Chapter Thirteen

DESPITE HER RAY OF HOPE, Acacia remained anxious.

She worried her identity would be leaked to the media in the aftermath of the BRB’s descent on Hotel Victoire. She’d set up a Google alert for any mention of her name or, God forbid, a photograph. Dread filled her every time she checked her email.

She hadn’t mentioned the situation to her mother, foregoing their weekly telephone calls in favor of emails. It was impossible to hide her anxiety over the telephone. If Acacia lost her job, she wouldn’t be able to support her mother. But she didn’t want to worry her unnecessarily.

By the time Friday arrived, Acacia was more than eager to quit the hotel. Monsieur Roy had recruited other staff to watch her, eagerly looking for any misstep or hint of customer dissatisfaction. Acacia knew it was only a matter of time before he found something he could manipulate into an infraction worthy of termination, which was why she’d delayed turning over Marcel’s journal to the Paris police.

She’d researched KLH and found it to be a well-respected employment firm. She had no idea how she’d come to their attention, but she was grateful she had.

Acacia had to cut her sleep short on Friday in order to prepare for the interview. That morning, she took extra care with her appearance. She was fortunate her tanned skin was clear and required little in the way of cosmetics. Her parents had gifted her with beauty and an attractive figure that wore clothes very well.

She had to remove her jacket and shoes when she went through security as she entered the building, a modern high rise in the financial district. Their setup rivaled that of the airport.

As she waited outside Madame Bishop’s office, she carefully smoothed her black skirt. She wore a suit and her lapel pins, her hair and clothes intentionally conservative.

“Madame will see you now.” The administrative assistant approached Acacia and ushered her into a large corner office that featured floor-to-ceiling windows.

A diminutive woman with black hair pulled into a severe bun at her nape and oversized, red-framed glasses rose behind the desk.

“Mademoiselle.” She extended her hand.

Acacia shook it and took the seat that was offered to her.

Madame Bishop returned to her seat and retrieved a file. “I’ve reviewed your curriculum vitae, mademoiselle, and I’ve spoken with the Paris branch of Les Clefs d’Or. They noted that you received several commendations during your tenure at Le Méridien Étoile.”

“Yes, madame.”

She gazed at Acacia from across the desk. “Some of our clients are looking for more than just an experienced executive assistant. I know the tradition of the concierge is tied to the hotel industry, but we’ve been successful in recruiting talented concierges to work in the corporate sector. For example, we recruited one of the junior concierges at the Shangri-La Hotel to serve as the personal concierge for the CEO of a major technology firm. Both our client and the concierge are happy with the arrangement. Would you be interested in becoming a personal concierge?”

Acacia hesitated, but only for a moment. “Yes, madame. I believe the skills I have are transferable to assisting an individual client.”

Madame Bishop opened the file and uncapped a pen. She made a few notes. “It’s possible the position would require travel. What would you do to ensure you maintain a consistently high level of service outside Paris?”

“In both of my positions I’ve worked with concierges from hotels in other countries to assist guests, so I already have an international network. I’d be more than happy to cultivate that network. I believe my facility with languages is also an asset.”

“Have you traveled much?”

Acacia shook her head but forced a smile. “No, madame. But I’m enthusiastic about the possibility. I enjoy learning about other cultures.”

“According to your paperwork, your citizenship is Brazilian, and you are on a work permit tied to your position at the Victoire. Why do you want to leave?” Madame’s blue eyes grew razor sharp.

Acacia thought very quickly, maintaining her smile. “The Victoire is an excellent hotel. But the senior concierge is firmly entrenched, and for the time being, there isn’t room for promotion. I’m eager to expand my experience so I may apply for senior concierge positions someday.”

“So you wouldn’t see yourself as a personal concierge in the long term?”

“That would depend on the position.”

“I see.” The woman gazed at her sharply. “Do you possess any other talents that aren’t listed in your curriculum vitae?”

“I enjoy sports and try to stay physically fit. I studied art history.”

“Anything else?” Madame persisted.

Acacia developed the impression that Madame Bishop was expecting something in particular, but Acacia didn’t know what it could be.

“I think that’s all.” Acacia forced another smile.

“As with any prospective employee, we have to conduct a background check. Also, we would need you to sign a non-disclosure agreement. Our clients expect confidentiality with respect to any information you might glean while in their employ, even with regard to the interview process.”

Acacia’s smile didn’t falter. “As a concierge, I’m committed to confidentiality.”

“Excellent.” Madame produced several pages that were stapled together. “Please take a few moments to review this agreement. If you accept it, please sign and date at the bottom.

“May I see your passport? I’ll ask my assistant to make a photocopy.”

Acacia retrieved her Brazilian passport and work permit from her briefcase and handed them over.

The woman excused herself and exited the office, leaving Acacia to read the form.

The non-disclosure agreement appeared to be fairly standard, although she noted that the form expected her to keep confidential the names and identities of any potential employers she might encounter. She read the agreement twice and signed and dated it.

In the end, Acacia wasn’t sure how the interview had gone. Certainly it was very different from other interviews she’d had.

She knew a search of her passport or fingerprints would find nothing damning. Even if KLH somehow pulled her birth certificate from Brazil, there wouldn’t be a problem. Still, she lived with the fear that someday someone would discover who she really was and he would find her.

The office door opened and madame returned.

“Did you sign the form?” She returned Acacia’s passport and work permit.

“Yes.” Acacia placed the signed agreement on the woman’s desk.

“Good. One of our clients is in the office today and has expressed an interest in meeting you. Would you object to a second interview?”

Acacia turned in her chair. “Not at all.”

“This way, please.” Madame waited for Acacia to pack up her briefcase and escorted her down the hall to what was labeled a conference room.

She opened the door. “Monsieur Nicholas Cassirer, I’d like you to meet Mademoiselle Acacia Santos of Hotel Victoire. Mademoiselle, Monsieur Cassirer has a few questions for you.”

Madame guided Acacia into the conference room. “You can ring my assistant when you’re finished, monsieur.”

“Thank you.” A deep voice spoke from the other end of the conference room.

Madame closed the door.

“Bonjour, monsieur.” Acacia greeted the broad back of a tall man who stood at one of the windows, gazing at the financial district with his hands in his pockets.

“Bonjour, mademoiselle.” He turned.

Acacia placed a hand over her mouth as she realized the man who stood in front of her was none other than Monsieur Breckman.