My phone keeps on blinking and buzzing, and I hurry to pick it up to not disturb Dad and Mom's sleep. It's already eight in a Monday night. The New Jersey streets are sparkling and busy, but the hospital room I am in is as dull and lonely as the dark printed curtains hanging by the windows. I toss my de Vere paperwork to the table when I recognize the voice in the receiver.
"Lenna?" The talent scout who I thought is a hooker.
"You're not working tonight?"
"No, I missed work today." I spent all day researching about de Vere because I have planned to devote the rest of the week to finding money for Dad's new kidney and an answer for my never-ending doubts about finishing college. "How did you know I'm not at work? Are you at Maxwell's?" I said in a hushed voice.
"Yes. I have something for you tonight."
Tonight? One strong thud changes the rhythm of my heart.
Not tonight. It's too fast. I just agreed to her last night, and I get a job twenty-four hours after? I don't even know what to do. She hasn't told me any specific instructions.
"Are you crazy? I didn't even get an orientation from you."
"Orientation?" I hear her chuckle. "This needs no orientation. I told you everything you need to know. We caught a big fish tonight, Angel!"
"You just told me to smile and follow everything a big time employer tells me. That doesn't sound reassuring." I saunter out of the room, close the door behind me, and head to the hallway where no one can overhear our conversation.
"Are you taking it or not?"
I pause as I take a deep breath.
"Okay, count me in." That is not too hard to say.
"Meet me here."
"At Maxwell's? No way!" If Ray finds me there, he will get suspicious. I might not escape his vulture eyes and claws.
"Then the coffee shop it is."
I play my fingers around the brim of my hot cup of coffee, my eyes fixed on the door of the shop waiting for a red-haired woman in an unusual get-up. I leave the hospital lying to Mom that Ray wants to meet me. They mustn't know that I have landed myself in a rather precarious situation in my desperation.
I can still get myself out of this web. Lenna isn't here yet.
I feel my stomach grumbling not because I am hungry. It's a weird grumbling noise of air mixing with my insides.
Maybe I should go back now.
Just after I empty my cup, my eyes catch a glimpse of Lenna in a lime green Venus-cut dress entering the café. Behind her is a bald man probably five inches taller than her in a black coat and tie.
I retreat back to my chair and prepare myself to take the challenge. It is too late to back out. They're here.
"Angel." Lenna smiles at me. "This is Paul."
He doesn't look like those bachelors I see on a reality TV, but if I am going to work for him, maybe it won't be bad. He looks a lot older than me and a little stiff. He even has his nose held up high, but he doesn't look like a dangerous person to me. Maybe a little curve on his mouth might make him a little softer.
I am assuming I'll be his hired actress.
"He'll bring you to tonight's event," Lenna adds enthusiastically. I bet she's looking forward to receiving her check.
Paul eyes me from head to foot, his eyebrow on an arch.
"She will do, but she will need a lot of work," he says dryly.
"You're very good at it, Paul!"
"Shall we go now, miss?" He motions his hand toward the exit like a gentleman.
"Don't worry, he doesn't bite." Lenna winks at me.
Paul drives his sleek black car. It's one of those majestic wheels I see in car catalogs in Dad's shelf. I never imagined I'd be riding in a car like this. Perhaps play-acting as a billionaire's girlfriend has its own perks too. I'm a bit surprised that he doesn't keep a driver. I thought billionaires have their own people to do things for them.
"Did Lenna tell you what to do?" His eyes watch me through the rearview mirror.
"Yes," I answer. "But I don't really know the specifics. She said I should listen to you," I said, snugly seated in the back seat.
"You're right. You must listen to what I say. I don't want this night ruined." It sounds like a warning. "First things first. We have to do something about how you look. You mustn't go out there like that. Makeover for two hours will just be enough."
I think I need it. I can't meet people in this ragged get-up of tattered skinny jeans, a pair of white sneakers, and a V-neck shirt. I look nothing like a billionaire girlfriend material. I look more like a school girl.
"I can only afford a Sunday dress," I say, but the truth is I have no money for a complete makeover.
"Everything's in order."
"So, do I have to just smile all night?"
"Yes, be amiable so the press will love you." He sounds so cold.
