The absolute cheek of her! Talking to me as though I were a tantrum-throwing two-year-old. I was already edgy and tired, so before I knew it, I just let rip. “How dare you speak to me like that?”
Her brown eyes, dark with anger, looked straight into mine. “If you act like a spoilt child, you can't be surprised if you are treated as one.”
For a moment, I was going to yell, but then my good sense kicked in. She was quite right. Being brand new in the job, this wasn't her fault. With both Suze and Caitie vanishing on the same day and my own preoccupation with trying to snag the new Fitzsimmons contract, the checks and balances had failed.
I was also fed up because I had to field my own press questions. I loathe talking to journos, but I need them to talk us up. When your smallest project is worth thirty million quid, your clients like to know they’re dealing with the best, and that means lots and lots of publicity.
With Anya, the press relations exec, falling for an Australian tourist and deciding to follow him home like a lovesick puppy, I had to do my own schmoozing.
I know that people think all billionaires are business-driven alpha males, but I’m not like that. I’m a dreamer, really, but as my dreams take millions to bring to reality, I have to run a business. If I didn’t, my creations would never see the light of day.
I delegate what I can, but when staff bugger off, it’s up to me. As I’m no good at talking to strangers about my work, having spent an hour on the phone to the Economist and another half hour to the Guardian—and probably coming off like a total wanker—I was in a filthy mood.
I was ready to take it out on someone, but I honestly didn’t intend to pick on a girl. Even if she is an iron bun-wearing harridan.
Suze would have been in floods, but Emma Reed just gave it to me straight. I wanted to really let rip, but I knew it was my fault. It was damn annoying. However, there was only one thing to do.
I took a deep breath to calm myself. “You're absolutely right,” I admitted. “I'm sorry.”
“What?” Emma was staring at me, totally taken aback.
“I said I'm sorry,” I repeated. Then I braced myself. There was steel in the dark eyes, and her brows were pulled down in an angry furrow, too. Now I was in the wrong, she'd let me have it, and justifiably so.
I remembered how she’d snapped at me the day before. “Let me tell you, Mr Weston, that I am not married, and do not intend to marry,” she’d barked at me. “Frankly, I have no interest in men!”
I’d hired her because she was a man-hater, figuring at least she wouldn’t be running off to get married or multiply. But now I was thinking I was regularly in for it. Having been in the wrong, she could justifiably take a strip off me, and she'd enjoy it, too. Still, she’d worked for the Royal Bank and Penguin, which meant she was superbly skilled. I’d have to suck it up.
So I was ready to take it on the chin, but then Emma grinned. “Start over?” The smile lengthened her eyes and made them sparkle. She had lovely bones, too, her cheeks slanting all the way to that rich sweet mouth. Under the steel bun and plain feathers, the man-hater was a looker. I have to say, I was stunned.
Before I would say anything, the moment was gone. She frowned again, the dark brows pulling together menacingly as she began leafing through the file. “I might be able to deal with this by the end of today, but I don't know who anyone is or even whether they've delivered.”
I felt my heart sink. If those payments were delayed any further, we'd lose our discounts. Then our overheads would soar and kill our profit margin. With all the fuss about Brexit, the last thing we needed was this.
Furthermore, sub cons are the worst gossips in the world. I knew that by now everyone would know I’d lost Suze and my PA to boot. Every Tom, Dick and Harry would be trying it on.
Construction is a cut-throat business and everyone’s a player. Honestly, that TV crook Tony Soprano nailed it. Without Suze managing the paperwork, I knew there would be demands for goods and services as yet undelivered, and repeat submissions of bills already paid. My damn sub cons would make a grab for what they could get, and if they got their hands on any extra cash it would be the devil of a job getting any of it back.
It had taken me six months to train Suze, so I wasn’t expecting Emma to be able to handle it straight off, not even with her Royal Bank experience. I had my own work, a vitally important presentation that would potentially make me millions, and thanks to the Economist and the Guardian I was already half a day behind. I was in a bind, all right.
Emma was looking thoughtful. “Look, if you want this done and the presentation, too, then it might be quicker if we exchanged jobs.”
“You want to be CEO after three hours?”
She giggled, an enchanting happy little sound that made me smile right along with her. Then she handed me the folder. “You take the invoices and I do the presentation.” She was plugging in my thumb drive before I could protest, saying, “Let me just make sure I understand what you want here.”
As the pages flashed up, I felt my gut clench. “It's still rough,” I told her. “I haven't checked the spelling or the grammar.”
“It's no problem. I'll proof and edit.”
She wasn't even looking at me. I watched her scroll through a few pages, and then she was nodding. “Yes, it's very clear. I'll have it done by three.”
“My meeting's at three.”
“Then I'll work double quick, and you'll have it at two.”
“Thank you.”
