from the Atlanta Constitution to the National Enquirer. Brooke had even made People when she’d gotten arrested at one of the parties she’d attended in Miami last year.
Jenny added sequins to the white satin pump. Inspiration hit her and she sketched another pump, this one in leather with a sexy, revealing absence of material in the instep. Less leather, more skin. She enhanced the spiked heel with crystals.
Sal would call it a bridal version of “Come do me” shoes. Jenny smiled to herself. Since she’d started working for Bellagio, she’d learned a lot about shoes. For some people shoes were all about comfort. But for most, shoes were called upon to accomplish many other goals. “Come do me” shoes. “I mean business” shoes. “Look at me” shoes.
Jenny glanced down at her own shoes and wiggled her toes. Black leather sandals with wooden heels. The trendy nail polish and blue-sapphire toe ring were her only concessions to fashion and self-expression. Her fingernails were bare of polish. She wore “Don’t look at me” black slacks and jacket, and she’d pulled her hair back into a low ponytail. No competition for an heiress or anyone else. Jenny would be happy to just doodle her life away.
The telephone rang, jolting Jenny’s attention from the drawing pad. She glanced at the clock and swore. An hour had already passed. “Poop,” she muttered, and picked up the phone on the second ring.
“Did you find the drawings?” MarcWaterson asked.
“Yes, I did,” she said, adding a swirl of red beside the shoe to make the white shoe pop.
“Bring them up to the executive conference room so I can get a look at them before Brooke gets here.”
“No problem. I’ll be up in just a few minutes.” Her nerves jumped in her stomach, belying her calm tone. She hoped she could dump the sketches on Marc Waterson and leave. Moving through the corridor, she waved to a few of her co-workers and, out of concession to the doughnuts she’d eaten, she walked the three flights up to the tenth floor.
The tenth floor was a different world with lush oriental carpets over hardwood floors. Exquisite antique furniture served the top executives in lieu of the prefab stuff in her office. Passing one office, she caught the scent of cigar smoke and wrinkled her nose. She endured a curious glance from the corporate gatekeeper, also known as Thelma.
Thelma waved her toward the executive conference room, and Jenny felt her feet begin to drag. What if he thought the drawings sucked? What if Brooke didn’t like them? This experience reminded her of walking to school as a child. She dreaded having someone tell her she wasn’t measuring up. Her stomach knotted with tension and she briefly considered leaving the folder of drawings with the receptionist and running back to her office. Just outside the executive conference room door, she lingered over a Picasso.
The door to the room whipped open, startling her. Marc Waterson shot her a curious gaze. “Problem with the drawings, Jill?”
How flattering, she thought. He couldn’t remember her name. “Jenny,” she corrected.
“Sorry, Jenny,” he said. “Is there a problem?”
“Not at all,” she said, and extended the folder to him. “All yours.”
He opened the door wider. “Come on in.”
Her stomach dipped again. Did she have to watch his first reaction? Guess so, she thought, and reluctantly stepped into the lush room.
“We’ll use the back room.”
Jenny had never been in the back room, but she’d heard about it. Well stocked with the finest wine, the oldest Scotch and leather furniture as soft as butter, the “back room” was reserved for use by Bellagio’s top executives and most powerful customers. Although Jenny knew Bellagio was planning to get publicity from designing Brooke’s wedding shoes, she hadn’t known it was that important. After all, Sal had been known to design shoes for movies.
Her stomach dipped again. What was she getting into? She followed Marc, noticing his extraordinary backside as he led her into the famed back room.
“Take a seat,” he said as he settled into a leather chair beside a sofa.
I don’t really want to, she thought, but gingerly chose the chair across from him.
The silence in the room shredded her nerves. She needed to remind herself that if he didn’t like the drawings it wasn’t the end of the world. She could get another job. Lord knew, she’d been through dozens, much to the distress of her siblings. This one had been her favorite, though. She’d lasted the longest at this job.
“The satin pump is showy,” Marc said.
“I thought—” She cleared her throat. “Sal thought that would suit Brooke’s personality. She’s bold and likes to make a statement.”
“That’s an understatement,” he said in a dry voice. He picked up the drawing of the shoe with the stiletto heel encrusted with crystals. “This is unusual for Sal. He tends toward the more traditional for formal weddings.”
Uncomfortable, Jenny cleared her throat. “Again, I think he was thinking about Brooke’s personality. That design is more trendy.”
“And sexy,” Marc added.
She nodded.
“We’ll see what Brooke thinks.”
Taking that as a dismissal, Jenny started to rise. “If you want to tell me her thoughts, I’ll be happy to pass them on to Sal.”
“I want you to stay.”
Surprised, she sank back into her chair. “Are you sure? Did you want me to get some nail polish?”
“No. I just want you to keep me from killing my cousin.”
Jenny blinked. “Excuse me?”
Marc adjusted his tie. “We know Brooke is a demanding, spoiled little rich girl who thinks of no one but herself. I can stand about fifteen minutes in her presence without telling her what I really think.” His jaw twitched with impatience. “We’ve just succeeded in making a deal that will bring Bellagio unprecedented publicity for Brooke’s wedding shoes. Since Sal isn’t here, I need you to be here. You successfully managed her last time, so I want you to do it again.”
Five questions popped into her brain, but the irritation on Marc’s features discouraged any indulgence of her curiosity. It looked like she would be flying by the seat of her pants. Nothing new there. She’d spent half her life walking the high-wire with no net. Today would be no different.
She stood again.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“I’m just looking for the champagne,” she said, heading toward the refrigerator. “I wonder if this place has any chocolate.”
“It’s almost lunchtime.”
“In your world,” she murmured, opening the door to the refrigerator and nodding in approval. “Cristal, good. Veuve Cliquot isn’t enough of a treat and Dom is like an old Cadillac, grandma car, grandma champagne.” She peeked inside a cabinet.
“Grandma champagne,” he echoed. “What makes you say that?”
“Previous job,” she said with a shrug. “When I was a cocktail waitress, I learned a lot about what people want in a drink. It’s not usually about how the drink tastes. It’s more about what the drink projects.”
“Is that so,” he said, more than asked, leaning back into his seat and making a triangle with his forefingers and thumbs. A power position, she noted. Donald Trump did it all the time on The Apprentice.
His intense gaze made the back of her neck itch. “A businessman doing a deal doesn’t order a daiquiri or an umbrella drink. It’s usually Scotch or bourbon with a year and brand attached. When an older man wants to impress a woman with champagne, he chooses Dom. When a younger man wants to impress a woman,