Delivering the Virgin(33)

So I turned myself back to the business at hand. Ah yes, Jenna, our  newest internet sensation who'd somehow launched herself into the halls  of high fashion. She was the opposite of a teen girl who could  potentially be taken advantage of. First, she was twenty-four, way over  prime modeling age. Second, management had already been contacted by her  agent about upping her rate. The girl wanted ten thousand for every  runway she walked going forward, no negotiation. We'd responded that ten  grand was reserved only for the elites, but I knew her team was working  on raising her profile even further  –  maybe the cover of Sports  Illustrated or a Victoria's Secret fashion show. Not bad for someone who  was a failed law student.

Because, of course, I'd researched Ms. Walsh. I had a dossier on all key  employees and Jenna's was the latest to land on my desk. She'd finished  law school but never sat for the bar exam, instead opting to move into  arts and entertainment. Plus, there were a couple of very interesting  photos in there, from a somewhat seedy, shady past. I looked forward to  quizzing her on those.

I approached the blonde, the assistant make-up artist gasping upon  seeing my form. She whispered to Jenna while glancing at me furtively  and Jenna spun around to look, her blonde hair flying.

She took me in, almost drinking me, her eyes a deep blue, violet in  fact, that perfect ski slope nose pert and upturned, her boobs jiggling  in an electric green bikini, high heels with feathers at her feet. How  did Jason Alexander dream up this shit? I guess she was supposed to  resemble a jungle woman coming out of the forest  –  one that focused on  providing sex to the men of the tribe, not hunting and gathering for  sure.

And I could see that I'd affected her. The blonde's tits were heaving,  her nostrils flaring slightly at my masculine presence. I could almost  see a flush forming across her chest but there was so much body glitter  and bronzer that it was impossible to say for sure.

But her mind wasn't impaired at all.

"Hey stranger," she purred. Now that, I wasn't prepared for. Her voice  was a low, melodious hum which reached my ears distinctly despite the  babble around us. She smiled genuinely, real emotion in her eyes, and I  was stunned again. These girls are usually so  …  practiced, you know?  They feel nothing but are great at convincing you that you're the best  ever. By contrast, this wasn't forced at all. Jenna was real and liked  what she saw.         

     



 

"Hey yourself," I growled. I know I have a slight Euro accent. I grew up  in Italy, coming to the United States for college, naturally retaining  that old world refinement that fashion executives cultivate.

"How can I help you?" she asked, smiling at me, those blue eyes teasing  me. I forced myself to look at her face, drinking in the luscious lips,  the curve of her cheek, the perfect tilt of her chin.

"I'm Rafe Connor," I growled again. "CEO of Levast Corp., we're the holding company for the Jason Alexander brand."

"Oh I know who you are," she said with a wink. "I've been doing some  research on Levast's financials and I read your latest shareholder  letter in the Annual Report."

I was floored. Evidently, the girl was literate, and not only that, but  she'd probably looked over the financials as well, a mix of numbers and  accounting that wasn't for the faint of heart. Levast has a lot of  different interests and it's not easy to understand the intricacies of  corporate finance.

And the blonde was smiling again, as if knowing my thoughts. "So what can I do for you, Mr. Connor?"

Well, suck my dick for one, I thought silently. Make me come again and  again until my cares are washed away, the stress gone. Let me pound you  into submission from behind, take you standing up, explore all your  holes, spray my cum on your face and in your body until I'm a destitute  man.

But I said nothing of that sort. The make-up assistant was still  watching our interaction breathlessly, and I could see a number of  hairdressers and seamstresses discreetly watching from the corner of  their eyes.

"Ms. Walsh," I said courteously. "Thank you for participating in our  show. I wanted to invite you to lunch afterwards to begin salary  negotiations," I said smoothly.

"Oh Jenna!" squealed the make-up assistant excitedly. "Isn't this what  you were telling me about? Maybe a raise? Make sure to ask for smoothies  at the craft table backstage, not just coffee and champagne," she said  breathlessly.