I got myself out of the room, feeling unaccountably as if I were a very young child coming out of a difficult meeting with a headmistress. It wasn't till I got back to my office that I wondered how she'd managed it.
Emma Reed wasn’t exactly imposing. She was a rather severe-looking woman, with a no-nonsense air about her. Okay, the smile was lovely, and she had nice bones and a lovely rich figure, but she didn’t even try to make anything of herself.
She wore the same plain black trousers as the day before and a simple white blouse that was so understated that it made her invisible. Also, her head barely topped my shoulder. She had to stand back just to look into my eyes. Even so, she'd taken control, managing me and ordering me around effortlessly.
“Well, it's better than tears,” I said out loud.
Suze had been a dreadful watering pot, weeping a river three times a week, minimum. Caitie wasn’t the type to cry, but she’d sulked, which was just as bad.
Emma had given as good as she got. It had been a shock to be told off—I couldn’t remember the last time I'd been raked over the coals—but I decided I didn't really mind. I'm spoilt, you see. Too much money and too much success mean nobody's willing to yell back. Well, except for Emma Reed. She really was a tough nut.
I prefer to work with pleasant people, but if push comes to shove, I’ll take competence over everything else. So I wasn’t too worried about Emma’s prickly exterior. I’d put up with any amount of snapping as long as she’d do a good job on the presentation.
I do dozens of presentations a year, but this one was special because Fitzsimmons, one of the richest food processing companies in the country, had decided they needed new headquarters. They’d put out a tender for concepts, and I’d spent the last fortnight at the drawing board.
Most companies have a limited budget, and they prefer simple soaring towers, preferably a story or two higher than their rivals. Fitzsimmons had pots of money, and they were setting up fresh just outside Oxford, so there would be no restrictions on budget or design. It was the opportunity of a lifetime, and I really wanted the job.
You see, a few years ago, I had this dream. I’d woken up at three in the morning, stricken with a vision, and I’d gotten it down on paper before delay could tamper with the image. It was a pagoda, similar to one I’d seen the year before in Beijing, but instead of being concentrated and dark, mine soared into the air and was filled with light.
A pagoda is a hard sell anywhere, never mind in Britain, but Fitzsimmons made their first fortune importing tea. They’re very proud of it, and as they have branches all over the Far East even today, I thought they might go for it.
So with Fitzsimmons finally offering an opportunity to make my dream pagoda come to life, I’d been working night and day, developing the concept. The traditional structure is a challenge; it lacks light and there are problems with the asymmetrical gardens that surround it, but I was certain that I could get it all worked out and that the results would be spectacular.
However, I wasn’t so confident about my presenting skills. I’m generally considered to be among the top architects in my generation, but my basic education lacks polish. I designed my office tower, nicknamed Minas Ithil by the locals, from scratch. Calculating every beam size for every load-bearing wall was a doddle, and I supervised the builders every day, no problem at all, but my spelling is more miss than hit, and my grammar is practically non-existent.
I went to Cambridge on a scholarship, so they taught me a bit about style. I know not to wear brown shoes with a black suit, and I’m not felled by a plate of whole artichokes, either, but when I put pen to paper, my roots show plain and clear. I can’t tell my which from my witch or my weather from my whether. And don’t get me started on they’re, their, and there.
I’d never been bothered by it until two years ago, when I caught Caitie sniggering with Suze over one of my email messages.
“Look at this,” Caitie had giggled. “He might win prizes, but he can’t spell for toffee.”
“Maybe he has a mechanical mind, and he forgot to wind it up this morning.”
“Who would have guessed the rich, successful Curtis Weston is thick?”
“Instead of listing him in Who's Who, we’ll put him in Who Dat!”
I never let on I’d heard, but even now the memory crushed me. I didn’t let it show, though. I didn’t fire them, either. I wanted to, secretly, but they hadn’t realised that I was listening. Also, I didn’t want to be the kind of small-minded bugger who’d fire people out of pique. I may be rich, but I remember what it’s like to be short of cash. It’s hell.
So I upgraded my computer, installed a good voice-to-text application and began dictating my email and texts. Nobody ever said anything, but I let it be known that any mistakes were down to software error.
I dictated annual meeting reports, letters to clients, and everything else and put it about that I was too busy to fix anything up myself. Caitie and Suze were bitchier than Perez Hilton, but they’d typed up and edited my work to perfection. I didn’t like them, but I didn’t have to. As long as they did their jobs, I was able to ignore their sniggers.
Now, however, I was a bundle of nerves. Could I trust Emma to straighten up my presentation? She sounded okay, but so do I. For all I knew, her English was as screwed up as my own.
It was essential that the presentation look slick and professional. Fitzsimmons have been around since 1580, founded in the Golden Age of England, when the first Elizabeth was on the throne, and they would expect a flawless performance.
