Authors: Emily Snow
I pressed the lock button on
the circular key fob with so much force I was surprised it didn't jam.
"When this is all over, I'm so getting her that new laptop she won't shut
up about." Squaring my shoulders, I dropped my keys into my secondhand
black Prada bag and followed the white arrows on the concrete floor.
This is going to be simple
, I promised myself as I stepped inside
the elevator and punched the starred button.
I just have to be smart.
"Hey, do you mind?"
a slightly accented, feminine voice yelled out, and I reached my hand out to
keep the elevator doors from shutting. Several seconds later, a woman no taller
than my five-foot-four rushed inside, her caramel skin flushed. She was
balancing two drink carriers and a neon pink box emanating a delicious aroma
that did a number on my empty stomach.
Tilting her head back, she
shook her bouncy, jet-black curls out and rested in the corner of the elevator
to catch her breath. "You're a lifesaver," she thanked me as the
doors silently closed and we started to move up to the lobby. "I didn't
remember it was my turn to bring coffee until twenty minutes ago when I was
already at my desk."
“So you rushed out to get
them?”
“Like an idiot,” she laughed,
tapping one of her feet, which were clad in strappy, red patent leather wedged
sandals. “Nearly twisted my ankle running around in these things.”
I frowned. "Need some
help?"
Lowering her head, she stared
me down with dark, almost black, eyes. She blinked a couple times before moving
her head to either side and releasing a throaty laugh that oozed sensuality.
"You
must
be new." I lifted both eyebrows, and she added,
"Helpfulness is dead around here."
"It's my first
day," I admitted. "I'm on my way up to HR now."
She snorted.
"Figures." As she held the box out to me, I stepped closer to take
it. "Stay golden, okay? This place will suck the life out of you,"
she advised.
Smiling at the reference to
one of the books my mother and I had shared a mutual love for, I followed
behind her as she departed the elevator car and stepped into the open lobby.
I had vague memories of
coming to this place as a child, but I remembered being just as stunned by it
then, too. With its gleaming black granite flooring, tinted floor-to-ceiling
windows, and three-tier chandeliers hanging strategically overhead, the main
floor of Emerson & Taylor was a carefully orchestrated medley of modern
sophistication.
On the lobby walls, there
were photos of Emerson & Taylor models from throughout the years, and I
knew that if I turned to my left, I’d come face-to-face with a massive picture
of my mother.
In spite of the severe black
and white camera setting, her personality had shined through, thanks to her
smooched lips and the flirtatious wink of her brown eyes. She was younger than
me in the photo, with her dark hair in waves around her strikingly symmetrical
face as she displayed a slinky white sundress. I’d first noticed the picture
when I came in here a week and a half ago, and it had taken everything out of
me not to walk right up to it and stare.
"It can be a tad
overwhelming at first, but you'll get used to it." My companion broke
through my thoughts, and I twisted to see the centerpiece of the fountain in
the middle of the lobby, a massive marble replica of Emerson & Taylor's
circular logo.
"Good to know." We
stopped behind the line at the security check-in, and I looked in her
direction. "I'm”—I sucked in a little breath before I followed through
with the lie—“Lizzie Connelly, by the way"
"Stella Marchand."
When I first started
escorting, I'd worked at an agency with a woman who had the same surname, and
my smiled deepened as I finally placed her accent. "Trinidad?"
Dark eyes widening in
surprise, she nodded. "Yes, ma'am. Lived there until I was four, then we
moved to Brooklyn. And then I came …
here
." She paused when it was
her turn to check in, setting the coffee on top of the C-shaped desk to dig
around in her Burberry satchel. Producing a rectangular badge, she handed it to
the uniformed security officer on duty. He was an older, balding man—and
entirely different than the guard who was on shift when I was in the office two
weeks ago. After he checked her ID, Stella smiled sweetly.
"Carl, do me a favor and
check her in as a guest. Lizzie Connelly."
Carl scanned his eyes over
me, his scrutiny enough to make me dip my eyes to the floor. "I actually
have an appointment with Dora in HR this morning," I announced. "I'm
Mrs. Emerson's new assistant." Before he could ask for it, I reached
inside my own purse to withdraw my false ID, not missing the little noise
Stella made in the back of her throat. Handing Carl my license, I shot her a
questioning look to which she mouthed, “
Later
.”