Paul isn't really the type magazines would print for their monthly edition of successful and to-watch-out-for bachelors. He's quite the opposite. With all the money he has, I wonder if looks still even matter.
"Why do you need me?" I finally question. This has bugged me since the time Lenna has told me about bachelors hiring girlfriends to look good in public. "Why not have a real girlfriend? With one, you won't keep looking for actresses."
"Trust and commitment issues. Rich people don't easily trust."
Okay. So I will never understand that since I'm far from rich.
He continues, "A stupendous and brilliant idea but just impossible for now. My goal for tonight is to keep the board confident about the stability of the company."
"How am I gonna help you with that?"
"Woman can keep men happy. If they see the CEO with a woman, they'd think everything is fine."
I presume his company is in the rickety stage, but I won't probe any further. It's beyond my line. What I'm after for is I get paid fair and square.
"You also have to keep a new name. Here, take this envelope." He hands over a brown envelope. "Good background impresses people."
My eyes dropped off the sockets when I see a new name printed under my barely recognizable .
Angel Grant, and a photo of myself edited to make me look glamorous and chic with expensive clothes. She doesn't look an inch like me though I can still recognize the eyes, nose, and lips if I keep my stare on her a little longer. She's got the red carpet persona, not the plain diner girl.
"You've got amazing Photoshop skills," I murmur as my eyes feast on how I barely resemble my usual self.
"Had it done," he replies as he stirs the wheel to the right. I have no idea where we are going, but I recognize the buildings and the street we are at. We're heading to a district where the rich and famous people go, where my likes are not even welcome at all, I guess.
"Angel Grant?" Why do I have to change my name? I asked in my head.
"Angel Grant, an entrepreneur who has her own line of fragrance, 'Heaven's Mist,' philanthropist, vegetarian, health and fitness enthusiast, executive editor of 'Metamorphosis,' and the list goes on. Everything you need to know about her is in those papers."
But I'm not any of those he says.
"I haven't graduated from college yet," I say, "and I am not an entrepreneur or editor." If he only knows who I am, he might reconsider not hiring me for this job.
"You don't have to be any of those. Just be Angel Grant."
"How am I going to do that? Angel Grant is everything that is mentioned in here."
What if the press asks me about perfumes or business or this magazine 'Metamorphosis?' I don't know anything about them.
Paul pulled up the car in the parking space outside a hotel. Its entrance is crammed with photographers and press people. There's a red carpet along the wide staircase leading to the glass doors of the hotel.
My heart quicken as the inevitable slowly sinks in. This is really happening. The fictional Angel Grant has to be real tonight. Angel Mohr has to die for a while, and the beautiful, classy, and smart Angel Grant must take over. All this for a good paycheck.
"You have to figure it out, Miss Mohr." He peers through the mirror. "It's not my job. It's yours."
I take a deep breath and go over the documents again. Angel Grant is someone I'll never be. She's like an unreachable dream, someone I want to be someday but just too good to be true.
"Here's the key for your hotel room. Hugo is waiting for you there," says Paul as he fixes his tie.
"Who's Hugo?"
"Your stylist." Paul quickly gets out of the front seat and opens the door for me.
"I get a stylist?" My voice shakes in awe.
"You terribly need some work."
I move out from the car, my eyes fixed on the press people who just walk past us as though they don't care about Paul, the billionaire.
"Can I even walk past through those paparazzi without getting noticed?"
"It's not a problem." He must be referring to how I look. Yeah, I get it. "Walk straight through the entrance and then proceed to room 708. I'll meet you in the lobby in two hours. Hugo will tell you the details."
With that, Paul walks me toward the foot of the gravel stairway.
"Remember, two hours." His voice is toned down, and his hands were in his pockets, and he marches away from me to the pathway leading to some discreet entrance that is guarded by huge men in suits. When Paul reaches them, they tilt their heads as though they recognize his authority. He, then, enters the highly guarded entrance with his men watching the vicinity before they close the door.
This is what Lenna calls big time. You pay people to keep you protected, to do things for you, but why didn't he send someone to pick me up? Can't he put a trusted man at his disposal? Is this what he means about trust issues rich people have? With all the security he has, I don't think it's trusting that he must be wary of. It's protection, I guess.
