Page 14 of Big Boss
The flashbulbs go off like a lightning storm, bringing back memories of the infamous twenty down the bra. But I’ll be darned if I’m going to let some random woman sink her claws into Tate, no matter how pretty she is. Or how many of the photographers she brought as back up.
This could even be the woman who’s causing the current scandal. Or the next one. And either way, no thank you. It’s not going to happen on my watch.
“I see.” I tilt my head to my side trying to figure out what kind of trick she’s pulling, but she might really be that pretty. At least, she doesn’t have any visible nose hair. No warts or scars or anything like that either.
“And is Mister Tate expecting you?” I slide a little of that cold precision into my voice that I’ve heard Tate use when he is putting on his fake public fuckboy act.
The kaleidoscope of flashbulbs, slows and the woman in front of me gives me a too wide, overly toothy smile. Seriously, how many teeth does she have in her mouth?
“I’m sure he is. He got an email just this morning—”
I hold up a censuring hand before she can continue. I’ll be damned if I’m going to let her air all his personal business and then drag Tate through the mud in front of these lowlifes from the press. Not today, Satan.
“And what did you say your name was again?” I let the words ooze with honey and saccharine, bitingly sweet.
I can actually see the moment when her face falls, right before she recovers her composure and plasters on her too white smile again.
“I’m Bella. Bella LeGrande.” She gives me an overly toothy smile, and I can tell from the way she says it that it has an extra “e” at the end. I can also make out from her tone and the way she preens when she says her name that I’m supposed to know who she is right away.
Well, tough. I don’t know anybody who has extra vowels lying around for decoration. That’s not my scene.
One of the photographers snorts out a laugh and then grunts as one of the adjacent press people apparently stomps on the offender’s foot.
My eyes flash over to the swarm of reporters and narrow menacingly at them. But secretly, it amuses me that one of them managed to get physically injured because of me.
I know, I know. I’m a bad person. Well, watch out. I’m about to get even worse.
“Oh.” I say flatly, letting every single drop of my deep apathy drip all over the word. “Well, Miss Bland, let me check his calendar.”
A little wave of amused giggling breaks out among the reporters, and the fancy fame-seeking starlet in front of me gets two bright red spots high up on her cheekbones. Yep, she’s mad, but she’s worried enough about what people are going to think that she’s not willing to show it outright.
I fiddle around on my desk and locate an old, dust-covered desk calendar emblazoned with a date from five years ago. Definitely nobody is keeping up with Donovan Tate’s paper schedule or his appointments. Including that scandalous Crystal woman.
I take my own sweet time opening it up and then run my fingers down the empty pages, acting like I’m carefully considering what appointments I’m allowed to discuss with her.
Fat chance. I’m not letting anyone who shows up with their own press junket find out anything about my boss’s comings and goings. Not after what happened just yesterday morning.
I heard the pain in his voice when he was on the phone with his friend. I don’t think I was supposed to overhear it, but I definitely did. It hurts me when other people are hurting, even if it’s just Donovan Tate. I’ll protect him from any more of that kind of behavior from the shark-like women circling all around him.
I wait until the girl in the sparkly boots shifts her weight for the third time, clearly uncomfortable because I am taking for-fucking-ever to look for an appointment that she’s obviously making up. When she finally sighs out loud, I look up at her disapprovingly.
Then I paste another very big, very saccharine smile all over my mouth. “I’m so sorry, Miss LeBland. You aren’t on the calendar. Looks like you won’t be seeing Mr. Tate today after all.”
Her little pink-nailed hands curl up into two small fists and rise up toward her midsection involuntarily, almost as if she’s going to ask to fight me in the lobby.
“Surely this is a misunderstanding. Look again.” Her words have a polite veneer to them, but everyone in the room can tell she’s irritated with me. Possibly even all the way to pissed off.
I shake my head and make a little disapproving hum, then take a deep breath and let her have it. I make sure to speak slowly, like she’s really stupid, and loudly enough so that everyone she’s crammed into this room can hear.
“You’re not on the calendar.” I pause, then give her my best death glare. “That means you’re not going to see Donovan Tate today.” I make a little shooing motion with my hand. “Now I suggest you all leave before I have to call building security.” I level a glare at the little horde of paparazzi. “Again.” They can definitely tell I’m not kidding, because they all start packing up in a hurry.
One of her hands flies up to her lips as she gasps. “Well, I never.” She’s so upset now that even her polite, plastic veneer is slipping away.
Well, good. Because I’m not pretending either.
And to make sure she gets the point, I go ahead and give her the same type of smile that Donovan Tate has been giving me. One that reeks of sex, one that’s meant to offend. “Honey, everyone here can tell that you’ve never. But that’s not my problem. Or Tate’s.”
The various press start to jostle and murmur, apparently thrilled by my vicious jibe.
