Chapter 6

“Is that all Mr. Carrero?” I finish my notes and push the pen in the top of the notebook with a sigh.
Clammier now 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 to 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 who behave
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 at unease. 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.
It’s gone before I can decide if I saw it or not and I shiver inwardly. Men and their dark looks don’t bode
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 seems to return
to smiling, looking pleased as I stand, indicating my departure.

“Do you like working here, Emma?” he catches me off guard, 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. Eyes eating
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 shrug. 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, that internal rising awkwardness at his attention getting a little extreme.
Uneasiness growing.

“Managerial role?” he grins. He’s 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, seems to like the reaction and 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, obviously bored with my lack of female swooning, with
what I assume is his “charming” look 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 … Here for your fucking amusement.

I walk toward the heavy door, mood ruined by his smug face and bubbling a tad hotly 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. Blank faced and no reaction.

Wonder which playmate is being wined and dined tonight?

I’ve got used to the special date entries on his schedule and the list of current playmates gracing his
bed. I’m sure he, long ago, ran out of headboard space to keep a tally of notches for his conquests and
it’s just another reason I will never warm to him. He’s a slut.

“Yes, sir.” I pull the door closed behind me and scowl through the closed dense wood. The urge to stick
my fingers up with venom surprises me. I guess I’ll have to get used to the reactions he pulls out of me.
Work harder to remain impassive. Seems he has an ability to piss me off without effort or without real
reason and I don’t even want to analyze it.

Twenty minutes later, Margo returns, and I am free just as the AC finally breathes a fresh coolness over
us from the ceiling, like a wave of relief. I’m sticky, hot, and flushed, and I need a change of clothes.



I head to the bathroom for a quick freshen up and gaze at the badly lit mirror on the wall, to see I’m
glowing red. My cheeks are flushed, there’s high color across the nape of my neck, and I have a dewy
complexion where my make-up has sweated. My hair is no longer slick and smooth in its bun but is
weaving its way loose, despite the products I use to keep it sleek. I have natural waves which I
straighten to get my hair this smooth and manicured. I’m in disarray.

Dammit. I can’t continue with my day looking like this.

I look like I’ve done a workout in my work clothes, and I’m melting away. Looking like a panda with the
way my eyeliner has collected under my lower lashes and my normally precision lipstick is smudged
and damp. I blot my face and release my hair in an effort to minimize the damage. The humidity and
heat have caused it to pull back into waves and it’s covered in bumps and creases made by the hair
ties. Without my straighteners it will never look right unless I wash it. The company has showers on the
fourth floor within the company gym, maybe I should sacrifice lunch and get a quick shower to cool off.
Sweating like I’ve been in the tropics.

I check my watch and work out how much time I have and decide to go for it. I have a forty-five-minute
lunch break and I can shower in less than half that time. Luckily, I keep a change of clothes in the
office, a suggestion from Margo, in case I’m ever asked on an overnight trip at short notice. I know I
have toiletries in the bag too.

I go back and retrieve the bag, with my hair held in a loose ponytail, glad that Margo is focused on her
laptop while taking a call and doesn’t see me. Mona, the outer receptionist, throws me a funny look but
says nothing.

I head down in the elevator with my bag and enter the floor that has the employee fitness facilities and
shower block. I work for a company that’s invested in hotel, fitness, and spas, and these facilities are
standard in Carrero buildings free for all employees. Another perk of this job, among the many.



When I emerge I look brighter and neater. Make-up residue gone, fresh clothes, and hair falling into
long, natural waves in its blow-dried state. Unfortunately, there was nothing to straighten my hair within
the women’s locker room, but I’m cooler. Make-up back in place, clothes a little less stifling, and a little
fresher from being steamed and deodorized. Having my hair down bothers me, it’s part of my uniform,
part of my defense; being up and neat helps me feel more in control. Part of the image I present.

Having it down like this makes me nervous. I know how often I tug at my hair and twist it when I’m
home on weekends; another nervous old Emma habit that I’ve found no control over. Anxiety related
and childish. There’s nothing for it; tying it up without my products and straighteners will look messy.
I’ve got to cope with it for half a day. Even I can get through that. I assure myself as I head to the
cafeteria for lunch, ignoring people looking at me as if they don’t recognize me and it makes me
uneasy.

* * *

Back at my desk after lunch, the switchboard is flashing like mad and I Margo and Jake’s lines are
busy. Nina has a few calls on hold, so I buzz her to tell her to put one through to me too. I sit down to
deal with the first call and catch sight of Margo waving through to me, smiling widely. She points at her
head, then mine, indicating my hair and gives me a thumbs up, which makes me grimace. I don’t think
I’ve worn it any other way than up during my five years working here. I feel like I’m not dressed
properly, and it bothers me far more than it should. I focus on the call.

Half an hour later, I’m lost in thought, absorbed in a financial spreadsheet Jake needs by this evening.
I’ve already plowed through a mountain of work today, making light work of it and not conscious of eyes
on me until I hear the movement of feet shifting on wooden floor. Looking up absent-mindedly, more
from reaction than any actual realization, I see Jake Carrero is standing staring at me. Six feet from my
desk! I jump with fright and my face flushes with heat and fright.

Crap.




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