The Carrero Effect Trilogy

Chapter 3

It's after twelve. My head is a little woozy and stuffy as it's now sweltering in the office, stifling and making me nauseous. I've called maintenance twice to find out why they still haven't fixed the AC; it's blowing out tropical heat rather than cold air and baking us all. My face is flaming, and my pulse is beating fast and hard like I've been sprinting. My clothes are clinging to me with dampness, and I'm irritated because of the inability to breathe or find relief. It's oppressive.

Margo has left for lunch, and I will follow up on her return. She was wavering in the heat as much as I was, but I told her I was okay to stay, wanting to prove my abilities.

Ever the hero, Emma! Good move.

This is a huge sign of trust, and I think she's testing my capabilities, leaving me to man the fort and cope alone during a hectic schedule. It's been three days since Jake returned, and I feel like Margo is relying on me a little more, that I'm living up to her expectations and taking it all in my stride.

My switchboard lights up, and my insides tighten as Mr. Carrero's voice comes across the buzzer. I can't stand this heat on my cheeks, and my blouse clings in places it never has before, sticking like a second skin. I'm obsessively clock-watching for her to return to relieve me for an hour from this damned infernal sauna before I pass out.

"Emma, can you come in here, please?" he says, deep, low, and sexy. At the sound of his voice, I get the now-familiar tingle in my stomach which I still have no control over.

I falter but reply, "Yes, Mr. Carrero." This is not what I need when I'm melting into a puddle in my chair and already out of sorts.

Crap. Crap. Crap.

I'm on my feet, trying to peel my blouse from between my shoulder blades and smooth it down without success. I pick up my notebook and pen and glide past Margo's open office door and into his, pushing open the heavy dark wood and sliding in. I want this over quickly.

"Yes, Mr. Carrero?"

He looks casually seductive today, sitting behind his desk amid an open laptop and piles of folders. His pale blue shirt has its top two buttons undone at the neck, his dark hair ruffled out of its ordinarily spiked style as though he's been running his hands through it, and his sleeves rolled up, revealing one of the tattoos on his inner left arm, a reminder of his rebel teen years. I know he has a few across his body, all-black tribal tattoos, and symbols from images I've seen online. The effect is devastating, even on me, and I try not to react, annoyed that he still does this to me.

"Is maintenance any further forward with fixing the AC? It's way too hot up here!" He leans back, putting his hands behind his head in a very 'guy' manner. He stretches out and showcases that beautiful physique, his biceps increasing in size while straining at the fabric of his shirt. It is hard not to get a slight quickening of the pulse rate.

Eyes down!

"I've called down twice, sir. They're apparently on it." I keep eyes averted, my tone sounding as normal as possible.

"Emma, you look like you're about to pass out. I think you need to head to another floor and cool down." His eyes run over me; I'm already conscious that I must look disheveled. I feel it. But passing out would have more to do with the way he's sitting now and my body being overly aware of how much sexier he is in just a shirt. It removes the formality somehow.

Really, Emma? He's your boss!

"I can't leave until Margo … Mrs. Drake … returns, sir." I blink at him and resist letting my eyes wander over his figure.

"When is she due back?" He frowns at me, oblivious to the riot of hormones raging through my body. Or just unbothered by them.

"Soon, maybe fifteen minutes or so. She's on her lunch early, and I'll go on her return." I sound polite and factual, trying not to squirm in my damp shoes and hoping I do not look as awful as

I feel.

"Soon as she's back, I want you to go cool down; it feels like it's melting up here. In the meantime, I need to dictate a letter. Maybe you'll feel cooler in here as I have the air vents open." He gestures at the wall of windows, and I note the blinds moving a little as the small amount of air gets in. He's right; it is cooler in here … marginally. Well, it would be if he wasn't sitting looking like that.

Emma, again? Really?

"Ready when you are," I say, holding up my notebook to move things forward and kill my train of thought. He turns his chair, facing the couch to my left, and gazes at it, deep in thought.

"It's for the CEO of Bridgestone … a man called Eric Compton. You'll find his details on the system." He is in business mode, tone serious and focused already.

"Yes, sir." I scribble it down in shorthand.

"Emma?" His questioning tone clicks my attention back to him.

"Yes?" I look up at the tone of his voice. Sure I've done something he doesn't like, momentarily phased.

"You can sit down, you know?" He's smiling at me, amused, and nods at the chair beside his desk, pretty much in his line of vision. It was why he'd turned his chair. I blush and abruptly come around to sit in front of him. Since coming to work for him, I hate that my inability to control my blushing has returned, but he has a knack for making me feel childish.

"I don't bite … much!" He smiles with his I-know-I'm-irresistible look. My eyes snap to his, alarmed, and I see the thinly veiled humor. I give a short, embarrassed smile to cover my reaction, my heart moving up a gear, and I inwardly chastise my stupidity.

