been involved with anyone I’ve directly worked with in my job. Plus, I’m in a relationship now, and there’s no way I’d screw that up for some bratty assistant.”
“A relationship? You are?” Christo’s jaw dropped. “You’re kidding.”
A weak grin ticked up his lips. “Shocked even me. But it’s true, and I’m happy.” He glared at Donald. “If people have an issue with me, they should take it up with me first. I’m their direct boss.”
“Come on, Spencer. Why would I do that?” Donald raised a brow. “Would you have done anything?”
There might only be ten years separating him from Donald, but it felt like a hundred. Donald had come out of school with little experience but the confidence of someone who’d always been told he was right. These kids didn’t know they’d have to pay their dues and rise through the ranks like everyone else.
“That thing with Roberto happened a while ago. I’d almost forgotten about it.”
With his fingers laced over his trim stomach, Christo released a long sigh. “Sergio said you promised Roberto you’d give him orders for his line for next year if Roberto agreed to have sex with you.”
“You’re kidding me. That’s an outright lie.”
“Have you known me to joke around?”
But Spencer wasn’t about to lie down and take a pounding from some upstart. “Have you known me to ever fuck someone to do business?” Christo reddened, but Spencer was so pissed, so hurt that the little shit had dragged his name in the dirt, he didn’t care. “I don’t need to trade favors for sex. I don’t make business decisions with my dick. I’ve worked my ass off for you.”
“Well, I’ve heard it too.” Donald’s guileless smile didn’t fool him. “And thought the only right thing was to tell Christo.”
I’ll just bet you did, you fucker.
Christo remained impassive. “Even you have to admit you can be a bit much sometimes.”
Years of bullying had prepared him for these moments. “I never thought I’d have to hide who I was. You never minded me pushing the limits when it benefitted the store.” He began to rise from his chair.
“There’s something else. Donald, please return to the floor. John will give you instructions for the day.” Christo motioned to him, and he walked out, not even bothering to hide his smirk.
“John? He’s not his boss. I am. What’s going on?” Spencer’s voice rose with his question, but Christo merely pointed to the chair.
“Please sit.”
With a huff, he did. “What? Another discontented designer who didn’t get stroked hard enough?”
“No. Your father.”
