The Carrero Effect Trilogy

Chapter 4

It's raining by the time I head home, and I'm soaked walking the few blocks from the station to my apartment.

Sarah's out when I get into our third-floor apartment; I take in the coziness of the small rental and instantly relax. I'm glad to be home, surrounded by our familiar comforts, bright rooms, and our feminine haven. I'm tired; it's been a long day, and I want to take a bath and go to bed.

I screw up Sarah's note on the counter informing me she has made mac 'n' cheese and left it in the refrigerator for me, and I throw the paper in the garbage. The perks of living with a chef.

She works late most nights, and I can't remember the last time we spent more than five minutes in each other's company. Our lives are comprised of occasional, brief conversations in passing and notes on the refrigerator, which suit me more than when I had to keep her company every evening.

Sarah has been my best friend since forever; we came to New York together five years ago and were lucky to get this place. She'd been accepted to an elite cooking school, and I had a temporary admin role in the Carrero corporation as a receptionist, even though I had zero experience and hardly any qualifications. I had been nothing more than a tea and coffee maker back then, eager to do anything to keep me here in this crazy city. My fresh start.

My escape from who I didn't want to be anymore, and any reminders. Sarah was thrilled that I had wanted to come with her and that I was unphased at leaving Chicago to go into the world on our own, but our relationship has changed since then. We've drifted apart in so many ways. I guess we don't need each other like we used to. The apartment is the only thing holding us together.

I kick off my shoes and head to my bedroom to get changed, hauling on workout leggings and a sports bralette and towel drying my rain-soaked hair before my short after-work exercise regime. I find it helps me unwind from the day's stress and gets me in the mood for sleep.

There's a flashing light on the answering machine, and I press it, a surge of anxiety in my stomach as I hazard a guess at who it will be.

It's Marcus.

He's Sarah's on-off boyfriend; it's who I expected it to be. They have been off again lately, much to my delight, but this call means he's back on the scrounge for hooking up again. I delete the message. She will never know he called. Marcus is as sleazy as they come, but Sarah can't see it; he's slimy, over-friendly, and makes lewd comments and sexual innuendos whenever he's around. He makes my skin crawl, and I think she can do better, but she tries to tell me that my experiences with men are why I can't warm to him. I know deep down that's partly the reason I'm this way, but he's still a creep. I try not to linger on it and switch on my iPad for some workout music.

***

I'm tired after my workout, meal, and a hot bath, yet I know I won't be able to sleep. I've never been a good sleeper since childhood, as far as I can remember. I have vivid dreams that make no sense, full of darkness and anxiety that leave me ravaged upon awakening. Working out before bed helps but doesn't eradicate them, and I've learned to live on the erratic, fretful sleep I get. I still wish I could sleep like an average person, but I know that I may never lose the night terrors; my mind can't let go of the past, no matter how hard I try to move on.

My cell vibrates, and I jump with a small surprise, noting it's a text from Margo. I wonder if this is the start of full-on PA mode. I've been waiting for my job to infringe on my life outside of regular working hours; I know they've been going easy on me so early into the promotion.

"Emma. I need you in an hour early tomorrow. You'll be paid overtime. There will be a car for you so you won't be late. You're meeting Donna Moore. X"

I reply instantly, uneasily, "That's fine, Margo. Thank you."

This side of the job is new to me, working early/late and the need for specific outfits; I suppose the executives I handled on the lower floors weren't as important. I'm aware that working directly for a Carrero is a whole different ball game, and in a way, I'm eager to start properly. I needed a new challenge, as things on the tenth floor had become stale and predictable.

***

The car arrives bright and early the following day, a black four-by-four, a typical Carrero choice, and the driver is dressed in a black suit similar to the security man in Jake's office. Their appearance makes me roll my eyes; the guy loves all things black. I have since learned the guard that day was Arrick Carrero's bodyguard; apparently, Jake doesn't seem to require such things.

I'm dressed in cream slacks and a dusky pink silk blouse, presents from my mother for my birthday next week; she mailed them early to ensure I got them. I don't celebrate my birthday, and Sarah knows not even to mention it when it comes around, so I was surprised by my mother's gifts as she doesn't usually bother, but for some reason, she did this time. I felt too guilty not to wear them.

They're not as crisp and tailored as my usual attire but still passable, and I feel obliged to put them on at least once as I know how expensive they must have been. I hate that she felt the need to buy me things like this. Motherly guilt of some sort, no doubt. It's her style, not mine, but she has tried.

