In one photo she seems to stare straight at the camera as though posing for a headshot. Her eyes look right at me, rich, brown irises, lids with narrowed feline tilts at the end giving them a sultry appeal.
I come to a stop on my favorite, the one of her eating one of those Godiva dark chocolate berry cups. The picture was snapped just after taking a bite. Brielle is sucking a bit of chocolate or berry juice from the finger of her free hand.
My thumb slides along the surface of my phone tracing the line of her high cheekbones, which are more pronounced as her lips pucker around the fingertip.
It isn’t even the most obvious symbolic reference my mind sinks to with that pose—though I won’t deny there’s plenty of that. I just enjoy the elegant way her fingers bend, like the limbs of a ballerina on stage. The way her head tilts to the side, elongating the curve of her neck. Even the lines of her ear behind which her hair is tucked are gracefully sensuous.
It’s everything about her.
And now I’ve finally met the real thing.
When I make it back to the IT offices, Tony is waiting for me, looking so nervous, you’d think I was stealing the crown jewels instead of searching Brielle’s desk.
The head of IT not only has carte blanche when it comes to hiring, but he also has a wife he adores who just happens to have a taste for excess. I can’t speak to what lies in store for their financial future but as of two weeks ago, their current $40,000 debt has been fully paid off—at least it is if they were smart with the money they were given.
“Did you find what you were looking for?” he asks.
“Does it matter?” He should know better than to ask too many questions.
“It matters if you’re going to be sticking around and I have to keep coming up with excuses for you,” he says with exasperation.
I ignore this, instead giving him a hard look. “When you said she usually started early, you should have been more specific.”
“She was there?” he cries out in panic.
“Yes.”
“Oh God, what did she say? Did she—?”
“It was fine, but now I need another favor from you.”
“What?” he moans, his voice filled with dread.
“Do you have a way of determining when she leaves for the day?”
“You aren’t going back up there are you? If you’re there when Mr. Gaultier is still here I don’t think I can—”
“No. I just need to accidentally bump into her at the end of the day.”
Yes, I am using my influence for personal reasons. All work and no play…
“Um, I guess I could tell you when she logs off for the day?” he offers.
“Bien.”
“So then…we’re good?”
“I have no further need to go up to the seventy-second floor,” I assure him. Not the answer he was looking for, but enough to calm his concerns about Bernard Gaultier.
“I think I’ll take the rest of the day off if you don’t mind, boss?” I say with a mild smile. We both know who’s really in charge here.
He wrinkles his brow in confusion. “Okay?”
“Don’t forget to call me when she logs off. I’ll be very disappointed if I miss her,” I warn.
“No problem,” he says, now eager to be rid of me.
“Bien.”
I walk out toward the elevators and press the button to go down. While I wait for it to arrive, I review my first interaction with Brielle.
She’ll be a challenge, I can already tell. Fortunately, I love challenges. What better way to hone my skills? Especially those of seduction.
I also like her more than I thought I would. That part is not so good. This job is already different from most.
That damn painting!
There are some serious parties involved beyond just Brielle and me, parties who don’t play nice. Which means juggling more than I bargained for.
Chapter Four
Brielle
Well, that was a nice little detour from the usual start of my day.
Andrew Mercier.
French accent. Handsome face. Seriously amazing body.
My mind rewinds back to that thing he did to lift himself up from beneath my desk. It was an awesome maneuver, and I was momentarily stunned at his acrobatic prowess and strength. Standing up, he looked even better, with very noticeable muscles that were near perfect under his shirt and pants—not too vulgar and not too wiry. Just right.
Hello, Goldilocks. Or whatever the brown-haired, male version would be.
That’s a reminder of the bear of an assignment I have to complete by 9:00 to appease the ogre I work for.
I pull the chair back to its proper place but pause as I think about what just happened.
A man like that working in IT as a gofer? If anything, he should be on the cover of Men’s Fitness magazine or playing quarterback for the Giants. Or hell, skipping right to the point and doing porn. My mind dances around with that idea for precisely two seconds before I remember myself.
It’s all just a little too suspicious, or maybe I’m just paranoid. To be safe, I check my desk, including underneath, to make sure nothing fishy is going on there. The kinds of perversion I’ve heard about men committing, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s planted a camera to look up my skirt as I sit. It’s dark underneath, but I don’t see anything particularly glaring that looks like it doesn’t belong there.
I pull my head up and look at the phone to see what time it is. Already 6:15 a.m. Shit. I turn on the computer and quickly log in to get started on my list of duties.
After almost two years working here, I’ve figured out what Mr. Gaultier would consider a priority. Meaning, I know how to rank requests in order of most likely to get my head bitten off if not completed on time.
For the most part, the man ignores me. At first, it rankled me. Then I saw how he treated the other personal assistants: Yasmine, who speaks five languages fluently, no different than he would a computer; Becca, who…looks the way she does, as nothing more than a target for his wandering eyes; Sonia, the queen bee (read: bitch), as a lowly servant.
