One Exquisite Touch (The Extravagant #2)- Lauren Blakely Page 0,4
Aria for a party, the first one I’ll be attending since I relocated to Vegas last month for the opening of this hotel. I fire off a couple of emails, replying first to Scarlett in Paris, our newest business partner who invested in our European properties, then to the city of Las Vegas’s marketing manager about an ad campaign he wants The Invitation to participate in.
We’re the new kids on the block with one week open under our belt, so naturally, my response can only be an enthusiastic We’d be delighted to join your meeting to discuss these plans. I hit send as my VP of business affairs raps on the ajar door to my office.
One look and my instincts tell me what’s coming.
A motherfucking problem.
It’s in his shoulders, the way he carries himself, the set of his jaw.
Everything in his disposition says I didn’t deliver.
Mostly, his news is telegraphed in the way he swallows before he speaks. “Mr. Donovan,” he begins, pushing his glasses up higher on his nose.
“Yes, Braxton,” I say as I shut my laptop, rise from my chair, and walk around my desk. “What’s the news with The Exquisite Show?”
Another swallow, a breath, then he lifts his chin. “I ran into a bit of a snag with the deal.”
Grabbing my phone from my desk, I arch a brow and toss back dryly, “You don’t say?”
“I’m sorry, sir. But it seems they didn’t like the terms I offered for a six-month residency.” He’s normally steady. That’s why I hired him. I wouldn’t let someone work for my company who couldn’t get shit done. But today, he’s uncharacteristically wobbly. And I suspect it’s because he knows how badly I want The Exquisite Show’s new production. Because I want this hotel to be the best on the Strip. It’s a simple goal, and it’s mine.
“And why didn’t they like the terms? The terms were fantastic,” I say, striding across the carpet, then motioning for Braxton to follow me.
There is no need to simply talk when you can walk and talk.
We head down the hallway lined with corporate offices, making our way to the elevator.
“They only want to agree to four months,” Braxton says. “I’m sorry, sir,” he says again, and I can hear the worry in his voice.
He knows he’s disappointed me.
I expected him to handle this.
I can’t do every-fucking-thing.
But Braxton mostly delivers. He mostly nails deals. This is rare for him, and that means I can either rip him to shreds for failing, or I can teach him how to do better.
Doesn’t do me any good to demean an employee. It only benefits me to build him up. So that’s what I do.
Starting with this rule of business. “Braxton, let me teach you something.”
The sandy-haired man nods crisply, a good soldier. “Yes, sir?”
I lift a finger, speaking softly. “Save your sorrys for your wife, or your girlfriend. Don’t say you’re sorry in business. Instead, say what you need. What you’re going to do. Or what you need me to do. That’s how you get ahead. Sorry doesn’t matter in business. Actions and plans do.” I pause, run a hand down my tie, and wait. “What do you need, Braxton?”
He squares his shoulders, taking a breath. “I need to get them to agree to six months. Can you help me with that?”
“I can.” I look at my watch again. “Meet me here in thirty minutes, and I’ll take care of this. You can listen to how it’s done.”
He nods dutifully, and I go upstairs to my penthouse suite, pour a finger of scotch, knock it back, and head to the shower.
Five minutes later, I’m dried off and in a fresh pair of black boxer-briefs. I walk past the balcony, stopping briefly to peer outside. Cars, cabs, limos, and buses trundle by on the Strip below, and the lights from the hotel across the way flicker on.
The Extravagant. A gorgeous property with a nighttime display of lights that make it look like its lush lawn is dripping with jewels.
Not bad. Not bad at all.
But this place? I survey the scene below me. Fountains better than the Bellagio’s, a classy, elegant entrance that feels exactly as the name implies—inviting—is better.
This is the crown jewel in my portfolio of hotels, and being second best simply isn’t an option.
I turn away from the view, making my way to the closet.
The dress code for tonight is black-and-white and masquerade.
Easy enough.
Tuxedos are not in short supply in my life. I choose one with tails, because