Forbidden Boss (Nikki and Rome's Story) (Manhattan Billionaires)

8. Nikki

I studiedone of the abstract paintings in the lobby next to the elevator, wondering if I’d just made a big mistake. But how could it be a mistake when I had health and dental insurance? How could it be a mistake when as soon as the sign-on bonus hit my account, I’d be able to secure a new apartment, pay my hospital bill, and maybe even clear my loan for the business management certificate?

Most of my problems had been solved with one swoop of the pen. I could afford to live, I could pay off my debts, and I would no longer be homeless.

Sure, I was still a placeholder in my job and my personal life, and my love life was in shambles, but at least I had a bit of stability. That was progress.

The artwork before me consisted of a gigantic canvas covered in dramatic dashes of color. Teal and sage green and navy and orange shouldn’t have looked good together but did. Something like this would look good above my velvet couch in whatever apartment I ended up moving to.

I smiled to myself. I’d have money to decorate! I might even be able to save up to buy somewhere. Probably not in Manhattan, but Connecticut, maybe? I could commute if I needed to, if it meant I could live a decent kind of life.

A different kind of existence stretched out before me. One where I wasn’t scrambling whenever a surprise bill showed up in my mailbox, or where I didn’t scrutinize prices at the grocery store.

Then I heard footsteps. Before I even turned, I knew they were his.

Rome Blakely strode across the marble floor, eyes boring into me. He’d ditched his jacket and was in a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His tie had disappeared at some point in the past few hours. It hit me, then, how attractive he was.

He walked with a prowling kind of grace, commanding, in control. His forearms were dusted with hair and as he came to a stop in front of me, he folded his arms and drummed long fingers on his opposite biceps. His eyes, under the white light in the lobby, looked cold. I had to tilt my chin up to meet his steady gaze, noticing the shadow of hair on his jaw that would darken until he shaved it again in the morning.

He smelled delicious. I was woozy.

“Going somewhere?” he drawled, arching a dark brow.

I straightened my shoulders and narrowed my eyes. “As soon as Clara confirms my start date, I’ll be going home.”

“No.”

I reared back. “No?”

“No, you won’t be going home. You have work to do tonight.”

I huffed. “Since when?”

“Since you signed your name on that piece of paper, Ms. Jordan. You’re my companion. You will accompany me.” He turned his head toward Clara, who was standing silent a few steps away. “Joanne is expecting me for dinner tonight. Find something appropriate for Ms. Jordan to wear.”

“Of course,” Clara said, then gestured to the elevators. “Ms. Jordan, please.”

“Now, hold on a minute,” Phil interjected, standing at my shoulder.

Blakely’s dark gaze shifted to meet the lawyer’s. “Is there a problem?”

Phil ignored him and turned to me. “Are you okay with this? I can?—”

I put my hand on his arm. “It’s fine, Phil.”

Because Blakely was right. I’d signed that piece of paper, which meant I had a boss. If he wanted to take me to dinner with Joanne—whoever she was—then that’s what I would do. This job was unexpected, and it might be the thing to lift me out of perpetual brokehood into something better.

Sure, my boss was an overbearing ass with a perma-scowl. But I could deal with that. That was the decision I’d made in that conference room, with my pen poised over that contract. I’d accompany him to every social event, and I would dazzle and charm like my life depended on it.

For all intents and purposes, it did.

I needed this job, and being a high achiever was part of my DNA. If this was the decision I’d made, I would do my best. Starting right now.

I nodded at the lawyer. “Thank you so much for today.”

He scowled at me, then sighed as his shoulders softened. Under Rome Blakely’s watchful gaze, I got in the elevator with Clara and Phil. Once the doors closed, the lawyer pulled out his card and gave it to me. “You need anything, you call.”

I nodded, “Thank you.”

Clara said nothing. She pressed the button for the twelfth floor, where she and I disembarked, and I waved goodbye to Phil Phillips. I was on my own.

Greeting a few curious faces as we strode past, Clara led me to a room secured with a touchpad lock. Her fingerprint granted us access, and I was greeted with a temperature- and moisture-controlled piece of heaven. Garment racks lined the walls, filled with thousands of pieces of clothing. I sucked in a hard breath.

“The costume archive,” she said. “We’ve downsized some, now that we’re outsourcing a lot of the shoots, but there should be something in here we can use.”

I touched a beautiful silk dress in mustard yellow. It would look terrible on me, but the fabric fell over my fingers like liquid. I sighed. Boss notwithstanding, so far, this was the best job ever.

“Who’s this Joanne lady?” I asked while Clara flicked through various garment-bag-covered outfits.

She frowned at one of them, then glanced over her shoulder. “What size are you? I think this could work.”

My heart sank when I saw her pull out a beige suit. It was beautifully crafted, but it was just so…boring.

“Why can’t I just wear what I have on?” A business dress with chic piping and a perfect cut would be better than a beige pantsuit.

Clara took in my blue-and-white outfit that hit my knees, down to the black hose-covered legs and fabulous pumps. “Absolutely not.”