I walk straight through the entrance. Surprisingly, one press crew comes to me to ask a question.
"Are you a newbie?"
"A newbie?" Oh, God! Did he find out I'm Paul's new hired girlfriend? Is the media capable of extracting information even before it goes out in public?
"You can't go to the auction night without a pass. Did your network secure one?"
"Auction night? Network?" He probably thinks I'm from the media too. "I'm not a journalist. I'm visiting a stylist friend who lives in this hotel," I answer with a quick smile.
The male crew shrugs his shoulders with annoyance like he finds my answer a little off-putting, but it worked as he hurriedly leaves me alone. And so, my entrance to the hotel lobby is as smooth as a morning sail in a lake.
By the time I reach the elevator, the sliding door stops from closing in front of me. Two large hands with long fingers pry the door open. His sleeve cufflinks reveal a few hairs, and I suddenly think of how masculine the owner of those strong hands could be.
The elevator door opens again and reveals a well-built man, tall, dark, and handsome, in his fine gray suit standing a foot away from the door track. His dark raven eyes pierce mine the moment he steps on the lift. My legs step back like they have their own mind until I feel the hardness of the elevator wall hit my spine. For a moment, I think I took the wrong lift like I am not supposed to be there like the lift is for the man's personal use. His glare is questioning, I suppose. I have no idea what is happening to me, but I know that I have just fallen into speechlessness because of this man's overwhelming presence. I have never seen such a good-looking man in my life. It's the first time I actually took the time to look at a man and think he's worth every second. He's picture perfect and way more than just a suit and a pair of leather shoes. He smells extremely good, too, his fragrance clogging my nostrils. I find myself adoring everything about him. I feel like a high school girl again falling in love at first sight... if this can be called as such.
No, I am simply admiring. I can't be drooling over this complete stranger. Not when I am working. I suddenly remember what Ray once told me about giving myself a break to look at guys. Surprisingly, I am doing it now. This man knows how to effortlessly demand attention, and he has captured mine.
He shoots me a cold glare, sending chills all over my body. Then his long finger presses the operating panel for button twenty-five. I find my actions so calculated, I was even careful with my own breathing. He sends off this intimidating aura, so commanding and sharp. I can't wish for more but to hasten our ascent. I can't wait to leave. I can no longer contain this man's overwhelming effect on me. As time passes by with only him and me inside the elevator, it feels like eternal dread waiting to reach our destination.
Looking at both our reflections on the steel door in front of us, I pretend to not see him when, as a matter of fact, my eyes are doing a great job studying his face. The longer I stare at him, the more he seems familiar to me. I might have seen those dangerous, dark eyes and thick eyebrows before.
Where have I seen this man? At the diner? At the hospital?
Just where?
My eyes narrow, carefully scrutinizing him from the tip of his hair to the most minuscule detail on his face.
Heavens!
My gaze stiffens as my limbs weaken, and I nearly fall back against the walls.
I know this man!
"Seventh floor," his mouth curves as he speaks cold as ice. His spine-tingling and sensual voice erupts, nearly tipping me off my balance completely
The door opens, and he looks at me, giving me a signal that he wants the lift all by himself. I quickly scamper out of the elevator and trudge all the way to the corridor without looking back. Never shall I look back. Never. My cheeks grow red and warm as the most horrible thought pops into my head.
The man I was with looks so similar to the man I saw at the bank the other day. I can't be wrong. I remember those eyes. Those are the eyes that looked at me furiously when he caught me watching him throwing his temper at poor Mr. Eckert. Right! He's the hot-tempered rich guy who went to visit the bank that day. I know I am right for I remember his face clearly. A hole that digs deeply to my very core forms in my stomach. I was an inch away from disaster back there. Luckily, he didn't recognize me. Or did he?
More heat spreads across my cheeks. I can only wish that he doesn't recognize me. I shake my head to forget the incident. What could he be thinking? For sure, he'd lambast me for daring to watch him castigate an employee. But, clearly, he was abusing his power back there.
I find myself in front of room 708. I quickly let out a sigh to calm the apprehension and nervousness that's inside me. The ghost of his dark gaze continues to hunt me, and it feels really uncomfortable.
