First on the list, a to-do left over from last night. He texted his assistant, Gortham, since he was on Rob’s shit list at the moment. His conversation with Marjorie last night had spurred more than a few thoughts, and this one was about shoes. He’d sent an assistant on the task. Have you found a maid to bribe?

@ wmn @ rm 311? Gortham sent back. U can cnt on me 2 get it, no woryrs.

Jesus fucking Christ, was that even English? He did not want this shit fucked up by some pimple-faced shithead who took a job as his assistant because he thought it got him free travel and free snatch. He texted back furiously. First of all, it’s room 301. And if you don’t start sending me texts in complete sentences, you’re fucking fired. Got it?

Got it.

Good. I want that answer from ROOM THREE OH ONE in five minutes.

Yes sir.

He gulped down his drink, impatiently waiting for an answer. Just when he was about to lose his shit, his phone buzzed with an incoming text.

Maid found. She went in the room. Said the woman wears a size 11 shoe.

Rob rubbed his unshaven jaw. That sounded about right. A woman as tall as Marjorie would have long feet, too. Good. Okay, he texted back. Now I want you to charter a helicopter out to the nearest designer shoe store and look for a size eleven stiletto heel. We’re talking tall. And sexy. And expensive. It needs to be all three and it needs to be back here by four o’clock this afternoon. Get me?

I’m on it, boss.

Good. One issue down. Rob mentally pictured Marjorie—tall, luscious Marjorie with the legs that went on for light-years, in a pair of strappy heels and felt the need to rub his groin. God, she’d be pretty like that. Would her eyes light up with pleasure at the sight of the shoes? His lust-filled mind provided images of him fucking Marjorie on his bed, her shoes digging into his ass, and he gave his dick another thoughtful rub. Ironic that he was so fucked-up over a freckled amazon. She did things to him that all the silicone titties in Hollywood didn’t.

Speaking of . . . he decided he’d text her, too. You awake?

The response was slow in coming. I am.

Well, he didn’t get much out of that. Not even a smiley face? You have a good night? He sent back. Sleep well?

Yes.

I thought about you last night, he sent to her. Jerked off three times.

What??

Joke.

Oh.

Okay, so much for phone flirting. Don’t suppose you want to send me a selfie to make my day better?

I don’t know how to use the camera on this thing.

How did she not know how to use the camera? He thought all girls did. Every woman he’d ever dated sent endless streams of pictures of herself. Strange. But he was starting to learn that nothing Marjorie did seemed to be like other women. Maybe that was why he was attracted to her? Her uniqueness.

So he sent back a I’m just fucking with you. Trying to make you blush.

It’s working, she sent back, accompanied with a smiley face.

Ah, his kingdom for a smiley face. Strange how one stupid emoticon could turn a man’s morning around. Smiling to himself, he held up his glass. One of his assistants plucked it from his hand and went to get him a refill as he contemplated what else to send to sweet, blushing Marjorie. He wanted in her pants before the week was out. And that’d be a long time for him, really. Normally he bedded his conquests by the end of the first date. Second, if she was holding out. Of course, he never really went back for another date. What was the point once you saw what the girl had to offer?

It was mercenary of him, but Rob didn’t normally stop to think about other people’s feelings. Hell, if he did, he’d never have a show called Tits or GTFO. Actually, most of the programming on The Man Channel would be a bust.

And Rob liked money. He liked money a lot more than he liked most people.

The assistant—Cresson—returned with his drink. Rob tasted it, grimaced at the strength of the tequila, and drank it anyway. “We hear anything from Logan Hawkings yet?”

“No, sir,” Cresson said. “Shall I call down to the front desk and check on things again?”

“Do that.” Rob had mulled over his shitty run-in with Logan at the bar a few days ago and had come to the conclusion that only spitters were quitters, and he’d be a dumbass if he didn’t try to reach out to Logan again. They were both here, they both had a mutual interest in money, and Rob was sure that if he could just get Logan to see his point of view, they could make a lot of money together. He’d had his assistants order a massive gift basket and send it to Logan and his new bride-to-be, along with another request for a few minutes of Logan’s time. That was early this morning, and since it was nearing noon, he was bound to get an answer sooner or later.

Rob checked his phone but no more texts from cute Marjorie. Either she was busy or a shitty texter. He’d have to ask her about it tonight when he saw her. Speaking of . . .

We still on for tonight? he sent.

We are, she sent back a few minutes later. Meet you at five.

Well, if she wasn’t the most cheery texter, at least she used complete sentences. He could work with that.

The glass double door to the balcony opened, and Cresson came back, an unhappy expression on his face. That was never a good sign.

“What is it?” Rob asked.

“Mr. Hawkings left a message for you down at the desk,” Cresson said, holding out a tri-folded piece of paper.

Rob took it from him, flipped it open, and read.

Mr. Cannon,

I regret that I am too busy to entertain business consultations with you. Please be aware that I’ve taken the liberty of letting the front desk know that you will be leaving today and your suite will be paid in full as a thank-you for the thoughtful gift.

Sincerely,

Logan Hawkings

“Fuck!” Rob wadded up the piece of paper and threw it over the balcony. “That fucking cocksucking stuck-up asshole!”

“What is it?” Cresson asked, taking a step backward.

“We’ve been fucking tossed out of the hotel,” Rob sneered. “He’s booting us and disguising it as a favor to me.”

“So we’re leaving today?”

Rob drummed his fingers on his mouth furiously. There was no way he was leaving today. Not with his date scheduled for later tonight with Marjorie. Not when he hadn’t got what he came for. Clearly Logan wasn’t receptive to pleasant overtures. He’d just have to get vicious. “We’re not leaving,” he said after a long moment. “Go downstairs and check us out of this room. Then tell Gortham that when he gets back, I want him to get me another suite under a different name. I don’t care what name, just as long as Hawkings doesn’t realize I’m still here. And then get my other assistant.” He snapped his fingers, trying to think. “What’s her name—”

“Smith,” Cresson supplied helpfully.

He pointed at Cresson in thanks. “Smith. Yes. Get Smith to call the Tits or GTFO people and get them on the first flight out here.” His smile was cruel. “If Logan thinks my being here is fucking up his wedding, he hasn’t seen a thing yet.”

It was officially time to misbehave.

Chapter Thirteen

Still in a hazy, dreamlike state of contentment, Marjorie floated from breakfast the next morning to shuffleboard, to a late lunch scheduled with Brontë, the bride to be. Her body was present, but her mind was still on that moonlit beach last night, when Rob pressed his mouth to hers and told her that he desired her. Actually, he’d said it with a lot more f-bombs, but she didn’t care. He could use all the cuss-words he wanted, as long as he kissed her like that and made her feel so incredibly beautiful.