“What’s wrong with this dress?” I asked, then pointed to the suit she held. “That looks like I’m going to be an extra in a courthouse movie.”

Clara snorted, her eyes sparkling. “Extra in a courthouse movie is exactly the vibe we’re going for. The nonspeaking, fade-into-the-background kind of role.”

“You’re sure I can’t wear something like this?” I asked hopefully, pulling a black dress from the rack. It had a square neckline with halter straps, and the skirt flared out in an A-line. Conservative, simple, but at least it wasn’t beige.

Clara shook her head. “Definitely not. Try these pants on. We’ll call a tailor if they need to be adjusted.”

I ducked behind a curtain and pulled the pants on. A pale cream silk blouse appeared on the rail above my head. It had a slight sheen and little pearl buttons, so by default it was my favorite piece out of the three. I walked out from behind the curtain and slipped on the blazer Clara held up, then turned to look in a floor-length mirror leaning on the wall.

“Perfect,” Clara said. At my grimace, she shook her head. “Trust me, Ms. Jordan. It’s perfect.”

“You can call me Nikki,” I told her. “Although in this suit I feel like more of a Ms. Jordan.”

“It’s a good suit, Nikki.”

I smoothed my hand down the fabric of the pants on my thighs, feeling the weight and softness of the weave. “I know,” I told her. “It’s just not me. I like something a bit more…unique.” Something with at least one element of flair.

Clara snorted. “You don’t want to stand out where you’re going.”

My black stilettos and black shoulder bag worked just fine with the outfit, so I carefully folded my dress and shoved it in my bag. “Right,” I said, trotting after her as she headed for the door. “About that. Where am I going, again?”

She eyed me critically. “Your hair is fine. I’d recommend wiping the lipstick off.”

“Why are you evading my questions? Where am I going? Who’s Joanne?”

“Nikki, I’ve got a job to do, and that job is to get you ready. We’ve succeeded.”

“Ready for what?”

We got back in the elevator and headed up. I frowned at the numbers above the door, wondering what I’d gotten myself into. I didn’t feel like myself. My armor had been stripped away, and now I was wearing someone else’s clothes and living someone else’s life.

But—deep breaths—it was just a job. It was the best job I could hope for right now, and I might as well make the most of it. I counted to ten and steadied my nerves.

It was one dinner. How bad could this Joanne lady be?

The elevator doors opened, and Clara led me to an office in the opposite corner of the floor to the location of the conference room. She knocked on the frosted glass door, and I heard the deep rumble of Rome Blakely’s voice on the other side. Clara opened the door and strode in, gesturing for me to follow.

Blakely was wearing glasses. They were rectangular with slightly rounded edges, the frame a deep blue that brought out the color of his eyes. He frowned at me and took his glasses off, pressing the end of the glasses’ arms on his bottom lip.

I looked at that depression on his firm mouth, and heat swept through my middle.

His gaze traveled from my shoes, up my beige pants, and over the silk blouse, finally coming to rest on my lips. He frowned slightly, and a vein of stubbornness split open inside me.

“I’m not taking the lipstick off,” I told him.

His gaze slid the final distance to my eyes, and he blinked slowly. The heat in my abdomen got a smidge warmer. Anger—and something else. It made me uncomfortable to be studied so blatantly, but it also made me feel alive.

He set his glasses down and stood. “Fine,” he told me.

“Who’s Joanne?” I blurted.

It didn’t surprise me when he flicked his eyes toward me then glanced at Clara. “Is the bird ready?”

“Whenever you are,” she confirmed.

He nodded, then without so much as a glance at me, walked out of his office behind Clara. I had no choice but to follow, with no idea where we were going, who we were meeting, or why everyone refused to answer my questions.

There was a moment, then—just a second, really—when I considered throwing in the towel. I could quit, walk out of here, and never come back. Sure, I’d lose the benefits and the perks and the salary, but at least I wouldn’t be ignored and treated like a prop. At least I could be my own person and be proud of my own integrity.

Then Rome paused on the threshold and looked at me. His eyes were dark. They sent that same heated shiver coursing through my veins, and I discovered that that flame of stubbornness hadn’t yet been extinguished.

I was a professional. When I set my mind to something, I followed through. I’d signed up to be this man’s companion, so I’d accompany him to his social events, and I would be good at it—no! I’d be great at it. I would be the best damn companion he’d ever had. He’d have no choice but to keep filling my bank account (and my closet) to the brim.

It didn’t matter that he was a billionaire with all the power, and I was pretty sure he was toying with me. He was just as bound by that contract as I was. After all, he was the one who’d thought I was trying to sue him. He thought I’d been negotiating before, when I’d just been confused.

I had the upper hand in that negotiation, and I hadn’t even known. So he wasn’t the all-important god he thought he was.

Phil was right. The best thing for me to do was milk this for all it was worth, even if I had to wear a boring beige suit while I did it.

I lifted my chin and arched my brows at him. “Regretting your decision to hire me?” I challenged.

His lips curled into a mirthless smile. “Not even a little bit, Jordan. Now keep up. We haven’t got much time.”