Chapter 1
“Is that all Mr. Carrero?” I finish my notes and push the pen into the top of the notebook with a sigh, clammier than ever.
“I’d like a copy of the letter sent to my father’s email, and I would like it if you would call me Jake … like I asked.” He lifts his feet onto his desk, swiveling his chair back to face it, and regards me with a relaxed, smug look.
“If that’s what you prefer.” I’m not used to employers showing so little concern for titles or behaving so casually. I’m more than a little disappointed in the laxness I’ve seen from both Margo and Jake so far, in the way they behave with each other, and it has me a little uneasy. Here he is, sitting with his feet on his thousand-dollar desk like a lounging teenager, and it kills the image I once had of him.
“I’m not Mr. Carrero … that’s my father.” His eyes flicker to the photo on his desk, and I catch a dark shadow in them. He slides his feet back down as though not so relaxed with that one tiny word, ‘father’. The feeling’s gone before I can decide if I saw it or not, and I shiver inwardly. Men and their dark looks don’t sit well with me; it’s one of the few things which unnerve me deeply enough to bring me out in a cold sweat.
“Okay, Jake!” It’s almost painful to use his name, even if he insists. And it’s forced. He returns to smiling, looking pleased, and I stand indicating my departure.
“Do you like working here, Emma?” He catches me off guard as he leans forward onto his desk, resting his arms in front of him, halting my escape for a moment. I pause, stunned by his question.
“So far,” I answer without thought, wondering why he even cares.
“Five years is a long time to work for this company.” His voice is soothing to listen to despite my reservations about him, and I note how his tone alters when he’s not talking business. He has this way of capturing you with just a subtle change, drawing you in. His relaxed, natural voice is almost sensual, but overall comforting, genuine. He seems to have the art of relaxing people down to a finely-honed skill, the art of making women want to chat to him effortlessly.
Very good, very clever. Win over women with feigned interest. Smooth player.
“I guess I’m someone who likes to stick to something and work at it. See where it takes me.” I tap my notebook against my hip in distraction, trying not to react to that voice.
“You don’t care that you’re spending your twenties missing out on life?” He’s appraising me again, something he does a lot whenever I’m faced with him, and I still haven’t gotten used to it. His eyes eat me up as though I’m a puzzle to be worked out. I guess I interest him on some level.
“Perspective, Mr. Carrero; this job offers me opportunities most twenty-six-year-old women never get the chance to experience,” I say shrugging, trying to will those sharp eyes to look elsewhere and to stop tearing into me.
“You never aspired to be anything different?” He watches me thoughtfully, if not a little intensely.
“Such as?” I shift on my shoes. The rising awkwardness from his attention is getting a little extreme, my uneasiness growing.
“Managerial role?” He grins; he is amused with his remark, but I fail to see the joke, so I smile frostily.
“I don’t have the qualifications to be in a managerial position, Mr. Carrero. I worked hard to climb from admin assistant to here; this is where I want to be,” I retort, easily irked by him again.
“I guess that’s lucky for me then.” He throws me his I-can-charm-anyone smile, and I internally bristle. I want to get out of here. He obviously knows he’s hot and he uses it to his advantage a little too well. I’ve seen how he turns it up on women, and seems to like the reaction, but turns more ‘dude’ with men.
“Perhaps.”
“Time will tell, Miss Anderson. You can go now; see if Margo is back to relieve you. That letter is not urgent so take lunch first.” He smiles me away with what I assume is his ‘charming’ look, obviously bored with my lack of female swooning, and I turn to leave exhaling with relief.
“Very good, Mr … Jake.” I throw him a tight smile and catch the flicker of amusement in his eye, aware now that he knows how much I dislike the informality.
Very good, Carrero; I’m here for your fucking amusement.
I walk toward the heavy door, mood ruined by his smug face, a hot bubbling inside my stomach.
“Wait. Can you book a table for two tonight at Manhattan Penthouse at nine in my name?” he adds quickly, and I turn back to nod that I have heard him, face blank with no reaction.
Wonder which playmate is being wined and dined tonight?