CHAPTER ONE
The secluded mansion was a rare jewel that hugged the cliff perilously. It wouldn’t take much for a landslide, I thought as I peered up at my imposing destination, while my sticky palms steered the car along the snaky coastal highway.
Pushing down on the accelerator, I turned onto a steep road leading up to the estate. My old car was weak and churlish, the gears struggling. My heart palpitated. What if I stall and roll back? I took a deep breath and gritted my teeth. This was hardly the time for a panic attack.
After conquering the incline, I passed a fortress of whitewashed walls.
“Where the hell’s the entrance?” I mumbled, scolding myself for not getting properly acquainted with technology.
I rummaged in my bag and dragged out a scribbled note that instructed me to swing right after passing the front entrance.
Okay, there was the entrance. I expelled a slow breath. My chest relaxed for the first time since I’d raced out of my apartment forty-five minutes earlier.
I pulled up close to the intercom and stretched my arm out to push on the buzzer.
“Yes,” a baritone echoed.
Craning my neck, I responded, “I’m here for the interview.”
“Name?”
“Clarissa Moone.”
“Take a left turn past the gate, and you will come to the visitors’ car park.”
The tall iron gates yawned open, and I drove into the estate.
As the car slowed to a crawl, my jaw dropped. My flesh tingled at the splendor before me. A pre-war era mansion came into view behind a flourishing garden, resembling an Italian villa in Lake Como.
Focus, Clarissa!
I looked ahead. There stood a tall, well-built man in black clothes and sunglasses. He waved for me to park amongst shiny, latest-model cars. I gulped. The poor old clunker would seem so alien. Was that a contemptuous expression behind his dark glasses?
Sweat dripped down my arms as I stepped out of my car. Despite the day being hot, I would have to keep my cardigan on to hide the wet patches.
Wiping my brow, I followed the enormous man along a cobbled path. The air, redolent of salt, flowers, and earth, was uplifting. Blood flowed to my face. I couldn’t believe I was heading for a job interview. At least the aesthetic distractions helped me forget my anxiety.
I wasn’t watching my step, and my heel got caught in a crack. I twisted my shoe sending a twinge of pain up the side of my calf. Luckily, I adjusted my weight in time and avoided a fall. Coming to my aid, the security guard stretched his arm out to support me.
“Are you okay, ma’am?”
“I’m good, thanks,” I said, blushing.
Eyes down this time, I started moving again as we continued on. He walked so quickly I struggled to keep up. Being a flat-pumps girl, I was not well practiced at walking in heels.
We passed through an archway of creamy, chiseled columns that led us to the portico. I climbed the stairs with care, watching every step I took. Mr. Security opened a stained-glass double door so mind-blowing in design that I uttered a quiet “Wow.”
The interior didn’t disappoint, either. It resembled a nineteenth-century museum. The yellow walls were covered by gilt-framed art, pearly marble goddesses stood on a black-and-white checked floor.
Could this be the home of one of America’s most eligible billionaires? I’d pictured something modern, minimal, white, and boxy. Just as in the movies.
We then entered a teal-colored room. Watercolor seascapes hung in profusion. Were they by Turner? Not possible. He’d have to be a trillionaire.
Having majored in art history, I had to ogle. One thing was for certain: this mysterious tycoon had impeccable taste. I found myself warming to him.
Although the agency had kept his name a secret, Ellen mentioned that he was an eligible bachelor. I didn’t quite know why I needed to hear that. But I gathered from her higher-than-normal pitch that she was rather pleased to be dealing with such an illustrious client.
She also revealed that she was sending a dozen girls to the interview, and the only reason she’d considered me was that her client had asked specifically for someone cultured and well versed in the fine arts. It was nice to know that my major had given me an advantage even though I’d chosen it for loftier reasons than becoming a PA to a billionaire, married or single.
But then, I had no ambition. I just loved looking at beautiful things. I needed a job desperately. And so there I was.
My God, Louis XIV armchairs! I stroked the silky mint-green damask. Probably a reproduction. I sighed so loudly that the security guard looked at me. A faint smirk appeared, and then his blank inscrutability returned. I supposed appearing disinterested was part of his job.
He pointed to an adjoining room. “In there, ma’am.”
A room full of hopefuls sat waiting. Wearing low-cut blouses and tight skirts, they looked more like super-models than personal assistants. Their heavily made-up eyes peered up simultaneously, starting at my T-bar shoes and settling on my bare face. Pouty and plumped up, their lips curled mockingly all at the same time. I nearly laughed.
Still, I’m sure I appeared rather outlandish wearing a 1960s pencil-skirt inherited from my late mother. A white, button down shirt hid my larger-than- normal breasts. What possessed me to wear the green cardigan? Nevertheless, I needed a job, not a husband unlike the rest, with their hungry, seeking-a-billionaire vibe. My maxed-out credit card meant that Tabitha, my roommate, would need to cover our rent again.
A throbbing spasm at the side of my neck and damp palms spoke of stress. I hoped he wouldn’t shake my hand. To add to my discomfort, the mélange of celebrity-endorsed perfumes tickling my nasal passages was making me sneeze.
I could also feel my heavy bun threatening to sag. I tucked a stray strand behind my ear. Thick and long, my untamable hair needed hairspray. I shouldn’t have washed it. It never behaved. I always complained about my waist-length hair, much to Tabitha’s chagrin. But I couldn’t bring myself to cut it. My mother had shared the same black mane. I had many wonderful photos of her looking chic with her stacked-up bun and eyeliner. Despite inheriting her features, I was more like my father: shy, awkward and a dreamer.
For the umpteenth time, I recrossed my legs. I was clearly the attraction, with everyone’s unwavering attention directed at my green cardigan, purchased from my favorite vintage store. Were they rolling their eyes?
Finally, an older lady came out. Much to my relief, she looked drabber than me. Maybe she was being replaced. In either case, I was the closest in clothing choice. I fantasized poking my tongue at the room full of catty girls.
“Good morning, ladies. My name’s Greta Thornhill.” There was a sudden rustle amongst the girls. “You’re required to answer one question. You have five minutes to do so. Clipboards with paper and pens are here.” She pointed to a table. “I’ll be back in five minutes to collect your responses.”
As we gathered to collect our clipboards, I overheard two girls whispering, “Oh my God, it’s Aidan Thornhill.”
I’d heard the name before but couldn’t place it. Not one for celebrity gossip, I had no idea who the most eligible billionaire in town was. My aspirations were not that high. And although I loved the idea of a boyfriend, I had met none I liked. Apart from some heavy petting, I’d never gone all the way. Tabitha couldn’t believe I was still a virgin at twenty-one.
The question read: “If you received one million dollars with only one day to spend it, how would you use it?” Good. No trick questions. No esoteric math. This shouldn’t tax my overwrought brain too much.
I wrote, “Buy my father, a professor of English literature, a fully furnished cottage in England with an extensive library. Buy an airline ticket and car for him. Stock his cupboards with enough food to last years.” (I left out the lifetime supply of single malt whisky.) “Then I would donate to the homeless shelter and the lost-dogs’ home. With any leftover, I’d buy myself a ticket to Paris and visit the Louvre.” I put down my pen and relaxed.
A few minutes later, Greta Thornhill entered. “Time’s up, ladies.”
Frustrated sighs filtered through the room. How hard could it be? I did a subtle eye-roll.
When I presented my clipboard, I noticed her cool blue eyes studying me closely.
“Thank you, ladies. We’ll be in touch.”