The Carrero Effect Trilogy

Chapter 7

It's been twelve weeks since I met Jake Carrero, and I'm no longer unsure about my overly familiar boss. The forced proximity and grueling demands have carved out an amicable relationship that doesn't wholly offend me in such a brief time. I find him tolerable, sometimes even amusing. I'd go as far as saying companionable. I maybe even like him a little more than I ever imagined I could.

The full force of my job requirements came upon me in a tidal wave after the Hunter breakfast. Margo had decided to throw me in the deep end, as that was the only way to test my resolve, and she had slowly been receding from the picture until now. Now she is entirely absent.

I run after him to meetings, carrying files and folders, a wealth of information always at my fingertips. Awaiting his commands, I'm always up to speed with every detail he's dealing with, always involved. He's an exhausting workaholic with a very hands-on approach, yet I've never been happier or more challenged. I'm content.

Trips are frequent and tiring, and I spend my days in an endless flurry of typing, answering phones, and having orders tossed at me. Dealing with a hundred people via my iPad, iPhone, and laptop, all of which he thrust at me rather unceremoniously after the Hunter meet.

I'm excelling at control and efficiency, and I'm starting to take it all in my stride. Despite acting like he's Mr. Cool, laid back, and taking nothing seriously, I was pleasantly surprised to find Jake is deeply involved in his father's business, surprised to find he does, in fact, possess a very shrewd business brain and high IQ that contradicts how he presents himself. I guess that's a part of his allure; he's intelligent, sharp, and attentive but wrapped up in casual charm and sexiness commonly associated with dumb underwear models.

I've been privy to so many contracts and papers in such a short time that my head reels every night when I go to bed. I've lost the ability to switch off, and I lie awake, restless with things I need to get done the next day and eager to go back to work. I've found much more enjoyment in submerging myself in my new role than I ever found on the tenth floor.

Jake was right about identifying my skills; he pounced on them and uses them daily. He's never dull to be around, that's for sure.

My wardrobe has expanded thanks to the skill of Donna Moore, and I can't say it's unpleasant. Her taste is impeccable, and she has chosen things I would have bought for myself. I now look forward to her frequent visits laden with bags of clothes that Jake has assured her I need. Margo was right. It's a perk that I am enjoying.

"Emma?" Jake's voice cuts through my thoughts as I run through my schedule on the iPad in my hand, engrossed in shifting appointments to fit in an impromptu trip and emailing the changes to Rosalie to organize. She's my new assistant, replacing me in my old position now that Margo has retired. He's back from an early lunch with one of his brainless bimbos and only just walked in.

"Jake?" I answer without looking up, aware of his body heat close behind me. I am always aware of his proximity.

"I need the Hunter file," his voice runs over me smoothly.

"Already on your desk," I smile graciously, pulling down the back of my tailored jacket, a gray woolen Dior courtesy of Donna. I'm standing in the middle of my office right outside his; I had just walked out from placing those exact files on his desk when my email beeped.

"Thanks. Did you call and arrange my dinner booking with Clare?" His girl of the moment, yet not the lunch date; some Hollywood actress turned country singer with endless legs and oversized boobs. I dislike all his girls and the frequency with which he replaces them.

"Yes. You're in at eight at the Plaza where she's staying. I've arranged for the car to collect you," I respond drily, trying to keep the disdain from my voice.

"Good girl." He pats my back childishly, and I give him an indignant look, hating the term.

"Good girl?" Like I'm some sort of puppy. Next, he'll be giving me a biscuit.

"Emma?"

"Mmm-hmmm?" I look back down distractedly as an email reply from Rosalie pings to the top right corner of my tablet. She's down at accounting and not at her desk ten feet away.

"Fuck!" Jake breathes right behind my head; his breath moves my hair, sending goosebumps over my skin from the contact.

"What?" I look up in surprise at him, craning around to see his face behind me. He's glaring past me toward the glass wall in the outer hallway as a group of suited men and women make their way toward us from the elevators. They haven't seen us yet, as their view is impaired from that angle. Jake grabs me around the waist and hauls me backward, causing me almost to drop my iPad. Pulling us into his office, he shuts the door as I squeal in surprise at being manhandled in such a Neanderthal way and make a protest.

"Jake!"

"Shhhh." He covers my mouth with his hand. Still caught in his arms, he pulls me backward, lifting my feet from the floor. My arms flail with the sudden kidnapping, and I grip my iPad tighter, struggling weakly.

I hate when he does stuff like this! He has no concept of personal space or how inappropriate it is to manhandle your PA. He manhandles me way more than I ever thought possible. This is often a daily occurrence, in some way or another, and he sees nothing wrong with it.

"Just be quiet and do as you're told!" He drops me from his embrace, grabs my free hand, and hauls me toward the rarely-used door from his office into his second room. It's a changing room cum-office that I've never actually understood. He stores clothes, art, and random crap here, including the cream couches that used to grace the office floor.

