The Boss (The Boss 1)

“Jake.” He always answered that way, even though I’d pointed out how douchey it sounded.

“Hey, I’m out for tonight. I’m meeting a guy for sex in a hotel room.” I added the last bit in the hopes he would take the hint that I wasn’t looking for a Prince Charming right now.

“And for that you’d pass up meeting the guy who could be the guy of your dreams?” He exhaled into the phone speaker in frustration. “Are you sure you’re not interested? One of them is a Kennedy.”

“Oh yeah, because that’s a real incentive.” I snorted. “I’ve always wanted to die under mysterious circumstances in my thirties.”

“It sounds like you’re trying to do die under mysterious circumstances in your twenties,” Jake scolded. “This guy... He’s not a stranger, right? You’re not about to be murdered in a hotel room?”

“No, it’s someone I trust.” Leave it to Jake to turn my love life into an episode of Dexter. Not that I didn’t appreciate his concern. I just wished that when people were concerned for me, they gave me credit for having a functioning brain.

“Well, have fun.” The resignation in his voice made it clear that he would be looking for my face on the news.

“You too. And if you hear of a grisly murder at the W, feel free to tell my mutilated body, ‘I told you so.’”

After we hung up, I made a mental list of what I had to accomplish between the time I got out of work and the time I was supposed to be showing up at the hotel. I texted Holli and asked her to bring by my new black dress with the plunging v-neckline and kimono sleeves. The thing barely covered my ass, it was so short, but since covering my ass wasn’t the point, I didn’t worry too much.

At six o’clock, I knocked on the door to Neil’s office. “It’s Sophie.”

“Come in,” he called, and I was relieved to find him alone inside.

“Is there anything else you needed me for?”

He smiled, but he looked tired, and I got the horrible feeling that didn’t bode well for our evening. His sleeves were rolled back, his elbows leaning on glossy photographs spread out over his desk. He checked his watch distractedly. I was almost afraid he would cancel, but when he looked up, his gaze caught mine with heated intensity. “No, I’m sure I can get by, if you have somewhere... interesting to be?”

“I do.” I cleared my throat. “And do you have somewhere interesting to be?”

“Oh, I think I’ll find some way to entertain myself.” A slow grin spread across his face.

I smiled and turned for the door, stopping to add, “Then I guess I’ll see you in the morning.”

“I very much hope so.” The prospect seemed to energize him, at least, even if he dropped the pretense of our verbal game. “Go on. I should be there by eight.”

I paused, the tip of my tongue pressed against my front teeth as I considered saying anything else. But it was better just to leave it. I took the garment bag Holli had dropped off, pulled on my coat, and headed to the W.

Chapter Six

The W was a classic New York building with bas-relief elephant faces decorating the facade above a modern glass awning. I realized, as I stepped through the door, that it might look a bit suspicious heading into a hotel with just a garment bag and my purse. Fuck it, I thought, feeling giddy and naughty as I strode through the lobby. I’m not here for an extended stay, I’m here for amazing sex.

I refrained from making such a proclamation at the front desk, but only just barely. I stopped a bellman for directions, but I declined his offer to show me to the room. I rode the elevator up and, reaching the door, used my key and stepped into the “Wow” suite.

It was easily larger than my apartment. I wandered through the living room, where long couches framed the floor. A huge installation of acrylic panels, each with an image of glowing golden sky and abstract black tree branches, covered the subtly grayed white wall perpendicular to the floor-to-ceiling window that provided an astounding view of neighboring sky scrapers. I dropped my garment bag and looked up to the second floor loft, where I presumed the bedroom was.

“Wow.”

I wasn’t in the room for two full minutes before there was a polite knock at the door. I opened it to find a uniformed waiter with a silver bucket and a bottle of champagne.

“What’s this?” I stepped aside and let him enter the room. He took the champagne to the wet bar. The bottle he set on the marble countertop had a long neck of green glass, and matte silver foil over the cork. I glanced at the label. Krug Clos du Mesnil. 1995.