“Exactly.”
Diego runs his hands through his hair and narrows his eyes as he stares at nothing in particular. “Someone who works for you?” he asks the question I don’t want to think about but have obviously had to consider.
“Maybe, which would mean it’s someone who goes to both the hotel and the club,” I say.
“Bartenders?” he asks, and I run through all of them in my head. “I have two girls who work both at the Summit and the Opal Room. Jordan has been here for years, way before Decker took over his hotel, and Madeline is a straight shooter for sure.”
“How sure?” Diego asks.
I open my mouth to say something, then stop. Even though my employees were thoroughly vetted, nothing proves someone couldn’t have cornered and bought them off.
“Listen, if we are going to point fingers at the bartenders, we are also going to have to consider security guards,” I say.
“True,” he says as his phone goes off. “Well, I’m going to have to put a hold on this quandary, but we will figure it out. Decker is too new to the industry to get away with this for long. It’ll allcome crashing down on him. And when it does, we will have our patrons back plus all his vacationers too.”
Diego heads out the door and steps aside just before walking through as Annelise walks in. I swallow hard as I take her in. She’s wearing a gold dress that fits her curves like it was painted on. I watch as Diego’s eyes run involuntarily over her before he smiles, tips his head, and leaves. For a moment, I consider grilling her about wearing such a sexy dress to work. Then I remember…I paid for it.
“You’re late,” I tell her as she approaches me with my coffee. Her perfume, hanging from the freshly showered locks of her hair, fills the air of my office, making it hard to breathe and focus at the same time.
“You’re early,” she says with just as much salt. I’m not used to being talked to like this. I’m also not used to looking forward to my personal assistant’s arrival every day. In my defense, I’ve never had an assistant quite like her. Annelise is all-consuming, and I couldn’t tell you if that’s a good or bad thing.
I take my coffee from her with little to no amusement in my expression, and she waits. My eyes flash down to the cup and then back at her.
“Is something wrong with your coffee, Mr. Graves?” She asks, and my first instinct, influenced by the heat pulsing through my veins straight to my groin, is to correct the way she’s addressing me.
Call me Damien.
But I don’t. Formality is important if I am going to keep a handle on her sass. It’s also important if I’m going to keep myself from blowing my load just because of the way her tits look in that dress. I mentally kick myself for picking a dressthat's sofucking hot.
“No,” I answer flatly. I’m not going to lie, that one syllable is all I can really manage right now.
“Is the coffee right?” she repeats.
“It’s fine,” I answer, and I make my way back to my desk because I need to put some space between us.
“You haven’t tasted it yet,” she says.
“I don’t need to taste it to know that it’s fine,” I snap back. “The baristas never get my order wrong.”
“They know you well enough, I’m sure. But you should still take a sip of it to be sure. No one is without flaw.”
I think about that for a moment. Baristas. While I don’t have any baristas at the Opal Room, the girls working at the hotel coffee shop are known for being very friendly and familiar with all my guests. Not only that, but they are some of the only hotel workers that see everyone on a regular basis. Even if Decker’s little spy isn’t one of them, they probably know more gossip and see more than anyone else. I make a mental note to talk to the baristas later.
“Sir?” Annelise asks again, and I take a sip of the coffee.
“Perfect. Thank you, Miss Bates,” I say, but my tone is anything but grateful. I’m frustrated. Frustrated because I have someone doing an inside job right under my nose. Frustrated because I can still smell Annelise’s perfume even with the ten feet of space I put between us for safe measure.
“More perfect than usual?” she asks, and I narrow my eyes down at the steaming Americano.
“Why is it different?” I ask.
“They’re using a new brand of milk, I think,” she says. “Something about keeping it local.”
“Whose idea was that?” I ask.
“Jocelyn, I think,” she answers.
Leave it to Jocelyn to do things without my approval. Though obviously half the reason I hired Jocelyn was because I don’t want to make decisions about things like milk brands. I have enough real problems on my plate. That, and she was one ofthe most adamant applicants I’ve ever had. She had originally applied for the personal assistant job, but she was a bit too tailored for my taste. Her attention to detail is great, but with her lack of curves, thin lips and her overly interested demeanor, she’s lacking in the sex appeal department for me.