I was tempted to go and micromanage Emma, but then my eye fell on the folder she’d given me. If we lost our discounts, we’d have trouble for months, so I knuckled down and tackled the paperwork.
I was just signing off on the last invoice when there was a knock on the door.
“All ready for the big meeting?” Sam was standing in the doorway, grinning as usual. He’s my best friend, Sam. We met at Cambridge where he was reading Law. He was the first person I hired when I started up, and I’ve never regretted it. He’s a good man, Sam Jefferson, and I’d trust him with my life.
I smiled and invited him in. “Emma’s working on it.” I ignored the nervous clenching of my gut. “How was the meeting with the press relations agency?”
“Not good. They know nothing about construction.”
“I thought not.”
“How was the Economist?”
“Hell, and the Guardian was no better.”
“Ouch.” Sam knew what it cost me. “I think we’ll forget about farming it to an agency. I’ll find us a new press exec soon.”
“Yes, please.” I closed the folder and put it on the desk. “Any news on a PA for me?”
“I've got a temp for a few days, but about permanent new hires, I think we should be more flexible on our job specs. There are some good people out there who are discarded before we even see them.”
I knew where that was going! “I was serious, Sam.” He’s a good man, but he’s as tough as marshmallows. “I appreciate you have a soft spot for hopeless causes, but this is a business, not a charity. No more desperate single mothers, lost little girls, and assorted lame ducks.”
“But—”
“No buts!”
I can be hard at times; you have to be when you run one of the country’s most successful construction companies, and this was one of them. Sam was about to answer back when there was a tap on the door.
Emma looked in, a file in her hand. “I'm sorry to interrupt, but it's almost two o’clock.”
“Come in!” I was surprised to see Sam look a little guilty. I put it down to him being upset at losing three key staff in less than a week. I nodded at him, telling him to stay, and I focused on Emma, “Presentation done?”
“Yes.” She was cool and crisp, the eyes impersonal and the dark brows relaxed. Actually, now they weren’t drawn in a rigid line of fury, they arched charmingly.
She was all business, though. “I made some minor edits. If I may show you?”
Emma leaned over the desk, laying out a print copy of the slides so I could see the whole picture in one go. She smelled of peaches, a sweet rich scent that was delicious yet fresh, like a summer afternoon.
As she spread the papers out for Sam and me to see, I got an eyeful of her breasts, swelling pale and luscious over the cups of a very plain white bra. Their rich, feminine beauty was such a contrast to the tough-nut exterior that I couldn’t help but stare, completely mesmerised.
My attention was whipped back to business by Emma's swift summary. “I changed the font to Playfair Display; it's simple, classic, and serif, so it's very readable. I also faded the background image to reduce noise.”
It was subtle but effective. I hadn’t seen a presentation look as good, ever. It was elegant, crisp, clear, and yet opulent, too. Fitzsimmons were going to love it.
Emma was completely impersonal, but I had to know. “And the rest?”
“I tidied a little, but there are only two big changes: this heading here, and the flow of the facts here.” Emma looked up at me, her dark eyes serious and a little anxious. “If you don't like it, I can put it right back.”
I passed it to Sam. “What do you think?”
Sam scanned it quickly. “Superb. Easy to read, succinct, and I love the layout, too.”
I breathed again. Unlike me, Sam was born with a silver spoon in his mouth. He went to Eton, so if he said it was superb, it meant it was faultless. Emma hadn't said a word about my godawful spelling or atrocious grammar, either. She hadn't even hinted or made a smart comment. The woman had class.
I suppressed a sigh of relief. “I agree, it looks amazing. Wonderful work, Emma. Thank you very much.”
She blushed, flushing rosily. It brightened her eyes and made them sparkle. And with that lush figure, and those delicious breasts… I shook myself mentally. Ogling the staff is a no-no.
“I finished the invoices,” I spoke quickly, hoping she hadn’t noticed. “Pay the ones I've counter-signed, please.”
“I'll do the transfers straight away. And I'll phone them all, just to reassure them.”
“They might yell at you. Some of those invoices are well overdue.”
“Screaming won't hurt me,” Emma said coolly, “and they'll pipe down when the money hits their accounts.”
“Quite.” I admit, I was fascinated. This woman was definitely a step up from Suze the watering pot. “I've put notes on the contested ones.”
“I’ll deal with them, too.”
“I have no doubt.” Actually, I would have liked to hear her. Remembering how she’d ripped me a new one earlier, I was betting Emma Reed could hold her own, no problem.
Emma simply nodded and went off with no further ado. I found myself watching her. She had a nice bottom. Round, high, and firm. A definite match for the heavenly breasts.
“She’s got a certain charm,” Sam was looking, too. “And that presentation was beautifully edited.”
I leafed through the printout again quickly. Yes, it was superb. “I love it. It’s mostly meet-and-greet today, but I think this will go over great.” I had a flutter of nerves again, anticipatory this time. “If they like the concept, I’ll start the design tomorrow.”
