sighed. “Sal doesn’t usually need more time, but he did one other time. Brooke responded very well to a pedicure.” She cleared her throat again. “And a couple glasses of champagne.”
“Who did the pedicure?”
Jenny shrugged. “I did.”
He gave her a considering once-over. “You manage Sal and his issues and you keep the demanding Brooke happy. No wonder Sal won’t share you with anyone else. Get the sketches to me within an hour. I’ll decide if we need to order champagne or not.”
He left, closing the door behind him, and Jenny took a deep, shaky breath. She lifted her hands to her cheeks, praying they weren’t red with heat from her lies. Sal had obviously fallen off the wagon and she had to cover for him again. He probably wouldn’t call in until the afternoon.
If he weren’t so kind to her, and if he hadn’t hired her and given her such exciting, albeit secret, opportunities, then maybe she could out him. In her own clumsy way, she’d tried to intervene two times, but he’d brushed her off.
Worry gnawing at her, she shook her head as she rose and locked the office door. She knew why Sal drank, and he had some pretty sad stuff he faced on a daily basis.
Pushing her concern about Sal into another corner of her mind, she prepared to do what she did best.
Doodle.
When she felt bored, she doodled. When she felt stressed, she doodled. When she felt bummed, she doodled. The activity had gotten her in trouble in every class except art. But now she was almost getting paid for doodling.
From the bottom-left-hand drawer of her desk, she pulled out a pad of paper and thumbed through the sketches she’d already drawn of wedding shoes for the upcoming wedding of the century. Brooke Tarantino, Atlanta’s most notorious socialite, who had previously been described in the press as the debutante gone wild due to her escapades, was getting married.
Rumor had it that her father had put his foot down and threatened to cut off her expense account if she didn’t settle down.
Brooke liked attention, lots of it, as evidenced by how many times her picture appeared in every publication from the Atlanta Constitution to the National Enquirer. Brooke had even made People when she’d gotten arrested at one of the parties she’d attended in Miami last year.
Jenny added sequins to the white satin pump. Inspiration hit her and she sketched another pump, this one in leather with a sexy, revealing absence of material in the instep. Less leather, more skin. She enhanced the spiked heel with crystals.
Sal would call it a bridal version of “Come do me” shoes. Jenny smiled to herself. Since she’d started working for Bellagio, she’d learned a lot about shoes. For some people shoes were all about comfort. But for most, shoes were called upon to accomplish many other goals. “Come do me” shoes. “I mean business” shoes. “Look at me” shoes.
Jenny glanced down at her own shoes and wiggled her toes. Black leather sandals with wooden heels. The trendy nail polish and blue-sapphire toe ring were her only concessions to fashion and self-expression. Her fingernails were bare of polish. She wore “Don’t look at me” black slacks and jacket, and she’d pulled her hair back into a low ponytail. No competition for an heiress or anyone else. Jenny would be happy to just doodle her life away.
The telephone rang, jolting Jenny’s attention from the drawing pad. She glanced at the clock and swore. An hour had already passed. “Poop,” she muttered, and picked up the phone on the second ring.
“Did you find the drawings?” MarcWaterson asked.
“Yes, I did,” she said, adding a swirl of red beside the shoe to make the white shoe pop.
“Bring them up to the executive conference room so I can get a look at them before Brooke gets here.”
“No problem. I’ll be up in just a few minutes.” Her nerves jumped in her stomach, belying her calm tone. She hoped she could dump the sketches on Marc Waterson and leave. Moving through the corridor, she waved to a few of her co-workers and, out of concession to the doughnuts she’d eaten, she walked the three flights up to the tenth floor.
The tenth floor was a different world with lush oriental carpets over hardwood floors. Exquisite antique furniture served the top executives in lieu of the prefab stuff in her office. Passing one office, she caught the scent of cigar smoke and wrinkled her nose. She endured a curious glance from the corporate gatekeeper, also known as Thelma.
Thelma waved her toward the executive conference room, and Jenny felt her feet begin to drag. What if he thought the drawings sucked? What if Brooke didn’t like them? This experience reminded her of walking to school as a child. She dreaded having someone tell her she wasn’t measuring up. Her stomach knotted with tension and she briefly considered leaving the folder of drawings with the receptionist and running back to her office. Just outside the executive conference room door, she lingered over a Picasso.
The door to the room whipped open, startling her. Marc Waterson shot her a curious gaze. “Problem with the drawings, Jill?”
How flattering, she thought. He couldn’t remember her name. “Jenny,” she corrected.
“Sorry, Jenny,” he said. “Is there a problem?”
“Not at all,” she said, and extended the folder to him. “All yours.”
He opened the door wider. “Come on in.”
Her stomach dipped again. Did she have to watch his first reaction? Guess so, she thought, and reluctantly stepped into the lush room.
“We’ll use the back room.”
Jenny had never been in the back room, but she’d heard about it. Well stocked with the finest wine, the oldest Scotch and leather furniture as soft as butter, the “back room” was reserved for use by Bellagio’s top executives and most powerful customers. Although Jenny knew Bellagio was planning to get publicity from designing Brooke’s wedding shoes, she hadn’t known it was that important. After all, Sal had been known to design shoes for movies.
Her stomach dipped again. What was she getting into? She followed Marc, noticing his extraordinary backside as he led her into the famed back room.
“Take a seat,” he said as he settled into a leather chair beside a sofa.
I don’t really want to, she thought, but gingerly chose the chair across from him.
The silence in the room shredded her nerves. She needed to remind herself that if he didn’t like the drawings it wasn’t the end of the world. She could get another job. Lord knew, she’d been through dozens, much to the distress of her siblings. This one had been her favorite, though. She’d lasted the longest at this job.
“The satin pump is showy,” Marc said.
“I thought—” She cleared her throat. “Sal thought that would suit Brooke’s personality. She’s bold and likes to make a statement.”
“That’s an understatement,” he said in a dry voice. He picked up the drawing of the shoe with the stiletto heel encrusted with crystals. “This is unusual for Sal. He tends toward the more traditional for formal weddings.”