I buzz the door.
In less than thirty seconds, a good looking bald man in gray printed polo shirt opens it, and I immediately assume he is Hugo. He looks young though a little older than me. Perhaps, in his early thirties.
"You must be Angel Grant." His voice reminds me of Ray. "I'm Hugo, your stylist. Come on in." He's so warm and friendly, and his smile is wide.
The hotel room is filled with dresses in hangers and piles of shoes in their boxes. There are also mirrors and makeup kits in one corner of the room. Two lady assistants smile at me, eradicating the agitation left from that elevator ride.
Hugo turns to face me. "We have exactly two hours to transform you into the belle of tonight's event. Paul wants the theme 'fierce and sultry.' You think you can pull that off?"
Fierce and sultry?
I wonder if he knows that I'm just paid to be Angel Grant. He sounds like he does, though.
Hugo reaches for my hand and leads me to a row of metallic evening dresses hanging on a steel bar all sequined and embellished with tiny stones and gems, shimmering and beautiful. "I took the liberty of choosing the dresses which I think might suit you while waiting. I hope you like them."
His assistants show me eight dresses.
My eyes widen. He made sure to choose quite sexy cuts.
"Any problem?" He must have noticed the sudden shock and worry on my face.
"I'm not used to wearing these kinds of dresses," I respond as I run my gaze on the row of overly designed dresses in front of me. Never in my life have I thought of wearing one.
"Then, you'll start tonight. I bet you'll love them." He flashes a smile. "So take a pick!"
"I'm not very good in choosing the right fit."
He tilts his head on me, surveys my face and body, and murmurs things I hardly understand. "Turn around," he orders. Nodding, his eyes light up. "I got the perfect dress for you! But let's do the hair and makeup first. Let's begin, shall we?" He pushes me to sit on a swivel chair in front of a well-lighted mirror.
Chapter 12: The Job Description
My phone keeps on blinking and buzzing, and I hurry to pick it up to not disturb Dad's and Mom's sleep. It's already eight in a Monday night. The Jersey streets are sparkling and busy but the hospital room I am in is as dull and lonely as the dark printed curtains hanging by the windows. I toss my de Vere paper works to the table when I recognize the voice in the receiver.
"Lenna?" the talent scout who I thought is a hooker.
"You're not working tonight?"
"No. I miss work today." I have all day researching about de Vere because I have planned my entire week to be devoted to finding money for Dad's new kidney and an answer for my never-ending doubts about finishing off college. "How did you know I'm not at work? Are you at Maxwell's?" I tone down my voice.
"Yes. I have something for you tonight."
Tonight? One strong thud changes the rhythm of my heart.
Not tonight. It's too fast. I just agreed on her last night and I get a job twenty four hours after. I don't even know what to do. She hasn't told me the specific instructions.
"Are you crazy? I didn't even get an orientation from you."
"Orientation?" I hear her chuckle. "This needs no orientation. I told you everything you need to know. We caught a big fish tonight, Angel!"
"You just told me to smile and follow everything this big time employer tells me. That doesn't sound reassuring." I amble out of the room, close the door behind me and head to the hallway where no one can overhear me on the phone.
"Are you taking it or not?"
I pause as I take a deep breath.
"Okay, count me in." That is not too hard to say.
"Meet me here."
"At Maxwell's? No way!" If Ray finds me there, he will definitely keep on nudging me about why I come there. I might not even escape his vulture eyes and claws.
"Then the coffee shop it is."
I play my fingers around the brim of my hot cup of regular coffee, my eyes fixed on the door of the shop waiting for a red haired woman in an unusual get-up. I leave the hospital lying to Mom that Ray wants to meet me with me. They mustn't know that I have landed myself in a rather precarious situation which I choose to stay into because of desperation.
I can still take myself out of this web. Lenna isn't here yet.
I feel my stomach grumbling not because I am hungry. It's a weird grumbling, air mixing with my insides.
Maybe I should go back now.
Just after I empty my cup, my eyes catch a glimpse of Lenna in lime green Venus-cut dress entering the café. Behind her is a bald man probably five inches taller than her, in black coat and tie.
I retreat back to my chair and am immediately forced to just take in this challenge. I am too late to back-out; they're here.