“You know, all work and no play…” Sam said seriously. “You really should get out more.”
“I know. I’m just not in the mood.”
“Missing Madeleine?”
“God no!” Just thinking about my ex made me shudder. Married too young, we’d very quickly discovered we wanted totally different things from life. Madeleine loved London, nightlife, and glamorous dinner parties with loads of strangers, while I wanted kitchen suppers with close friends and country walks.
Town life kills me. My designs come to me in dreams and those quiet moments during the day. Put me in the centre of a social hurricane, and I can’t think straight.
“Have you heard from her?” Sam asked. He’d always like Madeleine, even though he didn’t think she was right for me.
“I hear from her every time I sign a deal,” I couldn’t help but grin as I told him. “It’s like stealth tax: every time I put a signature to a contract, I end up writing her a cheque.”
“The cheek!” Easy-going Sam was shocked. “She got a generous settlement, Curtis. A house in London and a seven-figure lump sum. Why on earth do you pay her extra?”
“It’s only money.”
Sam was shaking his head. “You’re as soft as butter, Curtis.”
“She likes it, and I don’t miss it. It’s not an issue.”
“You should date,” Sam said gently. “There’s more to life than work.”
“I like to work.” But my mind flashed back to peach scent and rich breasts in white cotton. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d lusted after a woman. Sam was right; I really needed to get out more.
It was easier said than done, though. I was uncomfortably aware that my money was an obstacle. When I was young, women wanted me for myself. There had been plenty of rejections at school and at Cambridge. But after I'd built up my business and been damn lucky along the way, I hadn’t been rejected once.
They weren't just panting for wealth, but some actively targeted me. Even Caitie had made ferocious passes from time to time. I shouldn’t say so, I know it's small of me, but after I caught her bitching behind my back, I quietly enjoyed turning her down.
For some odd reason, my mind flew to Emma Reed. She'd be sensible in her relationships. Cool and rational. As she'd not hesitated to rip up at me, I couldn't imagine her being impressed by money, either.
“Emma Reed’s interesting. Any idea why she hates men?” I asked Sam.
To my surprise, he looked rather shifty. “I couldn’t say.” Then he blushed a little.
That was weird. Sam’s very much a people person. If he hadn’t taken up law, I would have thought he’d make a great psychologist. He knows every single member of staff and probably most of Oxford, too. For him not to instantly launch into a personal history was odd.
Actually, Emma herself was unusual, too. Severe, prickly, and dressed in those dreadful, unflattering black trousers and white shirt. It was more men’s wear than anything else.
And that’s when I put two and two together and got five. No-frills Emma who gave as good as she got. The man-hater who dressed butch. Emma Reed was gay.
I know. I still can’t believe I thought that. I mean, the oh-she’s-not-interested-so-she-must-be-gay thing is just so stupid, right? I have no idea where that came from, but there you go, that’s how it happened.
“What you need,” Sam said quietly, “is a nice girl with a good heart.”
Like a twit, I thought he was just avoiding the subject. And because I liked him, I went along with it. “At the moment, what I really want is a good a PA and a press relations exec,” I reminded him. “Qualified people who’ll do the job and not fuss. Like Emma Reed.”
“You're satisfied with her work?” Sam was gazing at me quizzically.
I looked at the presentation again. It screamed class, and with a quick glance at the old copy, I could see she'd made lots of changes. Apart from correcting my spelling, she’d cleaned up the grammar, too.
“It's perfect,” I told him as flipped through it. “Hire more people like her.”
“Like Emma Reed,” Sam said faintly.
“Yes. She's bad-tempered but bloody efficient.”
“Bad-tempered?”
“She chewed me out, but I have to admit, I deserved it.” I couldn’t help but grin at him. “And did you hear? She's not bothered by yelling. If we're lucky, she won't mind swearing, either.”
“Oh dear lord, Mac!” Sam was remembering the day Mac “Ya wee shitebag” Douglas had come to the office and reduced Caitie to nervous giggles and Suze to horrified, indignant complaints about a hostile workplace.
Emma would probably put foulmouthed Mac Douglas in his place with one cool word. “You're probably right,” Sam said. “She’s not afraid to tackle difficult issues.”
“Of course I am.” I was as smug as a dog with two dicks, idiot that I am. “Run through the applicants, chuck out the lame ducks, and find me more Emma Reeds.”
“More Emma Reeds,” Sam said. “Really?”
“You never know: with all the positive discrimination going on, we might get an award for hiring gay women.”
“What?”
Typical Sam. Always so politically correct.
“Oh, come on. It was just a joke.” I put on my jacket. “Look, I have to run. See you later.”
“Sure,” Sam said.
I had no idea back then of course, but looking back, I bet he burst into laughter as soon as I left. The bugger.