He latches the door behind us and sits on one of the couches, leaving me heaving in the middle of the floor like a crazy person, struggling to calm my thudding heart rate.

"Jake, are you having some sort of mental breakdown?" I snap, looking around the room he has us trapped in while I steady my breath. I run my hands down my skirt, trying to unwrinkle my clothes now I've been unceremoniously released, and I regain my demeanor.

"It's my father. I don't want to see him," he shrugs as though it's all the explanation I need.

Several heated calls have occurred in the last few days since the Hunter merger became public. I quickly learned how strained the father-son relationship is, and it's not the first time we have evaded Carrero Senior. Jake either eludes or antagonizes him in heated fights, usually in public. They have a deep-rooted conflict I've never pressed him about.

"Why didn't you leave me out there to tell them you're not here then?" I snap, keeping my voice low. I hate when he grabs me, yet he frequently does it when he wants me to move in a hurry or get out of his way.

It wouldn't kill you to ask me to move!

"Because wherever you are, is where I usually am. He knows that!" I can't argue with that logic. Jake seems to require my presence much more than I ever saw him with Margo.

His cell starts ringing in his pocket; he pulls it out, sighs, and drops it onto the couch, silencing it. I sigh at his hopelessness, my temper dissipating, and push my cool facade back into place as I take in the dejected look on his face.

So boyish at times.

He casually stretches his hands behind his head and closes his eyes as I watch, bemused but still irritated. My boss, the man-child.

Sometimes endearing, but generally a massive irritation to my day.

"If we hide out here for ten minutes, he will fuck off," he says with closed eyes, hands tucked behind his head and mimicking sleep.

"Jake," I warn lightly; he rarely swears at work. He opens one eye and smiles at me as he turns sideways, lifts his feet onto the couch, and slides down to get comfy.

Yes, this is the CEO of this empire!

"Power nap until he leaves my floor?" he winks. Even through the tailored suit, I can still make out the strong lines of his body, and I glance away to steady myself, focusing instead on a rail of clothes in here. Distraction always works. Mostly.

When was the last time he used any suits hanging in here? Focus on the suits!

I'm pretty sure the black Armani is the one he had sent in for banquet we never attended. I should have it returned, I think to myself, and make a note on the iPad.

He pats the sofa next to him suggestively, a mischievous Carrero glint in his eye, but I continue with my notes, refusing to make eye contact.

"I think not, Mr. Carrero," sighing inwardly at the man I have to deal with daily. He's never dull, anyway.

"Your loss." He closes his eyes again. We pause as we hear voices in the next room, faint and distant, that quickly evaporate as the intruders leave again, both of us silent and still.

"You have a meeting in about fifteen minutes; I'm sure half those people will be in it," I point out, sounding unamused and bored.

"I'll just imply I was busy elsewhere," he shrugs, refusing to open those eyes and managing to look crazily attractive in this pose. I sigh.

"Busy doing what?"

"Busy in a closet with my PA trying out the softness of the couch," he smirks, opening one eye and then the other slowly, to grin at me.

"I'm not having you imply we were up to no good somewhere in this building. Do you know how quickly that would get around the temp pool?" I respond calmly; this repetitive conversation only makes me sigh again. Only I would get lumbered with a boss as trying as this, who loves nothing more than to stress me out. The sexual innuendos never run out with him, nor do the jokes about implicating us.

"We are up to no good; you may as well get on the couch and make it worthwhile. I'm sure I could help un-wrinkle that skirt," he teases. I roll my eyes; he's in his playful mood. I probably won't get much work done this afternoon at all when he is like this. He is trying at the best of times but worse in playful mode. I check my watch in irritation; we should get out of here.

"In your dreams," I respond drily, trying my hardest to ignore him.

"Always." He throws me a quick wink with a mischievous smile. I remain impassive. He's tiresome, and we already have a meeting at which we should be arriving. Needless to say, he no longer intimidates me, and his overly familiar behavior is a sign that we have grown somewhat closer in the past weeks. He'd stopped behaving quite so properly a while ago, and I had given up objecting because he was simply too exhausting.

He's watching me as I smooth a stray hair back into my French knot, aware that his eyes are on me. I raise mine in question, throwing him my haughty look. My silent, "What?"

"I miss it sometimes, you know?" He's watching me now, a strange look on his face and a faraway gaze in his eyes.

"Miss what?" I mumble, trying to sort my jacket out. He really did a number on making me look rumpled this time.

"Being able to intimidate you." He's grinning again, eerily reading my thoughts of a moment ago, something he does a lot.

"Shame," I respond flatly. I add a note to my planner for a reservation next week and pull up a newly received email. It's Finance asking for the spreadsheets we finished this morning. I sent a message Rosalie asking her to resend them with the original timestamp.