By the time 8:30 rolls around, I’ve surprisingly gathered all financial reports, organized them in an electronic file, and also printed them off for him. I never know which way the wind will blow each day on his preference for either.
I’ve just finished my second cup of coffee when Yasmine rolls in.
“Morning, darling,” she mutters in a British accent, waving my way as she heads to her desk situated right across from me. With her, anyone she doesn’t hate is “darling.”
She’s a gorgeous Persian transplant from England who is probably more suited to the pages of a fashion magazine than a corporate office, especially this one. According to her, spending a few years in New York as she’s always wanted was a matter of going where the visa was available and working at a job that wouldn’t gradually degrade her brain cells (her words, not mine). Besides, we certainly get paid enough to help buffer the painfully Stalinesque atmosphere.
That’s something I can attest to. I’m not much of a fashion hound, but there is something to be said for the feel, fit, quality, and yes, the thrill of wearing high-end clothing.
“Ugh, I swear I need to stop saying yes when people suggest going out Sunday nights,” she complains. “Not only is my head killing me, I’m completely knackered.”
I give her a sympathetic smile, mostly because she’s the one that’s nicest to me. Frankly, she’s the closest thing I have to a friend, work or otherwise. And “otherwise” doesn’t exist, because my entire life is Gaultier Financial.
Even if I weren’t so single-minded in my goals—the whole reason I started working here in the first place—I’d have a hard time making friends. Considering my childhood, it’s no wonder trust is hard to come by. There are only two people in the world who have managed to melt my hard shell and find the warm, soft center and even they had to work at it.
Yasmine makes a show of sinking into
her chair as though recovering from a marathon run. I know for a fact that two cups of coffee, one quick “ciggy” (she had to program herself to stop saying “fag” on this side of the pond) and she’ll be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as ever.
“Let me guess, another weekend at home for you?” she teases, mostly in a good-natured way.
“Speaking of weekends,” Becca interrupts as she breezes in, having heard the last bit of Yasmine’s comment. “I went to this club, Mercury, this weekend,” she for some reason turns to me before adding, “really hard to get into if you don’t have a certain look—but you’ll never guess who bought me a drink?”
She waits for one of us to verbally inquire, and after a long uncomfortable moment, Yasmine finally gives her a break. “Do tell.”
“Davy Jaxon, you know that guitarist or whatever from that band Meteor Crane?” Again, she looks back and forth between the two of us, waiting for some form of validation.
“Fascinating,” I say in a dry tone.
Becca looks at me, as though wondering if I was being sarcastic or not, then heads to her desk. I see Yasmine, who sits at the desk next to her, smirk and roll her eyes at me.
“At any rate,” Becca says, flipping her long, too-blonde-to-be-authentic hair over her shoulder as she sits at her desk, “I was the only one of my friends who he—”
“I certainly hope you girls aren’t chitchatting on company time,” Sonia says as she enters the office area and makes her way to her desk. She stares down each of us with a hard look, reserving the worst for Becca. She’s not particularly fond of me, mostly because the boss ignores me, but she absolutely despises Becca, mostly because the boss most definitely doesn’t ignore her. “You know how Mr. Gaultier feels about gossip.”
“We weren’t gossiping,” Becca stupidly tries to explain, “I was just telling them about—”
“Does it have to do with work?” Sonia interrupts
“Well, no but—”
“Then it stops now.”
I can see the beginnings of a proper riot act Becca is itching to read to the woman, but she’s not that dumb. Mr. Gaultier may like the way she looks, especially in a skirt that falls high enough above the knees as she brings him his coffee, but she knows that Sonia is pretty much his second in command when it comes to personal assistants.
“I’m going to get a cup of coffee, anyone want one?” I announce.
“God, yes,” Yasmine says.
Becca holds up the iced latte she came in with and gives me a “duh” expression. Sonia just ignores me.
“Will do,” I say, nodding and smiling to Yasmine and walking away.
In the staff break room I have to wait for the morning rush before I can make both cups of coffee. I walk quickly back, holding each as gingerly as possible since even double-cupping doesn’t keep the heat from burning my fingers.
When I turn the corner to enter my area, I see Mr. Gaultier standing there as though waiting specifically for me. Anyone who didn’t know him would look at him and think “jolly” with his large round body, poorly hidden by even the most spectacularly well-tailored suits. He has a doughy face with almost three double-chins below a mouth that has a tendency to purse in a prissy sort of way.
But those icy blue eyes cut right through you with his arctic stare. His voice is just as chilly.
“Well,” he says, eyeing the two cups of coffee in my hand. “I see we have our priorities in order. I suppose coffee is more important than checking your email?”
By now it’s instinct for me to quickly check my inbox before I so much as step away to use the bathroom. There was nothing when I left to get coffee, but I should have known that at this time of day it would take a good twenty minutes to wait my turn and make two cups.
Apparently in that time frame, I’ve completely screwed the pooch.
“I sent you an email on my way here, but I have yet to get a response. ”
“Um,” is all I can mutter since I have no idea what he’s talking about.