After adding my name to his
digital log, Carl returned my ID and stared pointedly at Stella. "You know
I'm supposed to call HR down to escort her if—"
She cut him off with a swift
shake of her head. "Relax, I promise she'll get there without making a
fuss." Plucking a coffee from one of the cup holders, she slid the
offering in front of the guard with a wink. "Go on, take it. Three creams
and sugars, just how you like it."
Releasing a sound of
submission, he motioned for us to pass through. "You sure as hell know the
way to my heart."
Stella threw her head back
and laughed, then carefully scooped up the rest of the coffee. "See you
later, Carl."
"Thanks," I said,
catching up beside her in the wide hall. There were three elevators on either
side, and after looking up to examine their current positions, Stella opted for
the cars on the right. "I've got to admit, I felt like I was back in sixth
grade when I had to be escorted around when I met with Dora last week."
"You drink?"
That was random. My shoulders
crept up as we shuffled through the open elevator doors along with a few other
people. "Occasionally. I'm guessing this has something to do with—"
Her smile taut, her eyes
darted to the other occupants of the elevator. "We'll have to do drinks
one night." Stepping out onto the fourth floor, she jerked her head for me
to follow her. "The stories I could tell you."
"It's a date," I
blurted, even though I’d made a goal not to become attached to any of my
co-workers during my time at Emerson & Taylor. I would use them for
information, but that was it. Already, I could tell Stella was someone I’d
honestly enjoy being around. The thought of becoming genuinely close to anyone
who knew me as
Lizzie
terrified me just as much as thinking of Los
Angeles as
home
.
And yet, I was still chomping
at the bit to hear those stories Stella alluded to. "You're paying,” I
told her.
“You got it." She
deposited the coffee on the desk of a woman who was in the middle of a call,
and I followed suit with the box of pastries. Grabbing something from the
corner of the desk, Stella crooked her finger at me. "Come on, I'll take
you to HR."
She waited until we were back
inside the elevator, on our way down to the second floor, to hand me what she
grabbed from the desk—a matte silver business card boasting Emerson &
Taylor's logo with Stella's name and job title,
Marketing Manager
, along
with her extension and email address. "You
could
call Claire, the
receptionist downstairs, and she'd put you right through, but this makes it
easier."
"Thank you for making me
feel less like the new kid. I mean that, Stella.”
The doors slid open, and she
sashayed into the human resources lobby—a smaller, less luxurious, carpeted
version of the main lobby downstairs. Her glossy lips were curled into a grin
when she gazed back at me. "We were all new once, baby. Plus, I think it's
only fair to prepare you for the crazy mess that's Emerson & Taylor."
She flashed her dark eyes to the short row of black leather armchairs.
"I'll let them know you're here, but Dora's usually quick if she’s already
expecting you.”
I sat in the seat closest to
Dora’s office and watched as Stella leaned over the receptionist's desk.
Although I tried, I couldn't make out a word of what they were saying. The only
thing I—and probably the rest of this floor—could hear was all the commotion
drifting from behind the HR director's closed door. It was incredibly loud and
definitely belonged to a woman and a man.
When I heard the female
forcefully say, "Get out of my office, Oliver," shock flared through
me.
Oliver
?
It couldn’t be.
I tried to convince myself
that
it could be another Oliver, but the odds were certainly not in my
favor. The door crept open, each inch seeming to take a lifetime. Even though
he was still turned toward her, I had a clear view of his back. Sure, it was
completely covered by a crisp, white shirt, but the tight muscles beneath the
impeccable stitches sent my imagination into overdrive. He had one of those
backs—the type women could picture dragging their fingernails down. A little
too unabashedly, I allowed my eyes to wander over the rest of his towering
form.
Medium-length, light brown
bed hair, an ass that competed with his toned back, and long legs inside
tailored black dress pants.
Curiosity would be my
undoing, I was sure of it.
"Next time,
Isadora," Oliver began in a husky voice that held a note of laughter.
"Don't ask me down here if you're just going to—"
"I won’t because you
don’t even work here," Dora growled from inside her office. "So get
the fuck out!"
"God, the
professionalism..." His broad shoulders shaking, he turned around and
entered the lobby, looking both devilishly gorgeous and completely relaxed in
spite of his obvious argument with Dora. When he noticed Stella and the HR
receptionist gaping at him, he stopped short.
