Chapter 3

Carrero is everything you want in a playboy billionaire. He’s handsome in an ungodly devastating way, confident, and publicly popular among the female population. He has an Italian-meets-American look about him inherited from his parents. His mother has the same mixed look, and he’s one of New York’s richest heirs. The Carrero family is almost like royalty, and he is the eldest of their two princes who have grown up very publicly. He’s been gracing the social news pages for years, always charming the cameras that seek him out and smiling in almost every picture they have caught him in.

I’ve done an extensive research to prepare myself for working alongside him, but it makes me uneasy, despite not having met him yet. I know he’s incredibly attractive, even to someone like me who finds most men intolerable. He has a reputation for being a bad boy, thanks to a large chunk of his early adult years being steeped in scandal because of his wild behavior.

He is an entirely stereotypical playboy billionaire and boringly predictable. He seemed to revel in partying and playing in the public eye until recent years, bringing no end of shame to the Carrero name. Since then, he seems to have grown up a little, focusing on the family business yet still finding time to string along endless women in his wake and make appearances at glitzy events.

I know from pictures that he has the darkest brown hair, almost black, and green eyes. Although I’m sure Photoshop has something to do with the sheer brightness of the color, no eye color could be that breathtaking in real life, and I know how magazines like to airbrush good looks onto every image. He sports a rough, stubbly beard and a cropped, messy haircut that suits his age, usually styled fashionably, most likely with one of the expensive Carrero grooming products which his face has graced in recent years. He loves himself enough to put his face on their million-dollar ad campaigns every year.

He is twenty-eight and, despite having a worldly maturity about him, he looks younger than his age when photographed straight on and caught off guard. I can’t deny that I see the appeal. He has the body of someone graced with a good, robust, and tall physique, and he takes care of it. He’s not shy about showing it off; there are enough topless shots of him in the media to confirm that. He also seems to have a weakness for tribal tattoos, which litter his body in a complimentary way. He looks like a typical brainless model, too good-looking to be a nice guy and far too muscular to have a decent IQ.

Undoubtedly, he has been blessed with more sex appeal than necessary for one man, which is the root of my nausea. He is someone who charms and strings along women effortlessly, unlike all the men I’ve ever known, and that makes me distrust him.

I can handle men who leer and grope, whose intent is written on their faces, and who have cowardly natures. I’ve never been faced with someone with the capabilities Jacob Carrero seems famous for, the effortless ability to make women swoon at his feet and follow him around, doe-eyed and lust-sick. The man appears to click his fingers to find dates, and they all scramble to get a go at him. It’s pathetic, really.

I know it’s a huge honor to get this position. I know I’m good at my job, and I’ve pleased the right people downstairs to even get here at such an early age, but I feel sick and scared for the hundredth time. I’m doubting myself despite my achievements, the curse of my self-doubts.

The old Emma is still hidden in the shadows, shaking her head at me and trying to convince me that I am a fraud. I don’t know if I’ve overstepped my worth. I don’t know if I’m capable of the task ahead of me, capable of working with someone so young and all-encompassing as Jacob Carrero, the celebrity hotel tycoon and New York’s most eligible bachelor.

I pull my focus back to the task; putting my mind on doing something manual always helps me get myself together. I do as Margo asked and ready the large, expensive espresso machine in the white kitchen. The room is small, modern, and sleek, if a little clinical, and seems only to be used to supply tea and coffee despite the giant refrigerator. I wipe down the surfaces of the machine and surrounding countertops, remove the dust from the coffee canister, and ready his tray with iced water, taking

some comfort in this calming task. My nerves are still rattled, which irritates me; I thought I had gained more control than this.

I arrange everything Margo has requested neatly on Mr. Carrero’s desk, straightening things as I go and checking the room to ensure everything is in its place. I like neatness; it makes me calm and feel more in control, as though somehow, by everything being orderly, my life is more so.

I smooth down my blouse now that I’ve removed my jacket, savoring the silky feel of the expensive pale gray fabric as I return with the pile of mail and the messages I took for him yesterday. They are the only ones that require his attention, and I place them on his desk in line with the leather chair sitting neatly behind it.

The office is spacious and airy. One wall is glass, and through it, the view of New York is at its finest, hindered only by vertical blinds that sit open. Large abstract prints fill the expanse of gray to the left. I can’t help but let my eyes skim over the silver-framed pictures on the left corner of the wooden desk showing various people in black and white stills. Beautiful women, celebrities, and one of his father, Mr. Carrero Sr., who I’ve seen before from a distance during a huge function last year that required extra staff. The two Mr. Carreros look only vaguely alike in that Italian way; as the resemblance ends there, I know Jacob must look more like his mother.

In pride of place is a large, framed picture of his mother, who I recognize. She is very beautiful, and their resemblance is striking: same dark hair, gorgeous face, incredible tan, same bright green eyes, and yet a gentle warmth in that face.

In comparison, Carrero Senior is fair-haired with deep brown eyes and a tight, harsh face etched with lines as though his skin has been weather-beaten. In the picture of father and son, there is a coldness between them, despite the fact they’re standing close, holding a champagne bottle in front of a ship’s stern. I know cold looks on men, and the memories are entirely unwelcome. It sends a shiver down my spine.

I quickly look around, ensuring nothing else requires my obsessive attention to detail, and slide back gracefully, assured everything is ready.

It’s almost 9.00 a.m. He will be arriving shortly; my nerves are so taut I may actually snap with the tension if it isn’t over soon.