Just The Tip - Cassandra Dee Page 0,10

move. I’d ordered up a sapphire necklace from Harry Winston and had it delivered to Angelique in Paris, and then refused to pick up any of her calls, directing my secretary to screen any communication from her. Ghosting is what they call it nowadays.

But the girl was persistent. That’d been months ago and she was still calling, it was unbelievable. Someone as beautiful as Angelique could have had a million guys eating out of her hand, but instead she was still sending texts to my phone at night, hoping I’d respond, give her some sign of life. The latest had been particularly sad:

* * *

Rafe, thinking of you

Touching myself nood feels so good Answer me damn you! I can’t speak French, these frenchies are driving me nuts

* * *

I didn’t reply. I felt sorry for the redhead, with that misspelling of the word “nude.” These girls started modeling so early that they never finished high school. In fact, some of them never even completed middle school. They were still at a sixth grade level, using emojis when they texted, their spelling and grammar horrific.

Their emotional development also left something to be desired. New models are pulled out of school so early, at twelve or thirteen sometimes, their limbs long but their brains undeveloped. Isn’t adolescence a critical time for developing brain function and learning higher level thought processes? These poor kids, they never had a chance. Pimped out for their looks, their careers would last a few years at best. Most would flame out, gaining weight as their figures became womanly, maybe making it to twenty-one or twenty-two before the bookings trailed off.

I shook myself though. This was no time to feel pity. I was the boss and the money lining my pockets was in part from the efforts of these teens, these girls who were scooped up young to walk in the fashion shows on my behalf. This was a cut-throat industry and I had no business feeling pity for what were essentially my employees.

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