And then, he smirked. It was
a cocky, deliciously sexy turn of his lips that had me gripping my bag to my
chest like it would ward him off from casting his spell on me. Smiles like
Oliver's...they were dangerous—they were the ones that shattered the resolve of
even the most cautious, and I clearly wasn’t cautious.
"Good morning," he
drawled, inclining his head politely. Noticing me, he tipped his head once more
in my direction. When he lifted his chin and our eyes locked, a flash of
lightning struck me full force—a current to my heart that stole the breath
right from the flames consuming my body.
Blue eyes.
Somehow, the media hadn’t
done his eyes—cornflower blue fringed with sooty black lashes—justice. They
were set in an oval face, bisected with a slightly crooked nose, and rivaled
only by lips that were—I hated to admit—distractingly pouty.
It was a face that, paired
with his godlike physique and ADHD dating habits, had magazines and
entertainment networks calling him "
The Bad Boy Next Door."
As if he sensed my reaction
to him, his grin widened roguishly. The stare I managed to return was full of
forced indifference, raising his thick eyebrows.
Because I didn't think of him
as the man from the magazines. The millionaire. Mr. Sex-In-A-Business-Suit. I
only knew him as Oliver Manning.
An obstacle.
My
stepbrother
.
I was nine years old the only other time
I’d seen Oliver Manning in person, but I remembered that day well. He was
fifteen, and when he knelt by where my mom and I were huddled together on one
end of the funeral home’s front pew, his movements tentative and shaky, I knew
my father’s death had broken him too. Covering my much smaller hand with his, he’d
given my fingers an encouraging squeeze.
I’d looked up through the
haze—through the tears—to see his soft smile.
“I’m so sorry about your dad,”
he said, his bright blue eyes red-rimmed. Despairing. He seemed to search for
the right thing to say before his shoulders had drooped forward. “I’d give
anything to fix this for you.”
I released a hiccup, followed
by a sob, and then my mom had gathered me close, consoling me quietly in Ukrainian.
She said something to Oliver before he left to join his own mother, but I
hadn’t heard it.
All I heard was the finality of
his words: My father was gone.
Now, as he sauntered away
like a man who carelessly held the world in the palms of his hands, everyone
remaining in the HR lobby was left wordless, motionless—myself included. Ultimately,
Stella cleared her throat. She came over to where I was still sitting, and
with a chuckle, leaned down to whisper, "Like I said, you'll want that
drink. You've got my card now—let me know when you're free."
My focus drifted over her
shoulder, in the direction that Oliver had taken, and I nodded briskly.
"Count on it."
"Good," she purred.
Shifting her hips, she stood upright and raced her hands down the front of her
black pencil pants. The decadent scent of her jasmine perfume lingered behind
her as she left. "I'm off to pimp fashion, but good luck today. If you
need any help—and I do mean
anything
—you know where to find me,” she
threw over her shoulder as she walked off.
"Thanks," I called
after her, although she was already out of sight and likely out of earshot.
Hell, she was possibly even already on an elevator—maybe with Oliver.
Nope, don’t even go there.
Still, an image of him nudged
its way into my thought—his current panty-eating grin and not the wavering
smile of a fifteen-year-old boy—and I closed my eyes. Before I received that
call four months ago, I knew a handful of facts about the man who'd been my
stepbrother. Even after, my sole focus had been on his mother, so I hadn't gone
out my way to research Oliver. Ivy League, notorious playboy, and sinfully
good-looking, Oliver was the heir of a hotel magnate and a fashion mogul.
Thanks to his former hard-partying habits and choice in women—he’d dated an
actress or two—he was a media darling, known more for his personal exploits
than his reputation as a businessman.
That seemed about all anyone
needed to comprehend about the man.
That is all
I
need to know about that man.
As if to serve as an
additional warning, Dora appeared in the doorway to her office, draping her
model-tall body against the metal frame. She was visibly agitated, displaying
none of the chilly reserve I noted over a week ago when she told me the job was
definitely mine.
"Lizzie?" she asked
shakily, and I stared at her keenly. She waved her hand for me to come into her
office. "I'm ready for you."
