Page 3 of Dirty Nasty Billionaire: Part 2

Chapter 2

“Wowza,” Elise says, dropping her spoon with a clatter into the bowl of Ben & Jerry’s cookie dough ice cream that’s resting in her lap.

“Good?” I ask. I give a little twirl, letting the silk flutter around my ankles.

“If you don’t get laid tonight, it’s because every single owner of penis at this event has been struck dead by the mere sight of you,” she says.

“That’s very … descriptive,” I reply with a giggle.

I’d spent hours poring over the dress rental website before finally stumbling on the perfect gown for tonight’s State of Scour gala. All the interns were invited to the black tie event as a networking opportunity. The entire company, top to bottom, will be there, along with some of the biggest names in tech and venture capital, along with more than a few influential CEOs and politicians. I heard the governor would be there, and more than a few Senators. I wanted the perfect thing.

And the ice blue silk sheath is definitely it.

The fabric slips over my hips like water, kicking out with each step, a dangerous slit all the way up to my thigh revealing my milky skin. The dress features a deep V neck that nearly required boob tape, though thankfully everything seems to be remaining in place. The straps come up over my shoulder and tie in a sweet silk bow at the base of my neck, the tails falling down my back, which is complete own all the way down to my waist. It’s by far the most daring dress I’ve ever worn.

And I’ve never felt sexier.

“I have you to thank, of course,” I say. I’d presented Elise with three options, two of them elegant, basic black floor-length gowns. But when she nearly hyperventilated looking at the ice blue number, I knew I had to do it.

And only partly because the color would be a perfect match for Nixon Blake’s eyes.

Of course, I’m wondering if Nixon will notice me in it, even if that thought makes me feel a little bit pathetic, like Amber with her boobs always out whenever Nixon shows up in the conference room. But I can’t help it.

“You can thank me by spilling all the details of whatever sexy CEO you wind up boning in a closet tonight.” She gives me a tiny salute with her ice cream spoon. “I’ll be here waiting. But don’t rush home on my account.”

* * *

The gala is being heldat the Fairmont Copley Plaza Hotel, right in Copley Square, the spot famous for the Boston Marathon finish line, the Boston Public Library gazing down stately from the corner. Despite having visited the library plenty and wandered Copley Square hundreds of times, I’ve never once been inside the hotel. But tonight, that’s about to change.

Because I blew all my money on renting this dress (worth it), I find myself on the T heading to the event. Despite the availability of a few seats, I remain standing, trying carefully not to touch anyone or anything with the delicate fabric. The downside of the ice blue dress is that I can’t hide any imperfections. Which is why I’m also not wearing any undergarments. The feeling of the silk brushing against my bare skin is enough to give me flashbacks to Nixon’s office.

I manage to arrive unscathed (though I do have a near-miss with a sorority girl waving a frappuccino around with reckless abandon), and I immediately lose my breath at the sight of the room.

The State of Scour is an annual event meant to be a report to the company and investors on the previous fiscal year, new developments and acquisitions, and plans for the upcoming year. Executives from the various departments all give reports. But instead of being a stuffy, miserably corporate event, Scour turns it into the gala event of the year in Boston. And the Grand Ballroom at the Fairmont Copley Plaza reflects that.

I step through the door and my eyes immediately go up to the ceiling, painted to look like the sky on a beautiful Boston spring morning, pale blue with delicate wisps of white clouds. Everything else in the room is grand and gilded, with sweeping gold arches and filigreed millwork over arches and windows and adorning the balconies. Already about half the crowd has arrived and is milling around banquet tables draped with rich white table cloths and set with china, silver, and stemware that probably costs more than my parents’ house. There’s a jazz band in white dinner jackets set up on the stage at the front of the ballroom, a podium in front of them waiting for the speeches and reports of the glorious riches Scour has earned over the last year.

A white-coated waiter passes by with a silver tray of champagne glasses, pausing to proffer his wares. I take one with a smile and a whispered thank you, which he certainly doesn’t hear over the sounds of swing music and rich people chatter that fills the room. He’s gone in a flash, off to unload the rest of his tray before disappearing to the magic “behind the scenes” of the Grand Ballroom.

We were given no instructions for tonight other than to “enjoy,” and part of that, for me, will be avoiding Amber and Jenna at all costs. Though I would like to catch a glimpse of the look on Amber’s face when she sees me in this dress for the first time. That’ll be worth even a terse greeting with the Queen of Mean.

So I circulate, sipping my champagne and listening in on conversations. I hear about reelection plans, seed money rounds, Cape Cod vacation homes, and real estate deals, the profits from which could pay for me to go back and get three more degrees from New England College.

“He’s going to speak tonight, you know. He almost never does.”

I pause at that one, studiously rifling through the silver clutch I brought so it doesn’t seem like I’m eavesdropping. Because I know immediately that these two women, both looking to be in their mid-40s and both several glasses of champagne into their evening, are talking about Nixon Blake.

“You’re kidding,” says the one with a ruby the size of a child’s fist on a gold chain at her neck. “I never can tell if the man is just private, or if he’s got stage fright.”

“I can’t imagine having billions of dollars, the biggest company in the world, and stage fright,” says the other, whose hair is dyed a fairly unnatural shade of red. “He probably just likes to add to the Nixon Blake mystique.”

“Well he’s certainly mysterious. Gerald has invested many millions in Scour’s various projects, and I’ve never even heard the man’s voice.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I’m not. In fact, this is the first one of these things that I think he’s actually even bothered to make an appearance at. Gerald says he hires people to do the glad-handing for him.”

The women sip from their glasses and mmm hmmm to each other, and I move along before I arouse too much suspicion.

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