"Angel." Lenna smiles at me. "This is Paul."
He doesn't look like those bachelors I see on a reality T.V, but if I am going to work for him, maybe it won't be bad. He looks a lot older than me and a little stiff; he even has his nose held up high but he doesn't look like a dangerous person to me. Maybe a little curve on his mouth might make him a little softer.
So I am assuming I'll be his hired actress.
"He'll bring you to tonight's event," adds Lenna enthusiastically. I bet she's looking forward to receiving her check.
Paul eyes me from head to foot, his eye brow on an arch.
"She will do but she will need a lot work," says he dryly.
"You're very good at it, Paul!"
"Shall we go now, miss?" he motions his hand toward the exit like a gentleman.
"Don't worry, he doesn't bite." Lenna winks at me.
Paul drives his sleek black car. It's one of those I see in car catalogues that have been in Dad's shelf for years now. I never imagined I'd be riding in a car like this. Perhaps play-acting as a billionaire's girlfriend has its own perks too. I'm a little bit surprised that he doesn't keep a driver. I thought billionaires have their own people to do things for them like driving or meeting people.
"Did Lenna tell you what to do?" His eyes watching me through the rear-view mirror.
"Yes," I answer. "But I don't really know the specifics. She said I should just listen to you." I am snugly seated at the back seat.
"You're right. You must listen to what I say. I don't want this night ruined." It appears like a warning. "First things first. We have to do something about how you look. You mustn't go out there like that. Make-over for two hours will just be enough."
I think I need it. I can't just meet people in this ragged get-up, tattered skinny jeans, a pair of white sneakers, and a V-neck t-shirt. I look nothing like a billionaire girlfriendmaterial but a school girl.
"I don't have money to pay for it," I say.
"Everything's in order."
"So, do I have to just smile all night?"
"Yes. Be amiable so that the press will love you." He sounds so cold.
Paul isn't really the type magazines would print for their monthly edition of successful and to-watch-out-for hunky bachelors. He's quite the opposite. With all the money he has, I wonder if looks still even matter.
"Why do you need me?" I finally question. This has bugged me since the time Lenna has told me about bachelors hiring girlfriends to look good for the public. "Why not have a real girlfriend? With one, you won't keep looking for actresses."
"Trust and commitment issues. Rich people don't easily trust."
Okay. So I will never understand that since I'm far from rich.
He continues, "A stupendous and brilliant idea but just impossible for now. My goal for tonight is to keep the Board confident about the stability of the company."
"How am I gonna help you with that?"
"Woman keeps men happy. If they see the CEO with a woman, then they'd think everything is fine."
I presume his company is in the rockety stage, but I don't further ask. It's beyond my line. What I'm after for is I get paid fair and square.
"You also have to keep a new name. Here, take this envelope." And he hands over a brown envelope. "Good background impresses people."
My eyes seem to have dropped off the sockets when I see a new name printed under my barely recognizable altered photo.
Angel Grant, and a photo of myself, edited to make me look glamorous and chic with expensive clothes and make-up strike me. She doesn't even look an inch like me though I can still recognize the eyes, nose and lips if I keep my glare on her for a little while. She's got the red carpet persona—not really the plain diner girl.
"You've got amazing photoshop skills," I murmur as my eyes still feast on how I barely resemble her.
"Had it done," he replies as he stirs the wheel to the right. I have no idea where we are going but I recognize the buildings and the street we are at. We're heading to a district where the rich and the socially and publicly renowned people go, where my likes are not even welcomed at all, I guess.
"Angel Grant?" Why do I have to change my name?
"Angel Grant, an entrepreneur who has her own line of fragrance 'Heaven's Mist', philanthropist, vegetarian, health and fitness enthusiast, executive editor of 'Metamorphosis', and the list goes on. Everything you need to know about her is in those papers."
But I'm not any of those he says.
"I haven't graduated from college yet," I say, "and I am not an entrepreneur or editor." If he only knows who I am, he might reconsider not hiring me for this job.
"You don't have to be any of those; just be Angel Grant."
"How am I going to do that? Angel Grant is everything that is mentioned in here."
What if the press asks me about perfumes or business or this magazine 'Metamorphosis'? I don't know anything about them.