He's a joker. Right. Got it. Don't take things so literally!

"I know you don't." I smile coolly, outwardly unfazed despite irregular heart-pounding and crazy goosebumps hitting my skin. I'm annoyed at myself.

"You don't need to be so … stiff around me, Emma." He relaxes back in his chair, casually dropping his hands on the arms.

"Stiff?" I stare at his eyes, avoiding following the motion of his hands. A mild irritation flutters within me that successfully dampens anything else; I'm not good with male criticism.

Especially about my demeanor.

"You can thaw a little. I know you're efficient. You won't get sacked for relaxing." He looks amused, but annoyance churns down low inside of me. I have come to do a job, and I have pride in my professionalism; it's the one area where I know I excel.

We can't all be laid back, Mr. Born Into Money. We can't all sway people with a smile and have charmed lives with happy childhoods and irresistible faces.

"This is me relaxed," I respond tightly, training my expression not to betray my mood.

As relaxed as you'll ever see me, Mr. Carrero, seeing as I'm paid to do a job, not pander to your ego.

I pout inwardly, avoiding a direct look. He raises an eyebrow at me and breaks into an unguarded smile, confidently handsome, yet it irks me this time.

"If you say so," he responds, with that irritating smug look he has that's the other side of Carrero. It's that face that makes women drop their panties in a blink, but he also has this annoying male know-it-all impishness and arrogance, like he's always on the verge of a good joke. It has to be one of his most infuriating qualities.

"So, to the CEO of Bridgestone …?" I say with a tight tone, raising my eyebrows and tapping my pen on my notebook, indicating we should move on. I disapprove of his overfamiliarity. As much as I've seen him this way with Margo, I'm adamant that this working relationship will stay on a professional level. I have too much to lose. I've worked too hard to get here.

He frowns at me, holding my gaze for a moment, unphased, but I ignore him, then look down at my paper expectantly, relieved when he sits back and dictates what he wants me to note down.

***

"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 slightly disappointed in the laxness I've seen from both Margo and Jake so far in how they behave with each other, making me 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 deciding 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." Despite my reservations about him, his voice is soothing, 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 and genuine. He seems to have the art of relaxing people down to a finely-honed skill, making women want to chat with 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 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 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, and my uneasiness is growing.

"Managerial role?" He grins; his remark amuses him, 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. He obviously knows he's hot and uses it to his advantage too well. I've seen how he turns it up on women and seems to like the reaction but turns more 'dude' with men. I want to get out of here.

"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 flicker of amusement in his eye, aware that he knows how much I dislike the informality.

Very good, Carrero; I'm here for your fucking entertainment.

I walk toward the heavy door, my 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?

I've got used to the particular date entries on his schedule and the list of current playmates gracing his bed. I'm sure he ran out of headboard space long ago 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 close the door behind me and scowl through the dense closed wood. The urge to stick my fingers up with venom surprises me. He has an ability, it seems, to piss me off without effort or fundamental reason, and I don't even want to analyze it. I guess I'll have to get used to the reactions he pulls out of me and work harder to remain impassive.

Margo returns twenty minutes later, and I am free just as the AC finally breathes a fresh coolness over us from the ceiling, 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 poorly 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. I look like a panda with how my eyeliner has collected under my lower lashes, and my usually precise lipstick is smudged and damp. I blot my face and release my hair 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. There are showers on the fourth floor within the company gym; maybe I should sacrifice lunch and get a quick shower to cool off after sweating like I've been in the tropics.

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

With my hair held in a loose ponytail, I return and retrieve the bag, 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 work for a company that invests in hotels, fitness centers, and spas. These facilities are standard in Carrero buildings and accessible for all employees, another perk of this job. I head down in the elevator to the employee gym floor with my bag.

When I emerge, I look brighter and neater. The makeup residue is gone. I have fresh clothes and hair falling into long, natural waves in their blow-dried state. Unfortunately, there are no hair straighteners in the women's locker room, but I'm cooler. Having my hair down bothers me. My hairstyle is part of my uniform and my defense; having it up and neat helps me feel more in control and is part of the image I present.

Having my hair 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 down 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, which makes me uneasy.

***

After lunch, the switchboard flashes like mad at my desk, and I see that Margo's and Jake's lines are busy. Nina also has a few calls on hold, so I buzz her to tell her to put one through to me. I sit down to deal with the first call and see Margo waving to me, smiling widely. She points at her head, then mine, indicating my hair, and gives me a thumbs-up, making me grimace. I don't think I've worn it any other way than up during my five years here. I feel like I'm not appropriately dressed, which 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 the wooden floor. Looking up absent-mindedly, more from reaction than any actual realization, I see Jake Carrero standing, staring at me. Six feet from my desk! I jump with fright, and my face flushes with heat and alarm.