Nodding, I followed her
inside. As I sat down in the compact chair in front of her L-shaped glass desk,
my gaze fell on the
Honeymoon: Isadora and Franklin
photo frame on her
desk and the picture of her and a blond guy who had the body of a professional
football player, decked out in leis with their arms wrapped around each other.
They looked happy, and I felt my heart jerk.
"Lizzie?" My head
popped up and Dora combed her hand through her straight auburn hair and gave me
a tight smile that made my own cheeks hurt. "You'll have to excuse what
you just saw," she said, her words spoken cautiously.
Taking in the bright
splotches peppering her ivory face and neck, I couldn't help but feel sorry for
her. What had Oliver said, or done, to provoke her? I was ashamed to admit that
after some of the jobs I'd worked in Vegas, my thoughts automatically crept
toward the not-safe-for-work variety, but when I inhaled, I noticed the air
reeked of a lemon-scented incense warmer, not sex.
"I honestly wasn't even
paying attention. I...." I cut myself off and looked down at my lap.
Dora's high-arched, burnished
gold eyebrows pulled together. "You what?"
I mustered a nervous laugh
and shrugged. "It's my dad. He was texting like crazy this morning, and I
had to respond. He'd freak out if I didn't." It was a lie that made me
nauseous, but it was also necessary. I wasn't Gemma Emerson here, I was Lizzie
Connelly.
Lizzie had a family—a mother
and father as well as two siblings she was extremely close to.
"Hmm ... well, in any
case, let's get you all set up so you can be on your way." She fixated her
gray eyes intently on the computer screen and pecked on the keyboard. "I
just need a couple of things from you."
"Yes, I received your
email." I reached into my purse and pulled out the ID I'd presented to
Carl downstairs not even fifteen minutes ago and the folded direct deposit form
I had printed and completed at home. My earnings would be going to a prepaid
debit card—another one of Pen’s brilliant ideas.
"Wonderful, I'll just
take this out to Pamela to make a copy for our records." Dora scooted
backward and left the office, her ballet flats padding lightly on the carpet. I
didn't dare turn to look at her because I knew I would give myself away and
instead of going to the seventh floor—Margaret's floor—I'd be promptly escorted
out of Emerson & Taylor by the police. I took Dora's absence as an
opportunity to catch my breath and allow myself to grasp that I'd made it in.
I was here, in this building.
And if I were smart, I'd
leave in a month or two with all of Margaret's secrets. And if those secrets
included anything that had directly harmed my father or screwed me over...
"All finished." The
sound of Dora's voice made me jump, but I didn’t think she noticed as she took
her seat. She slid my ID across the desk. I picked it up, careful not to make
contact with her so she wouldn't feel the nervous sweat dampening my palms.
Leaning back in her chair, she offered me an expression that somewhat resembled
a smile. "You're done here. You can go home."
Sharp fear speared the pit of
my stomach. Keeping my demeanor calm, I put my ID in my bag and cocked my
eyebrow at Dora. "Is anything wrong?"
She studied her computer
screen, not looking at me, and my heart felt like it was seconds from exploding
from my chest. I glanced at the door, confident that at any second, law
enforcement would burst in and drag me away.
"Not at all,” Dora said
dismissively, grabbing a half-f iced coffee from the edge of her desk that I
hadn’t noticed before. I let the relief sink in as she took a sip and sighed.
“As you already know from our discussion last week, Margaret's been working
remotely while overseas for fashion week. She was supposed to be back in the
office yesterday, but she was delayed. She’s adamant that you don't start until
she returns."
"I see. And when will
that be?"
Dora dabbed at her mouth with
a pink lipstick-stained napkin and studied the large calendar beneath her
keyboard. After several seconds, she tapped her finger on October tenth, three
days from today. "She'll definitely be back and settled in by Thursday.”
She glanced up at me, blowing wisps of hair from her face. "Can you be
here first thing Thursday morning?"
I nodded a little too
eagerly. "Yes, of course."
"I've asked Pamela to
give Carl a call to let him know you'll be stopping by for your badge on the
way out.” As if she’d completely brushed off whatever had happened between her
and Oliver, Dora stood to dismiss me. “Welcome to Emerson & Taylor, Miss
Connelly."
*
Leaving the HR department, and even as I
rode the elevator back downstairs to Carl, anxiety crawled through my veins. I
found the security guard leisurely sipping the coffee Stella had bribed him
with, watching me with light eyes that made me feel like he could see right
through me.