Paul pulled in the car at the parking space outside a hotel. Its entrance is crammed with photographers and press people. There's a red carpet along the wide staircase leading to the glass doors of the hotel.
My heart quicken as the inevitable slowly sinks in. This is really happening. The fictional Angel Grant has to be real tonight. Angel Mohr has to die for a while and the beautiful, classy, and smart Angel Grant must take over. All this for a good paycheck.
"You have to figure it out, Miss Mohr." He peers through the mirror. "It's not my job; it's yours."
I take a deep breath and go over the documents again. Angel Grant is someone I'll never be. She's like an unreachable dream, someone I want to be someday but just too good to be true.
"Here's the key for your hotel room. Hugo is waiting for you there," says Paul as he fixes his tie.
"Who's Hugo?"
"Your stylist." And Paul quickly gets out from the front seat and opens the door for me.
"I get a stylist?" My voice shakes in awe.
"You terribly need some work."
I move out from the car, my eyes fixed on the press people who just walk pass us as though they don't care about Paul the billionaire.
"Can I even walk pass through those paparazzis without even getting noticed?"
"It's not a problem." He must be referring to how I look. Yeah, I get it. "Walk straight through the entrance and then proceed to room 708. I'll meet you at the lobby in two hours. Hugo will tell you the details."
And Paul walks me toward the foot of the gravel stairway.
"Remember two hours." His voice tones down, his hands in his pockets, and he marches away from me to the pathway leading to some discreet entrance that is guarded by huge men in suits. When Paul reaches them, they tilt their heads as though they recognize his authority. He, then, enters the highly guarded entrance, his men watching the vicinity before they close the door.
This is what Lenna calls big time. You pay people to keep you protected, to do things for you, but why hasn't he sent someone to pick me up? Can't he put a trusted man at his disposal? Is this what he says the trust issue rich people worry about? With all the security he has, I don't think it's trust that he must be wary of; it's protection, I guess.
I walk straight through the entrance, and surprisingly one press crew comes to me to ask a question—something Paul was wrong about, "Are you a newbie?"
"A newbie?" Oh God! Did he find out I'm Paul's new hired girlfriend? Can the media quickly know things about this? Are they capable of extracting information even before it goes out to public?
"You can't go to the auction night without a pass. Did your network secure one?"
"Auction night? Network?" He must probably think I am from the media too. "I'm not a journalist. I'm visiting a stylist friend who lives in this hotel," I answer with a quick smile.
The male crew shrugs his shoulders with annoyance like he finds my answer a little off-putting or arrogant. But it works as he hurriedly leaves me alone, and so my entrance to the hotel lobby is assmooth as a morning sail in a lake.
By the time I reach the elevator, the sliding door stops from closing in front of me. Two hands, large with long fingers and veins visible on the rather translucent white skin, the sleeve cufflinks reveal a few hairs that I suddenly think how masculine the owner of those strong hands could be.
The elevator door opens again from the center, and reveals a well-built man, tall, dark and handsome, in his fine grey suit, standing a foot away from the door track. His dark raven piercing eyes meet mine the moment he steps into the car floor. My legs step back like they have their own minds until I feel the hardness of the elevator wall hit my spine. For a moment, I thought I take the wrong lift, like I am not supposed to be there, like the lift is for the man's personal use. His glare is questioning, I suppose. I have no idea what is happening to me but I know that I have just fallen to speechlessness and complete stupor because of this man's overwhelming presence. I have never seen such a good-looking man in my life. It's the first time I actually have taken time to look at a man, and think he's worth every second. I guess. He's incredibly picture perfect. He's more than just the suit and the pair of leather shoes. He smells extremely good too; his fragrance clogging the air that passes through my nostrils. I just find myself adoring everything about him. I feel like a high school girl again falling into love at first sight—if this can be called as such.
No. I am just simply admiring. I can't be drooling over this complete stranger. Not when I am working. I suddenly remember what Ray once told me about giving myself a break to look in to guys. I am surprisingly doing it now. This man just knows how to demand for attention effortlessly and he has captured mine.
