Virgin Fix (The Virgins Book 1)
Page 8
So here I am in this gorgeous building in the heart of downtown Seattle, about to wow my future employer, Nikolas Giannopoulos. Geee-ahhhhhhh-nop-e-lus. I may not even meet the man himself, but by god, I’ll get his name right.
Apparently, Mr. Giannopoulos goes through receptionists like most guys go through porn sites. So I need to make sure I stay on his favorites list. Of course, there’s always a chance the CEO of AFS does something to make his receptionists leave. I hear about that sort of thing all the time at Dreamgirls, especially when I roleplay being the naïve young secretary to the big, bad boss. But I think I can handle a mean boss. Even a sexy boss. Heck, if the price is right, even a sexy, demanding boss who wants me to bend over his desk while he types out his memos on my ass. After listening to Mr. Eleven’s plans for me, I’m willing to do just about anything to stay safe.
The elevator finally stops at the penthouse floor. I wait until it empties before I pull my earbuds free and move into the luxuriously appointed hallway. I try not to fidget as I follow the FedEx guy down the short corridor to where a wall of frosted glass opens up, admitting us to the reception area of AFS. I still have no idea what Adonis Financial Services really does. Their website seemed deliberately vague on that score, but it doesn’t matter. For this receptionist’s job, they only need my voice. And I give great voice.
“Ms. Jones?” The receptionist sizes me up. It’s all I can do not to slide my hand nervously down my dress, but I’ve done my homework. Stylishly conservative is how Mr. Giannopoulos likes the women in his office, if the candid shots I’ve pored over on Google are any guideline. Today I fit the bill in a borrowed gray business dress that smooths out my curves, nude legs, and black pumps. My shoes are maybe a tiny bit too high-heeled, but I know how to walk in them. And frankly, Mr. Giannopoulos and his receptionist job may be worth a lot to me, but nothing is worth wearing ugly shoes. They may be knockoff Louboutins, but what AFS doesn’t know won’t hurt them. Someday, I’ll be able to afford the real thing.
To do that, I need to nail this interview.
“Thank you so much for calling me in,” I say, projecting my voice as I stride across the room—it is my best asset, after all—and don’t miss the reaction my low, sultry reply causes. The main receptionist’s eyebrows dart up, both the FedEx guy and receptionist number two turn to me with surprise, and I even imagine that the murmured conversation in the next room stops. Okay, so strike the middle ground, I think. Sexy, but professional. I can do that.
“Who are you?” booms a deep, rich voice behind me, so innately powerful it has my toes curling inside my knockoffs. The voice is curt, loud, and designed to rattle people’s nerves. It’s also weirdly familiar, but I chalk that up to “generic business tycoon” typecasting.
The CEO of Adonis Financial Services has clearly entered the lobby.
I pivot toward the man and yup: Six foot four of pure Greek god, Nikolas Giannopoulos now fills the doorway to his private office, his intense blue eyes drilling into me. From his rich black hair to his chiseled, bronzed jaw to his long, lean, and powerfully built body, the one-time model clearly hasn’t given up his gym routine. His dark grey suit hugs his body like they’re going to have drinks later.
He snaps his gaze to the receptionist, and his jaw tightens. “Janice. I’m going to need the list of candidates if you expect me to interview these people,” he snaps, and I freeze. I do know that voice. I totally know it. Oh, my god.
It’s Mr. Nine.
“This is Destiny Jones,” Janice says cheerfully, turning toward me with another smile, this one more encouraging. “She’s your next candidate.”
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