“Excited?” he asked, as he
presented a newly printed badge on the counter in front of me. He placed a
clipboard beside it and motioned for me to sign beside where my name was neatly
printed. “It’s a good company. I’ve been here since ninety-four.”
He was here before my
parents divorced
, I
thought. Had I met Carl when I was a child? Had he checked my mother and me
through security so we could visit my father? If I told him who I was right
now, would Carl remember me?
I responded with a smile, but
my eyes unintentionally wandered to the left side of the lobby where my mom’s
photo hung. “I can’t wait to meet Ms. Emerson.” My hand shook as I signed
Lizzie Connelly—the name I’d practiced so many times over the last few months I
could likely sign the damn thing in my sleep. “I’ve looked up to her ever since
I was a little girl.” Saying those words aloud nearly choked me, but I
maintained my expression.
“Every girl who comes through
that door says that,” Carl mused as I shoved my new employee ID in my purse.
When I forced myself to make eye contact, his forehead was wrinkled. "You
can relax now; you've already got the job."
"I
am
relaxed."
"Uh-huh." He took
another drink of his coffee, polishing it off. He tossed the cup into a
wastebasket beneath the security desk. "You have a good one, Miss
Connelly. We'll see you Thursday."
I felt the blood rushing to
my face as I hurried away from the desk and across the lobby. My short legs
seemed to take impossibly long strides in my effort to get to the parking
garage.
We did it
, I thought, feeling weightless, invincible.
We
did
it.
As I rode the elevator down
to the garage, I groped around in my bag for my phone. My eyes were trained on the
screen when I stepped out of the steel car, so I stood to the side of the
elevator, out of the line of any traffic that might come through the silent
garage as I started my message to Penelope.
Margaret won't be back
until Thursday, so I'm not needed until then, but I'm in. I'm officially in.
You are a genius, Lisbeth. Neal. Whoever the hell you are.
I was about to hit send, but
the deafening blast of a car horn drew a shriek from the back of my throat. My
phone tumbled from my hands, the screen shattering on the concrete with a crack
that signaled the end of the iPhone I’d only had for a few months. Furious, I
stared at the splintered screen for a second before lifting my eyes, seething
at the horn blower.
Sitting less than ten feet
away from me was a jet black Dodge Viper.
And climbing out of the sleek
car and coming right at me was Oliver.
What the hell was he doing?
Suddenly hyperaware of his
every movement, I angled my body slightly away from his, hunching my shoulders
defensively. Christ, he really was something to look at.
"Was I in your
way?" I demanded hotly as I stalked forward to grab my phone. He beat me
to it. Assessing the damage, his full lips curled into a frown. Somehow, he
even made a foul expression look sensual.
"You could've walked in
front of my car.”
This was one of those blonde
jokes—it had to be. "Standing perfectly still?" I questioned
sardonically. At his serious nod, I softly bit my tongue, sliding it from side
to side between my teeth a few times so I wouldn’t respond callously.
He’s
my boss’ son
, I reminded myself. In all honesty though, Oliver probably
deserved every rough word I wanted to give him at the moment. "Thank you
for the warning,” I said dryly.
A broad grin spreading across
his face, he held my phone out to me. Noticing my reluctance to take it, his
fingers skimmed mine as he placed it in my palm. His fleeting touch was a shock
to my system, a jolt of pure electricity that sent all my nerve endings into
chaos. Exhaling, he stared down at my hands. The expression in his blue eyes
was unreadable.
“Thank you,” I said again,
dropping the sarcasm this time.
“Anytime.” He clenched his
fingers. “What's your name?" When I didn't answer, focusing instead on
stowing the now useless iPhone in one of the zippered compartments of my purse,
he moved even closer to me. The warm, heady scent of his cologne washed over
me, causing my stomach to flutter. "Which floor are you on?"
I hoisted my bag higher on my
shoulder and rolled my eyes. "So you can scare the shit out of me there, too?"
He ran his teeth over his
lip. The gesture was almost … inviting. Abruptly, the feather-soft fluttering
in my stomach gave way to a sharp swell of something I didn’t want to identify
by name. I always did have a thing for the beautiful ones, especially when they
were so clearly out of my reach. "So I can replace your phone,” he
offered, his deep voice cutting through my thoughts.