Chapter 3

Floor sixty-five of the Carrero Corporation, Executive House, Lexington Avenue, Mid-town Manhattan.

My hands are clammy and heated, and my heart is pounding so hard I may throw up. It’s grating on me that I’m unable to reel it all back in so easily now I’m here. I’ve been watching the hands on the clock move very slowly for the last few minutes, and all I can hear is the sound of my own blood rushing to my ears. I’m sensitive to every noise and movement around me in the stark modern office, and the fact the shiny new keyboard in front of me is gazing back expectantly. I’ve not even begun to start working.

This is so unlike me.

I’ve taken twelve deep breaths in a row, yet my hands are still shaking; I feel like at any moment I may pass out. I’m disappointed in myself for letting my nerves get the better of me, and I’m trying to pull back every single emotion one at a time to stow them into that neat box in my head.

Don’t fall apart, Emma.

I chide myself and check my reflection again in the glass opposite me that serves as a wall to the office, to make sure I’m not betraying anything. I look self-sufficient, calm, and in control, despite my inner turmoil. As I always do. No hint of the conflict going on behind the cool blue eyes or sleek, smooth tawny hair. Years of practice have given me this uncanny ability to act my way through life, to make sure no one ever sees the turbulence below the surface of my calm waters. I will never let them again.

“Emma?” Margaret Drake’s voice echoes toward me as the clip clop of her stilettos comes at me across the white marble floor from her internal office. She looks unflustered and ever graceful in a tailored, black pant suit and high shiny heels.

“Yes, Mrs. Drake?” I stand, unsure if I’m meant to, suddenly nervous and shy of this woman who has been letting me shadow her for over a week. She seems very professional today with an air of purpose, and I steady my hands on the hem at my waist and fix the obligatory smile on my face with grace.

“Mr. Carrero will be arriving shortly; make sure there’s fresh water with ice on his desk and clean glasses,” she smiles encouragingly, possibly sensing my unease.

“Have the espresso machine on and ready in case he asks for one and all his mail and messages laid out on his desk before he arrives. When he does, please keep out of his way until I call you for introductions.” With a bright wide smile, she pats my shoulder gently, a mannerism I’ve grown accustomed to.

“Yes, Mrs. Drake,” I nod, still trying not to feel in awe of the swirl of platinum blonde hair effortlessly held on top of her head or the severe tailored jacket revealing a curvaceous physique. When I met her a few days ago I had been floored by her physical appearance. My previous mentor had informed me Mrs. Drake was in her fifties and Mr. Carrero’s personal assistant, and I guess I expected someone colder and dragon-like considering her key role in the business, not this designer-clad, cool temple before me with breathtaking beauty and natural friendliness. Now my mentor, Margo Drake is an incredibly beautiful and intelligent creature that I can only look up to.

“Oh, and Emma?” she pauses, turning slightly.

“Yes, Mrs. Drake?”

“This week you’ll meet with Donna Moore. She’s Mr. Carrero’s personal shopper, and she’ll fit you out with appropriate work attire, anything you’ll need when representing him when you go on trips, events and such, and all that red-carpet crap he’s so fond of.” She smiles warmly with a little sigh and a raised brow, suggesting she doesn’t approve of his public affairs.

I swallow, deliberately quelling the nerves once again. I was aware that my role would require me to be available on short notice for trips and functions, but I was never informed it would include the public side of him at all.

Damn!

“Yes, Mrs. Drake,” I say, trying to work out how much I’ll have to spend to be red carpet ready, worried it may eat into my savings a bit more than I expected. A lot more than expected.

“It goes on company expenses, Emma. Mr. Carrero expects his personal staff to look a certain way,” she winks at me. “He considers it a necessary expense for all employees on the sixty-fifth floor.” Mrs. Drake has this uncanny ability to read everyone’s mind. I like her ability; it removes awkward misunderstandings and nervous hesitations, no second guessing, and I find I work well with her because of it. I inwardly sigh with relief at the thought that this won’t affect my savings or my future hopes of one day buying myself an apartment in New York to cut my travel time.

“Thank you, Mrs. Drake,” I nod, as she moves to walk off.

“Emma?” She turns her head back to me with a half-smile.

“Yes, Mrs.—”

“Please,” she interrupts, “It’s Margaret … Margo … from now on! Only my children’s friends call me Mrs. Drake. You’ve been here over a week and I’m more than happy with your progress. We’re going to be working closely, so please.” She gives me a full warm smile before turning on her expensive high heels back toward the huge door of her own office.

I’m warmer, calmer. I’m getting the strong impression Margo has taken a liking to me in my time here. I’m not sure I like the casual first name suggestion though; I like to keep things as professional and impersonal as possible. I’m good at keeping people at a distance and I happen to prefer it. Letting people cross the line from business to pleasure is a messy mistake that I never, ever let happen.