My mother is an eternal hippy; romantic frivolity is more her forte and part of her appeal to men. Even in her forties, she's still attractive, and men find her desirable, although the less I think about my mother's taste in men, the better. I shake away that memory, pushing down the revulsion in my stomach.

The car drops me at the now-familiar office building. The day is gray and wet this morning, and the air has a cold nippiness. New York is coming up for a season change.

I run through the necessary security passes before I'm on the sixty-fifth floor; the building is eerily quiet due to the early hour. Shivering, I pull my wool coat around my shoulders to warm up even though the building has state-of-the-art temperature control.

Margo greets me at the office door along with a blonde woman clad in expensive clothes and an air of seductiveness. Tall, graceful, and dressed in red, Margo introduces her as Donna Moore, the personal shopper, and informs me I'm to be measured. Mr. Carrero insists that his closest staff receive this perk as his public image often sees him on red carpets and at the center of media interest. He expects anyone who might accompany him to be appropriately dressed, always.

His father cashed in on his son's natural sex appeal from an early age, using him as the frontman for their high-end grooming products and aftershaves, which means a never-ending media interest. The boy is basically a supermodel for his own company. Still New York's poster boy, even now, he can't seem to move without a camera flash or an adoring fan appearing from nowhere.

I stand on a stool feeling hugely uncomfortable at her invasive measuring as she flits around me with a tape and questions me on things I wear, colors I like, and such. She pulls out her cell and snaps pictures of me from all angles. Unhappy with the images, she fusses at me to untie my hair. I hold my impatience and irritation in check and follow her instructions. I'll never get it back to its sleek style without much effort.

There goes another day of enduring it around my face and having everyone croon about it. Just great!

"For my file, darling, so I remember your beautiful coloring and bone structure and how you look with your masses of soft hair." She smiles at me, eyes dazzling like a kid at Christmas. I've no idea why that's a necessity at all.

"I love your hair down," Margo chimes in softly, eyeing me with a smile. "It makes a world of difference, Emma, really. It softens your whole face." She regards me with a warm expression and keen eye, adding another layer of 'uncomfortable' to my mood.

"You don't think it's unprofessional?" I question smarting. I want them both to back off and stop scrutinizing me; it's making me nervy.

"Nowhere in the office uniform manual does it say 'have your hair tied up like a schoolmistress,'" Margo replies. The two women giggle somewhat surprisingly, killing the whole aura of mature professionals. "We work in a very high-profile business that requires attention to image," she continues. The heat in my cheeks rises with irritation at the giggling and the fuss over my hair.

"Emma, darling, do you realize how gorgeous those waves are? You've such a lovely hair color, like pale autumn leaves," Donna chirps over-enthusiastically.

I lock eyes on her blankly, trying not to dredge up images of moldy, soggy, black, and brown splodged leaves on the New York sidewalks last fall, also ignoring how uncomfortable I am with looking 'softer.'

"She's right, Emma. I think you look so much more natural and pretty like this. I think Jake agreed yesterday," Margo says with a twinkle in her eye and a hint of a mischievous smile lurking.

"Did he now?" I scowl, sarcasm light, meeting with amused looks as I ignore the warm sensation deep in the pit of my stomach.

"Oh, I adore your pout! You're adorable," Donna gushes, and I sigh, realizing arguing is a lost cause. Donna is grinning at me in a mother-hen way, and I notice the lines around her eyes hint at her age.

Margo encourages her. She's gushing all over me.

"Emma, I merely meant that you look a little severe and uptight when your hair is back. I know that's ironic, considering how I wear my hair, but you're young and pretty. You have a natural beauty that you shouldn't hide. It doesn't make you look incapable."

"I look like a child like this," I say. My temper is fraying as I'm only too aware of how young having my hair loose makes me look.

"Well, doing that, you do!" Margo flicks a lock of hair from my fingers, and I realize I've been tugging at it under the scrutiny of two overbearing women. I flush, annoyed and slightly embarrassed at being caught unawares.

Crap. Anxiety! It's them making me feel pressured, putting me on a stand, fluffing around me, and knocking me off-kilter.

Taking my hair down is like undressing me.

"Yeah, just don't do the hair twirling and lip pouting," Donna agrees, nodding and studying me with a finger on her chin. "You're a woman-child; it's surprising." She laughs genuinely, but it only chafes at my already frayed temper.

I don't need the hair-twirling pointed out. I know how bloody stupid it is! Thanks very much.

Inside the depths of my head, teen Emma scurries to hide from my glaring wrath.