“‘Um,’ is not an answer. An answer would be you responding to my email with the information I expected to have handed to me as soon as I walked into the office. But it would seem that not one, but two cups of coffee is more important. It’s good to know the fringe benefits I provide aren’t going to waste.
“Since your personal time is so valuable, let me catch you up on what it is I asked for, if only to save you the effort of checking your email, since it’s obviously such a burden for you. I need the guest list for Friday’s reception, ASAP. You were the one handling that, were you not?”
My eyes slide to Becca, who is studiously staring at her computer to avoid making eye contact. Technically, she was the one in charge of the guest list since she handles all things public-facing. My only job was to double-check the invitations, which have already gone out, since she is notoriously sloppy with the details.
But I know better than to correct him.
Instead, I stare at him, no longer feeling the burn of the coffee against my fingers. The burn in my cheeks at being dressed down so publicly and humiliatingly is much more scalding.
“I don’t pay you to just stand there,” he says in a tone of voice that a perfect asshole would use for someone who was legitimately slow in the head, “get me what I need in the next two minutes.”
Before I can even say, “yes, sir,” he turns to enter his office. I stare after him, still feeling the heat in my face, wishing it was hot enough to make me literally evaporate and disappear. After a moment to recover, I swallow and walk over to hand Yasmine her coffee.
“What a wanker,” she whispers to me, her nostrils flaring in sympathetic anger. I flash her a brief smile and head to my desk.
I don’t miss the pursed I-told-you-so lips of Sonia, who has never had an ounce of sympathy to lend my way. I also don’t miss Becca focusing even more intently on what’s on her computer screen as I stare her down from across the way.
Whatever. I don’t have time to handle being vengeful. I’ve already wasted thirty seconds of my two-minute deadline. Thankfully, I’m extremely organized, especially with my electronic files and it takes me ten seconds to pull up the guest list and, as usual, both email Mr. Gaultier and print it out to hand-deliver.
When I walk into his office to place it on his desk, I’ve gone back to being ignored. He doesn’t so much look up from the paperwork in front of him as I lay it on his desk. I’m not clueless enough to expect a thank you. Even if I hadn’t screwed up in his eyes, I wouldn’t get that much.
As I walk back to my desk, I remind myself that this is all worth it. Working my way up from secretary to one of the associates to this position—which had a suspiciously high turn-over rate to begin with—was all for a purpose. The end game is almost here. Once I have what I need, then I can tell Gaultier to take this job and shove it, maybe with an “accidental” spill of scalding coffee in his stupid lap as hand in my letter of resignation.
Until then…patience.
Come Friday, my plan officially goes into action.
Chapter Five
Andrew
It’s 6:05 p.m. and I’m waiting in the lobby of the Gaultier Building.
Tony was true to his word and texted me as soon as Brielle logged off her computer. I’ve spent the day at a nearby coffee shop, going over the details of what I have to do, at least as far as she’s concerned.
My employer needs exactly one thing from her, and I’ve been tasked with getting it.
And then get the painting.
I see Brielle before she sees me and I take a moment to observe her. She looks more relaxed now that it’s the end of the day, though there’s a firm set to her lips and a slight crease in her brow that has yet to fade.
She catches sight of me leaning against the wall near the doors staring right at her, and slows on her way to the exit just past me.
“You look like you could use a drink,” I say as soon as she’s close enough to hear me.
Her face is guarded,
eyes once again narrowed with suspicion. As if she couldn’t be any sexier. “Have you been waiting for me?”
“Oui,” I confess. I smile as her brow lifts in surprise at my frankness. “I’m taking you for a drink. Call it compensation for interrupting your work day this morning.”
She relaxes a bit, mouth slightly twisted, one eyebrow raised with very mild amusement. “I don’t believe I’ve accepted yet.”
“So say yes. It’ll make me feel better about my terrible first impression.”
She relaxes into a sigh. “Actually, I should probably be apologizing to you. I was rude this morning. It’s just that you took me by surprise. I actually called down to make sure…” Brielle blinks, as though realizing she’s about to admit that she checked up on me, which she damn well should have.
Smart girl.
“Anyway, thanks for the offer but—”
“This isn’t a come on,” I lie. “Just a drink on me. I insist.”
She tilts her head to consider me, rolling her tongue around in her cheek before speaking. “I don’t date coworkers.”
Shame.
“This isn’t a date. Just two people unwinding after work.”
Her mouth yields a tiny bit more in my favor. “And I’m definitely not having sex with you.”
“I’m pretty sure that would be illegal in most bars. Alors, we’ll just start with that drink instead.”
Now, a smile definitely threatens to come to her lips and she twists them to prevent it. She looks to the side, pausing before she finally shakes her head and shrugs, allowing that smile to shine. “You know what? As it turns out, I could use a drink after today.”
“Bien,” I say with a grin.
I take her to a bar that is quiet enough to talk but not hushed to the point of being tryst-worthy. I promised just a drink and in fact, that’s all I want from her. Well, that and the conversation that it will lead to. Insider knowledge is just one of the tools of my trade. There’s a motherlode of it inside that head of hers that I desperately need to mine.
The French Thief: An International Legacies Romance Page 3