And Jenna was kind about the interruption.

"Kathy, I think Mr. Connor has more serious issues on his mind, he's  running a multi-billion dollar empire," she said. "But I'll be sure to  ask about the addition of fresh smoothies, I know it's hard to keep your  energy up on caffeine and alcohol only."

"Awesome!" squealed the other girl. "And bagels too," she threw in as an aside.

I almost laughed right there, this exchange was so ridiculous. But I  nodded to the blonde and said, "Noon at Le Bern? My assistant will send a  car."

"Yes, thank you," said the blonde demurely, but I could see a spark in  her eyes. She flashed me one last smile before saying, "Oh I'm up. Time  to get out there in this exotic parrot outfit," she said with a wink.

And as if on cue, another wardrobe person ran up and began helping her  into a contraption which looked like blue and green feathers in the  shape of giant wings. It was all glittery straps with a leather harness  that looked really heavy, forcing the little girl over until she was  bent over double, shouldering the burden. I reached out a hand to steady  the load, testing some of the weight in my hand, and frowned.

"They always put you in stuff like this?" I asked, concerned.

"Always," she confirmed, straightening her back and pasting another  smile on her face. "And in four inch stilettos too," she said brightly.  "Now I've got to walk  …  scoot!" she said.

And just like that, she was gone. I could hear thunderous applause  outside, more fanatical screams of "Jenna, Jenna!" as she hit the stage.  I watched from the sidelines with amazement and appreciation as her  grace and beauty mesmerized the crowds. Lunch sounded amazing  …  and I  was very, very hungry.





CHAPTER EIGHT


Jenna




I walked into the restaurant in sneakers, a welcome relief from high  heels. Le Bern was a Michelin starred restaurant but I just couldn't  handle stalking around in stilettos and a mini-dress, not after a  fashion show where I'd been wearing almost nothing. Instead, I'd gone  for comfort in a wrap dress, something that showed off my curves without  being overtly sexy, and had paired it with flat shoes, cute New  Balances that were urban and trendy.         

     



 

I threw the maitre'd a bright smile even as he looked at my outfit askance.

"Madam?" he said politely, as if hoping I would go away.

No such luck. "Reservation for Rafe Connor," I said with a warm smile.  Something I've realized since switching careers is that charming with  honey can get a lot more done than being a straight-up bitch. Maybe it's  because of the atmosphere in fashion. Girls are expected to be docile,  like furniture almost, so it was unexpected and even discouraged to have  an opinion.

Normally, I would have shut that down immediately, making my views  known, even forcing them onto other people. But my initial attempts to  be my old self had backfired.

"Hey I think this hem should be longer," I'd said at my first fitting,  pointing to the tiny little swim skirt I wore over my bikini bottoms.  "It would hang better if it was longer, especially since it's cut on the  bias."

Jason Alexander himself, international designer extraordinaire, had shot me a dirty look but said nothing.

"Ms. Walsh," interrupted his assistant, "I'm sure you can understand  that we're short on time with the show in five days. Besides, Mr.  Alexander designed this piece himself, all the hemming was done with a  five nine model in mind."

"I am five nine," I ground out. "I didn't lie on my comp card. I'm just  saying that I think this skirt would do better with a little more  material, maybe look a bit more flattering."

This time, the designer spoke himself, his voice pure acid.

"Listen, you're not getting paid for your opinions, so just hang tight,  yeah?" he drawled nastily, his Australian accent thick. "We only hired  you because we had to, our brand owed your agency a favor. Get out if  you don't like it, see if you'll get work anywhere else after you  critique a designer."

And I'd shut my trap immediately. He was right, I was a model, there to  show off the clothes and I'd had no idea that the Alexander brand had  been forced to hire me. God, what strings had Deborah pulled? Humbled, I  stood silently, letting the wardrobe assistants pinch and fuss,  Alexander ignoring me entirely after that.