"Oh, to be that young and beautiful again!" Donna sighs, but Margo throws her a shocked look exclaiming that she's gorgeous, and they go off on a tangent about how fabulous each other is. It's like I'm in The Twilight Zone. I find it tiresome.

"Okay, I'll start on your wardrobe, darling. Margo has given me a list of the events you need to attend and some work basics. I'll be back by the end of the day." She waves her hands in excitement.

"We shall trust your judgment, Donna," Margo gushes, and we watch as she sweeps out in a flurry of red chiffon and a clip-clop of heels, the cyclone that is Donna Moore. The energy in the room calms, and I almost sag with relief.

"Is this necessary?" I get off the stool, relieved at being released after feeling like a full-size Barbie doll.

"Yes, I'm afraid so. Jake's image is important; the Carrero name evokes luxury and wealth. If you attend events with him, you must represent the same image, my dear." She smiles at me with a note of sympathy. "Jake knows asking his staff to spend thousands of their hard-earned pay on an image is ridiculous, so just enjoy the perk." She tries to appease my doubts as I try to calm my internal bristle and the urge to refuse.

"I don't like other people choosing what I wear." I like to be in control of every detail of my life. It's how I function, how I keep calm.

"Hush now. Donna is the one who helped me discover my inner goddess and made me look like this." Margo twirls like a teenage girl. Today she's wearing a fitted black suit with a molded, knee-length skirt, a low-buttoned jacket over a silky, silver camisole top, and high black stilettos. Her blonde hair is in a flawless French twist. She looks amazing.

"Really?" I am slightly appeased. She's the picture of sophistication and control I aspire to achieve; maybe Donna won't be so bad after all.

"Oh yes. I was hopeless with my style when I started here. Fifteen years on, and here I am." She beams at me.

"Fifteen years?" The shock is evident in my tone. That would mean she worked here before Jake was old enough to help run the empire. He would have been thirteen!

"Yes, I used to be Carrero Senior's assistant." She's now straightening up the papers on my desk left askew by Donna.

"What's he like?" I've always been intrigued by the older man, and meeting him last year quelled none of the interest. He seemed a force to be reckoned with, terrifying and cold.

"Like someone you never want to meet willingly," says a deep, familiar, smooth voice, unexpected and close. I jump and spin around to see Jake casually striding in the door. The flutters in my stomach come back in full force, reminding me I'm still standing in the middle of the room. I move to my desk and sit down, nerves instantly returning.

He's wearing designer jeans in a soft, washed-out gray, a white T-shirt with a graffiti print that is slightly too neat on that body, a modern leather jacket, and his trademark shades. He doesn't look like a guy coming to the office for the day. I'm not sure I'm impressed despite how much it suits him, this bad-boy biker style. It's not exactly professional.

"Mr. Carrero … I mean Jake. Good morning." Controlled Emma is back in play, despite the hair tickling my face and the breathlessness at his appearance and attire.

"You look nice today, Emma." He smiles, his gaze traveling over me from head to foot with a look of appreciation, unmistakable even behind shades. It makes me uncomfortable, and my face flushes with telltale heat.

Traitorous body!

"And you, Margo." He turns his head towards her almost as an afterthought, but she smiles.

"Don't I always?" she smirks and throws him a wink.

"Of course!" He grins at her and lifts his shades to the top of his head to nestle in his hair. I try to ignore the little flip low in my stomach. Hating that I react to him this way, I quash it, looking anywhere but at him.

He probably practices every sexy move and mannerism in the mirror a dozen times a night for ultimate appeal!

"What's with the outfit?" Margo enquires, looking him up and down questioningly. "Even for you, that's rather casual for work."

"All work and no play makes for a very sad boy." He grins back at her, annoyingly confident in this attire. "Touch of espionage today, Margo, Bambina." His term makes me cringe.

Baby? Really? Is this a hint of Casanova Carrero peeking out?

I look down at my desk to hide the revulsion I know fleets across my face.

"Do you need me to come with you?" she asks, looking him over, intrigued and utterly unphased by his pet name.

"I actually need Emma if she's up to it?" He turns, throwing me one of his heart-aching 'yes, I know I'm sexy' smiles, but I don't react. When I researched him, I'd seen this smile in action, and it did little for me.

Liar.

"I'm up to whatever task you ask of me," I respond drily.

Within reason!

The lothario smile is making me uneasy.

"Intriguing," Margo frowns at him, still trying to work out what he is up to. "Is this the Daniel Hunter meeting? I thought we scheduled it for next week?" They're both standing at my desk, too closely for me to ignore, so I keep my eyes on the screen instead and try to appear busy as I open today's schedule.