He shots at me a cold glare that sends chills all over my body. Then his long finger presses on the operating panel for button 25. I find my actions so calculated that I even have to be careful with my own breathing. He sends off this intimidating aura, so commanding and sharp. I can't wish for more but to hasten reaching the 7th floor. I can't wait to leave as I can no longer contain this man's overwhelming effect on me. It doesn't feel good as time passes by with only him and me inside the elevator. It feels like eternal dread waiting to reach for our destination.
Looking at both our reflections on the steel door in front of us, I have to pretend that I am not seeing him but as a matter of fact, my eyes are doing a great job studying his face. The longer I stare at him, the more he seems familiar to me. Those dangerous dark eyes and thick eyebrows meeting at the center seem to have shown themselves before to me.
Where have I seen this man? At the diner? At the hospital?
Just where?
My eyes narrow, carefully scrutinizing him from the tip of his hair to the most miniscule detail on his face.
Heavens!
My gaze stiffens to those hawk eyes as my limbs weaken that I nearly fall back against the walls.
I know this man!
"Seventh floor," his mouth curves as he speaks coldly as ice. His spine-tingling and sensual voice erupts, nearly tipping off my balance.
The door opens and he looks at me, giving me a signal that he wants the lift all by himself.I quickly scamper out of the elevator car and trudge all the way to the corridor without looking back. Never shall I look back. Never. My cheeks grow red and warm as the most horrible thought jams my head.
The man I am with just now appears so alike with the man I saw at the bank the other day. I can't be wrong. I remember those eyes. Those are the eyes that looked at me furiously when he caught me watching him throwing his temper to poor Mr. Eckert. Right! He's the hot-tempered rich guy who went to visit the bank that day. I know I am right. I remember his face clearly. A hole at the pit of my stomach digs deeply to the very core that I start to feel like throwing up. I was an inch away from disaster right back there, luckily he didn't recognize me. Or did he?
More heat spreads across my cheeks. I can only wish that he doesn't recognize me. I shake my head to forget the incident. What would he think when he recognized me right back there? For sure, he'd lambast me for being too officious for watching him castigate a poor employee. Clearly, he was abusing his power right back there.
I find myself in front of room 708. I quickly let out a sigh to equalize the apprehension and nervousness that is inside me right now. The ghost of his dark gazes continues to hunt me, and it feels really uncomfortable.
I buzz on the door.
In less than half a minute, a good looking bald man in grey printed polo shirt opens it. Quickly, I presume he is Hugo. He looks young though a little older than me, I guess—perhaps in his early thirties.
"You must be Angel Grant." His voice reminds me of Ray. "I'm Hugo, your stylist. Come on in." He's so warm and friendly; his smile is wide.
The hotel room is filled with dresses in hangers and piles of shoe boxes. There are also mirrors and make-up kits in one corner of the room. Two lady assistants smile at me. Their wide smiles are able to eradicate the prodigious agitation I am left to suffer after the elevator ride.
Hugo turns to face me. "We have exactly two hours to transform you into the belle of tonight's event. Paul specifically wants the theme 'fierce and sultry'. You think you can pull that off?"
Fierce and sultry?
I wonder if he knows that I'm just paid to be Angel Grant. But he sounds like he knows about it though.
Hugo reaches for my hand, leads me to a row of metallic evening dresses hanging on a steel bar, all sequined and festooned with tiny stones and gems, shimmering and beautiful, and says, "I took the liberty to choose dresses which I think might fit and suit you while waiting. I hope you like them."
His assistants show me eight dresses.
My eyes widen as I figure out that he's chosen quite sexier cuts.
"Any problem?" He must have noticed the sudden rise of shock and worry on my face.
"I'm not used to wearing this kind of dresses," I respond as I run my gaze to the row of overly designed dresses in my eyes. Never in my life have I thought of wearing one, not even touch this rare, sensitive, and steep fabric
"Then you'll start tonight. I bet you'll love them." And he flashes a smile. "So have a pick!"
"I'm not very good with choosing the right fit."
He tilts his head on me, surveys my face, my body, murmurs things I hardly understand, and orders, "Turn around." Nodding, his eyes light up. "I just got the perfect dress for you! But let's do the hair and make-up first. Let's begin, shall we?" And he pushes me to sit on a swivel chair in front of a well-lighted mirror.