Page 13 of Perfume Girl

I gave her an incredulous look.

“Maybe try them on.”

“Maybe I’ll fire everyone.”

She looked unfazed.

Taylor had been my personal assistant for over a year and I appreciated her professionalism. She’d followed my instructions flawlessly, booking a suite in The Setai, Miami Beach Hotel, and inviting Katy Kittredge over, the award-winning journalist fromTIMEmagazine.

I didn’t want this interview conducted at my home.

Earlier today, Katy had toured The House of Beauregard and then requested a more in-depth interview with me. I’d relented to her request but on my terms. I wanted a place I could walk out of if I had to—though I was determined to sit through this one. The coverage was good for business, and good for my image.

I’d come straight from Bridgestone ready to discard my jodhpurs and riding boots and take a shower. Getting ready here had been a stellar idea—or so I’d thought.

“Well, at least the suit fits,” I said.

She looked at her phone. “Penelope can’t make it.”

I fastened my jacket. “Does she say why?”

“She has a meeting that clashes.”

Relief washed over me. “We need to do something about these shoes. Take the elevator to the top floor and throw them off the roof.”

“They might fall on someone’s head.”

“Hopefully Jasper’s.”

Taylor whispered something under her breath and it sounded a lot like Tagalog, her first language. Though born in the Philippines, she had come to the States as a child with her family. Her studies in Florida had landed her with a degree in communication, and for that I was eternally grateful. Right up until the point she’d presented me with these Crocodile Dundee shoes.

I narrowed my gaze. “What did you just say?”

“Just thinking how handsome you look.” She gave me a mischievous grin.

I looked down at the shoes again. “Do we have time?”

“I would need to delay the meeting.”

“Fine.”

“I’ll call Katy and push it back an hour.”

“Otherwise I’ll look like a gangster! What the fuck, Taylor.”

She suppressed a chuckle. “They definitely make a Mafioso statement.”

The last thing I needed was to be immortalized on a magazine cover wearing these ridiculous shoes. “Make it happen.”

I spent an hour alone lounging in the suite and flipping through TV channels as I waited for Taylor to drive the short distance to my home and back with my stylish leather shoes. I snacked on peanuts and M&M’s and downed a bottle of Perrier.

By the time Katy Kittredge arrived, I was ready to get this interview behind me, feeling confident in my bespoke suit and black leather Armani dress shoes. Taylor guided Katy into the luxury sitting room and the tall, slender journalist took the seat opposite mine.

I stood to shake her hand and guessed her age at around fifty. Katy had an enduring beauty and an easy elegance with a warm smile that lit up her face. Her deep blue eyes reflected kindness, an attribute that usually got her “victims” to open up, I assumed.

She set a recorder on the table between us.

“I would’ve loved to have visited your home, Astor,” she said, flipping open her notebook.