"We decided to do it this morning as he's free for a couple of days. Next week he's flying to Paris."

She nods, understanding what he's talking about; I'm not yet privy to their inner office secrets, which happen frequently.

"My office, Emma, Margo, please," Jake says as he walks away, and I can only follow without question, so I stand and match his purposeful stride, even in my heels. He waits until Margo and I've followed him in and closes the door behind us. She goes straight to his desk, leans over, and pulls the laptop across to open files as he turns to me.

"Do you have anything less … PA … to wear here?"

I falter, and my entire face warms as he looks at me with a smile, a brow raised in question.

What now?

"Emma, yes, dear. You'll accompany Jake today but must look like a date rather than an assistant." Margo crosses to the printer to retrieve the files she's printed off.

I pause and muster all my willpower to keep my lungs moving in and out as they suddenly feel compressed with weight and unable to breathe normally.

Again, what?

I don't even know how to respond to that.

"You are going to be his number two today. Everyone knows I'm his PA, whereas you, my dear, are new blood." She smiles encouragingly, but it does nothing to quell my inner concerns. Panic raises its ugly head from the depths of my being.

"We're up to no good," he smiles at me disarmingly as I try to gauge their expressions, not convinced they're serious, while I also try to remember how to inhale.

"No, I don't have any other clothes here," I answer quietly, the irritation rising within me.

"Maybe we can stop at your apartment and let you change?" Jake's looking at me closely now, and I frown in confusion, my hands cold yet somehow getting clammy.

Why would I?

"Change?" I say icily, my stomach dropping at speed.

"Yeah." He stands and walks toward me, eyeing me as though trying to picture me in less formal clothes. He pushes his hands into his jeans pockets, emphasizing his muscular body and lack of formality. It's distracting. "Something more casual," he says, chewing his bottom lip while thinking and staring, a lot of staring. I glance down at my tailored cream trousers and spiked heels. I think I look exactly as I should.

"What? Like jeans?" I try to control the edgy tone in my voice this time, but sarcasm oozes heavily.

"I was thinking more … feminine … a dress." This is obviously funny to him. The humor in his voice grates on me; I thought I was done being Barbie already.

Why does my being in a dress amuse him? Am I that unfeminine?

"If that's required, then yes, I have access to dresses," I respond. Sarah has a closet full of them, the kind of romantic clothes I avoid like the plague.

"We'll go there first, then. I need this meeting to look like a breakfast date between friends." He straightens up, pulls his hands free, and crosses them across his broad chest instead, eyes still glued to my figure and boldly looking me over.

"Am I to be enlightened on my role in this?" I ask stiffly. I try and outstare him, but he ignores it. I didn't think I would be subjected to dress-up.

"I'm meeting with Daniel Hunter. He's a major player in his family business." He keeps his voice low despite being closed in his own office. "I'll not say why until we work out a few particulars, but thanks to his very public breakup, the media is all over his ass, and he can't shake them to meet in private."

"You'll be his fake date!" Margo cuts in. "Daniel will have a with him too, so it will appear as though four friends are having breakfast at the Waldorf. You'll need to take notes and get acquainted with the particulars of the proposed merger, Emma. This is your first big responsibility; I'm taking a back seat on this."

Crap.

I'm to do this while being stripped of all that makes me comfortable and confident.

"I see." My insides turn icy cold, and my face numbs.

"All you need to do is smile and look adoringly at me until we get into the suite where Daniel is staying," Jake shrugs with one shoulder; he sees no issue.

Yes, I'm sure that's going to be easy.

"When are you leaving?" Margo presses, turning Jake's hazy green eyes away from the scrutinizing he is doing over me.

"Right now, if she needs to go home first. Where do you live, Emma?" he asks with his eyes on mine, making me uneasy as he scans my attire.

I tell him where in West Sunnyside, and he nods before moving off to call his driver. I hear him telling him to meet us at the rear of the underground parking garage as I try to pull myself back together.

"Take a notepad and pen in a handbag. Anything else will look odd. It's a preliminary meeting to thrash out the proposal, so take notes," Margo says, bringing my attention to her and soothing my nerves with a warm smile.

"Yes, Margo," I answer blankly, head reeling with all of this and feeling overwhelmed suddenly.

"Emma?" She halts me with a gentle hand on my arm.

"Yes?" I pause at her sudden intense look.

"Try to relax around Jake. He's very easy to hang out with," she grins, but it does nothing to remove the tension inside me.

I don't want to hang out. I want to do my job.