Free Blonde Billionaire (Road to the Oval Office #1) by Patricia Johnson Page A

only seen him in person once before, at a gala in Coral Gables, and he looked even more timeless and perfect in person than he ever did in print and on TV. He had such a tall, powerful stance, that seemed to intimidate and to welcome at the same time. His steely blue eyes could pierce like a hawk, but they completely warmed and softened when he broke into a smile or laugh, displaying his immaculate bright smile.
     
    Thinking back to that night, I remembered seeing his then-wife  at his side. He had a knack for surrounding himself with beautiful people, and she was no different. Brianna, or, more appropriately, Brianna the Bosnian Bombshell, as the press had dubbed her, was always smartly dressed and frequently photographed and splashed across Florida’s “Best Dressed” sections of luxury magazines and websites. No doubt Wolff bought her the finest clothing that money could buy while they were together. But what would Brianna wear if she were me and about to interview with him, sight unseen? She obviously did enough to impress him at some point. I almost couldn’t believe myself for putting that much thought into how to dress myself. No, I was being a tactician, just like he would do, seeking to gain whatever advantage I could on the proverbial battlefield of business. That’s what I told myself, anyway, as I continued to shoo away imagery of Wolff and I sitting at some upscale restaurant terrace in the south of France, laughing a casual evening away. That’s when it finally occurred to me that I wasn’t just nervous because I was meeting with THE quintessential business tycoon, but because I’d probably always been somewhat infatuated from afar with THE quintessential business tycoon. Still, I reasoned as I looked for reasons to forgo the blazer and show off the sleeveless peplum look, this was a professional transaction. My personal feelings, imagined or otherwise, needed to remain tucked away while I stayed focused on the task at hand.
     
    Out of habit, I did Google the address to the building and plug it into my car’s navigation, but it was pointless. Everyone knows exactly where Wolff Tower is-- its silhouette dominates the MIami Beach skyline as it overlooks the intercoastal waters. Even though I’d never had a reason to go directly to it, I was acutely aware of its location. I couldn’t help but smile at the novelty of actually typing ‘Wolff Tower’ into my browser. Once I arrived at the lobby of the building, I fought the urge to let my mouth drop open as I looked all around my surroundings like an astounded child. My expectation was that it would be top-notch, but I woefully underestimated the beauty of it all. There was nothing but marble, marble everywhere, in a gorgeous rich green color. The color of established money. In the middle of the lobby foyer, surrounded by tall white columns, was a massive statue-- a replica of the Winged Victory of Samothrace. There was an inner glee that I was actually able to identify a famous piece of work, probably because that was the only nugget of information that I retained from my art history class all those years ago.
    Eventually, I made my way around all of the beauty of the lobby to the receptionist’s desk near the back of the lobby.
    “Good afternoon,” I greeted the older gentleman opposite the counter. My ‘make a great first impression’ instincts kicked in immediately. Would it make a difference to Wolff if I had great rapport with the receptionist? Probably not, but I was going to stay intensely focused regardless. “I’m here for an interview with Mr. Wolff-- I think I’m his one o’clock?”
     
    The gentleman stood up from behind his computer and returned my warmth. “Yes, ma’am, you are. He’s been expecting you.” Immediately, a sense of dread crept into my body though I tried to hide it behind my smile of faux confidence. I’d glanced at the wall clock near the lobby entrance-- it read 12:53. Was Wolff one of those types who