The thought of him at a strip club made me feel strange. I wasn’t sure if it was excitement, disapproval, or jealousy. Maybe an odd combination of all three.
“Certainly,” I said, clearing my throat and moving past him out into the main cabin again. “We have a business dinner tomorrow night, but you’re free to do your own thing after that, of course.”
Marcel followed me and retook his seat. Mischief sparked in his eyes. “Care to explain exactly what kind of PA you thought you were getting on this trip?”
My face was a thousand degrees. I groaned and covered my cheeks with my hands. “Jillian told me about men who would pretend to be a PA on a business trip to places where gay sex is illegal, but in reality are… ah… prostitutes. I guess. And when you…” I waved my hand in the general direction of his sparkly tiara. “Showed up dressed nothing like a corporate personal assistant…”
His smile was captivating. Two deep dimples popped and made my stomach tighten. He really was very attractive. Was it any wonder I looked at him and imagined having sex with him? No, none at all. However, saying it out loud in this particular situation was disrespectful, inappropriate, and disgusting.
“I forgot about the tiara,” he admitted, reaching up to pull it from his hair. “Maybe I can see how that would have caused some confusion.”
Despite his kindness, I remained horrified. “I’m so, so sorry,” I said again.
Marcel waved away my apology. “No harm done. You’re sexy as fuck, so I can’t say it would have been a hardship had the misunderstanding continued.” He raised his eyebrow at me suggestively and then laughed when I blushed deeper and blustered out another apology.
After a few minutes, Brent offered to bring us food and drinks, and the atmosphere settled into something far more comfortable than I ever could have imagined after such a disastrous start. Marcel sipped a sparkling water, drew his bare feet up on his seat, and dove into the giant gourmet salad Brent served him. I put my feet up on the sofa at Marcel’s insistence—really, at that point he could have commanded me to do a lot more than “put your feet up and try to relax” and I would have done it—and we… talked. More than I’d talked to anyone, even Jillian, in a really long time.
Marcel told me stories about working with a successful venture capitalist, including a hilarious story about Grey mispronouncing something during a French negotiation that had immediately set me at ease.
“Grey Blackwood is the only person I’ve ever met who could tell this snooty CEO that he had a nice ass when he’d meant to say thank you and not only end up with the contract but a date.” He laughed and shook his head with friendly affection. “The smug, sexy bastard can be charming as all hell when he wants to be. Not that he usually bothers.”
I told him a little about my work in the hotel industry, he told me how he’d met and befriended Jillian at a networking event for high-level executive assistants, and we each shared a little about our family backgrounds. It turned out that we were both from large families, and neither of us got to see them very often.
By the time we landed, I was feeling less like a sexual harasser and more like a tired businessman who’d been to Vegas one too many times.
“Good evening, Mr. Bernardi,” the woman at the check-in desk said with a big smile. “We have your suite ready.”
As I opened my mouth to thank her, Marcel glided elegantly in front of me and held out his hands for the key cards. “Thank you ever so much… Raquel,” he said with smooth manners. “I assume there is a concierge who can help arrange a massage therapist for Mr. Bernardi?”
I bit back a comment about not needing any such thing. Maybe Marcel wanted it for himself, and as far as I was concerned, he deserved it after the “What kind of PA do you think I am?” debacle.
The receptionist smiled and nodded, assuring Marcel the attendant assigned to our suite would be happy to arrange anything we needed while we were here.
We found our way to the elevator bank and stepped into an elevator with several other people. Once they all got off on lower floors, Marcel and I were alone in the small space.
“I don’t need a massage,” I explained softly. “But you’re very welcome to arrange one for yourself. I’ve heard good things about the spa here, and you probably need one after walking around in those pretty, pointy-toed shoes.”
He shook his head and smiled down at his feet. “No, sir. The massage is for you. Quite frankly, I’m concerned about your health. Jillian has told me about your workaholic ways, and now that I’ve met you, I see how pinched your shoulders and neck are. Do they cause you pain?”