Crap.

"Sorry, Mr. Ca … Jake, I didn't see you there. Is there something I can do for you?" My voice is all over the place in my floundering panic, my heart thundering through my chest at a rate of knots as I dissolve into bumbling incompetence.

How did I not realize that my boss was hovering by my desk?

I'm supposed to be constantly aware and attentive to his every demand; this is such a faux pas on my part. I'm on my feet, trying to plaster on my most friendly and efficient smile. I'm breathless. It's the fright he gave me; I'm flustered and trying to recover quickly, my body trembling with the shock I gave myself noticing his presence.

"Emma …" He too seems at a loss for words, looking at me peculiarly with uneasiness to his expression.

"I was coming to give you these. You look different!" His face is unreadable; I can't even say what it is. I remember my hair is down, and I flush because I'm not prepared. Feeling overwhelmingly vulnerable, I falter.

"It won't happen again. I took a shower at lunch because of the heat from earlier." I need to reel myself in and claw back cool and control Emma. I'm babbling. I try a steadying breath to stop myself from looking like a complete idiot.

"You look …" His green eyes are piercing through me, and it's sheer agony. All my little insecurities are peaking up in one fell swoop.

"Untidy? It's not how I would normally come to work." I'm rambling and fidgeting like crazy, unable to regain control.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

This is not me!

Don't fall to pieces, Emma, not now, please. Get a grip and pull yourself together.

And he's acting … strange. I know it's because he startled me, I feel undressed, and I'm at a loss being out of my comfort zone. My breathing is labored, and I'm trying to steady it without making it too obvious, but I'm doing a terrible job.

"I was going to say …" He clears his throat, trailing off, and looks down at the papers to change the direction of the conversation, probably because I'm making him uneasy.

Great job!

"So, here, I need these copied, emailed, filed. I'm sure you know the drill." He glances up and away again as though he isn't comfortable making eye contact.

I do, yes. I do, of course, I do. I don't need direction. I need a focus.

I reach out and take them from him in haste, stopping myself from grabbing them like a madwoman.

"Yes, sir."

"Emma, you look nice," he interjects softly, glancing at me only to remark and then back at his cell in his hand. I ignore the strange look of apprehension on his face and the tingles inside me igniting with ferocity. Shifting nervously, I try to steady my hands on the folder. This escalated quickly, and I'm so angry with myself. I lost my calm and capable persona in milliseconds because of my stupid hair. I plaster my relaxed expression and smile tightly to reel it all under wraps.

"Thank you, Mr. Carrero." It's out of my mouth before I realize I didn't call him Jake, and it's yet another reason to groan silently.

Try and regain composure. Years of control, Emma, and you go to mush in seconds.

I'm beyond livid with myself.

Margo appears a moment later, carrying a briefcase and a jacket. I'm grateful for her sudden appearance and instant calming abilities. I glance at the wall clock, noting it's not even 2.00 p.m., and click on why they are going out. I had forgotten they have a meeting across town at the other Carrero building, Carrero Tower HQ, with Senior, something to do with quarterly finances. They are leaving me to man the office.

King Carrero in his ivory tower.

He prefers to lord over his empire in a separate building from Jake several blocks away. I wonder if the coolness between them is why.

"Emma, divert any important calls, and message me if you need anything," Margo instructs, "I've left you a pile of folders here." she taps the small mountain she has placed on the desk, oblivious to my making a complete fool of myself. "Work through and leave by four-thirty." She smiles, her hand hooking a stray tendril of my hair behind my ear, catching me by surprise. "I like this; it's softer. You look so much prettier, more carefree, and younger." She smiles again, eyes alive with genuine affection.

I try to smile and force back the grimace that arises within, uncomfortable with the attention this slight change is getting me, and I am fully aware it will never happen again. Nor am I entirely comfortable with the way Jake is still looking at me as she fiddles with my hair; I gently smooth it out of her grasp, nodding with a vague expression to avoid comment.

I sigh with relief when they utter goodbyes, turn and leave.

Thank God it's over.

For God's sake.

I haul over the folders to the front of my desk and angrily throw my hair back over my shoulder.

I'm angry at myself. I'm mad that Jake made me lose my cool without even meaning to. I'm angry that for a split-second, old Emma resurfaced, teenage Emma. Stupid, idiotic, nervous, fidgeting Emma raised her dumb head. I just made a complete idiot of myself.

I've spent years pushing her into the background and trying to replace her with the more capable and confident me. I don't need her presence or her anxiety and insecurities near me. She's a broken little girl who's held me back, and the last thing I need is to see her again.