Page 13 of The Bachelor Auction

6

As soon asI step off the plane, I’m hit by the Las Vegas air—a mixture of heat and exhaust fumes. I’ve been here before, but never riding in a limousine that’s whisking me away to a luxurious hotel with marble staircases and polished chandeliers. I can barely keep myself from gawking as I’m checked into what looks like a suite with floor-to-ceiling windows that offer a panoramic view of the city below. My bedroom’s so huge, my entire Brooklyn apartment could fit in there. It even has a fireplace (who needs that in Las Vegas?), a bathtub set up in the middle of the room, and a huge sofa that seats at least eight.

Everything looks so expensive it almost feels unreal. But I’m not one to complain.

I slump onto the plush sofa with a contented sigh, barely touching anything out of fear that I might break something and be billed for the damage. As much as I wish I could spend a few hours soaking in the tub, I only have forty minutes to spare. Leaving my suitcase unpacked, I take a quick shower, and then change into a pencil skirt and top before heading out to meet with my potential employer…my nerves slightly frayed.

Not surprisingly,the restaurant is packed. I hover near the entrance, peering inside at the commotion of sparkling jewelry and tailored suits. I’ve never seen so many beautiful women and well-dressed men in one place. Then again, this is Las Vegas—the city of the rich and those striving for the high life.

Dressed in my pencil skirt and shirt, I feel completely out of place, but I’m not here to impress my new boss with my selection of evening gowns—or lack thereof.

I’m here to impress him with my creativity and solutions tailored to suit his needs.

I head into the restaurant and hesitate in what looks like a broad corridor. From this vantage point, you can see straight into the dining area, or you can take a left toward the restrooms. The maître d’ is busy with a tourist couple who doesn’t seem to understand the need for making a reservation. Unsure whether to let the maître d’ guide me to my table or find my own way, I walk past a huge flower arrangement, craning my neck to scan the tables for my possible employer.

Which is kind of ridiculous, if I think about it.

I have no idea what he looks like. I don’t even know whom I’m supposed to meet. It could just as easily be a woman running the business.

“Can I help you?” the maître d’ asks from behind.

Startled, I almost jump out of my skin. “I’m joining someone for a business meeting and I’m not sure if they have arrived,” I mutter, not sure whether that’s even the case.

The man raises an eyebrow and scans me up and down with disapproval but doesn’t comment on my choice of clothing. “May I have your name?”

“Emily Harding.”

He peers at what looks like a tiny tablet and then nods. “Of course, Ms. Harding. Mr. Becks is already expecting you. Let me show you to your table.”

I freeze to the spot as all the air is knocked out of my lungs.

“Mr. Becks?” I choke on the words, unsure whether I heard him right.

The maître d’ nods, his eyes narrowing on me suspiciously. “Mr. Tyler Becks.”

“But how?” I close my eyes, then open them again. “I’m sorry. But I’m supposed to meet—”

He looks at the tablet again, his facial expression not changing as he repeats, “Mr. Tyler Becks is expecting you.”

What are the odds?

My brain fights to grasp the meaning of this. Maybe it’s all a coincidence and the guy’s expecting someone else, because there’s no way he would have hired us after our last conversation. I made such a poor impression I wouldn’t have hired myself. And then there’s no way he could know about Red Eagle Publicity.

“Mr. Becks doesn’t like to be kept waiting,” the maître d’ says as though he knows him personally. “Please follow me.”

I nod, unsure what to do. My brain urges me to run, get the hell way away from here, but my legs won’t budge from the spot. There’s a reason why I don’t want to meet the guy, and it’s not because I think that we’re not good enough for the job.

It’s because of the way he makes me feel.

He’s too confident. Too sexy, in an intimidating kind of way. It’s not like I haven’t met hot guys before; it’s just that this one tops the charts. It’s not so much personal as it’s self-preservation.

There’s something about him that makes me feel like I’ve never felt before, so I do what every woman with her head screwed on would do—

Run.

“I’ve changed my mind,” I say slowly. “Please tell Mr. Becks that I’m not the right person for the job.”

Without waiting for a reply, I turn on my heels to head back to my suite, wondering what the heck I’ll tell Brenda.

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