"I think it's safe to leave the closet with you now, Mr. Carrero." I close my iPad inside its protective cover and don't look at him.

"We're back to Mr. Carrero, are we? Have I made you pout, Miss Anderson?" He throws me his most innocent schoolboy look.

I'm fully aware that I use his title when he pisses me off; he thinks I'm mad at him.

Maybe I am. He did haul me into a closet, after all.

"I think you need the boundaries redefined since you just shoved me into a closet," I pout at him.

"Point taken. I'm so deeply sorry for my terrible behavior." He's still smiling at me, and I feel the urge to smile back, tugging at the corners of my mouth. This annoys me immensely. I hate that he always manages to make me cave, even when he's pissed me off. He's incorrigible and exhausting. I don't know why I endure this every day. I push the urge to smile down; I would rather stay pissed or appear to be, as it usually gets him to behave more demurely.

"Anytime soon?" I say as I gesture at the door impatiently with a nod, then cross my arms.

"You go. I may stay here for a bit and watch you walk out." He turns, getting comfy again to watch me move, wickedness gracing his face. I exhale heavily.

"Enjoy the view," I retort. "I'll leave my resignation on the desk as I pass." I smile sweetly, upper hand as always, knowing he couldn't run things quite so well without me. "Reason being sexual harassment … again!" I raise my voice to highlight my uppity tone.

"You couldn't leave me, Emma. You adore working for me too much. You would miss my sexual harassment." The laugh in his voice indicates he is still smiling my way.

Ass.

I raise an eyebrow back at him, turn away as though I'm serious, and fight the urge to smirk. He has a way of getting under my skin, even when being a juvenile.

I open the door and slide out, looking around cautiously. I notice his office door is ajar, and I head out to peek around, checking everything is clear. After a short walk to my old desk, I can see most of the floor is vacant, with only the regular secretaries milling around, paying no heed to me. Rather than venture back in, I pull out my cell and text him that all is quiet.

I can't believe he made me hide in the closet from his father. Sometimes he acts like a two-year-old, not New York's most eligible bachelor!

He appears a moment later, looking calm and collected, and smiles as he tugs a strand of my hair back down from my French knot. I could slap him; he knows how much his messing with my hair annoys me, yet he does it several times a day for a reaction. I smooth it back in place and curse under my breath at his back, resisting the urge to throw him a finger. I pick up the files for the meeting and recheck my watch; we could make it if he moves his ass.

***

The meeting is eventful, to say the least. Halfway through, his father makes a grand entrance, and everyone clears the room quickly, leaving the two Carrero men to go at it like raging bulls. I stand outside, observing the many eyes watching them through the glass. With my back to them, iPad in hand, I reply to emails; I can hear them arguing in Italian so that no one else can understand what they're saying.

His father is pissed, but Jake is tormenting him. I can tell by his tone of voice, and a glance at his aggressive posture confirms it. He never knows when to stop. The merger could still be called off; he should be smoothing things over, not letting his feelings get the better of him.

Finally, Senior storms out, yelling something in hostile Italian, and Jake snorts in answer. Senior glares back at him before stomping off with a flurry of nervous assistants running after him, the air crackling with tension.

"Emma!" Jake's voice makes me jump; he sounds angry, and I snap around as he walks out, loosening his tie. His eyes, usually so still, are stormy and dark, and despite his controlled, cool expression, I know he's aggravated.

"This merger is going ahead," he almost growls at me, looking ferocious. I swallow my nerves back down. "He isn't stopping it?" I'm surprised by this.

"He can't." He frowns and takes my arm, pulling me back into the board room, and slides the door closed, holding me close to his face. Another example of his hands-on approach.

"It's gone public, just like I planned. If Carl Hunter or my father back out now, it will damage their reputations. They both stand to make a lot of money, and many jobs ride on this merger. Hunter can't refuse; his business will go under if he does."

I realize now that maneuvering this deal in specific ways and letting certain facts leak has been deliberate in the last few weeks. Brains behind the brawn, one of the reasons his father always pushed him to get involved in the family business. Funny that it's backfired on him.

"If he stands to gain from this, why is he so angry?" I query. I know Giovanni Carrero values money above all things.

"He despises Carl Hunter; you know this." He shrugs with one shoulder and casts a look over my head, frowning at the meandering staff.

"Why did you choose to do this deal if you knew it would be this way?" I'd been dying to ask him this question for weeks but never felt it was my place to interrogate him. Jake's expression closes, and he looks thoughtful.

"Let's go for food; I don't want to talk here." He glances up and out of one of the long windows again, insinuating he doesn't trust nearby ears.

"You just had lunch an hour ago, Jake," I point out, but he shrugs in response, and I know it doesn't matter. The boy could eat all day and still find space for seconds. He has the appetite of a horse.