“I’m sorry for calling so late, but I received your resume, and your qualifications are quite impressive. We’d like to offer you the job.” She paused, waiting for my response. “Can you start tomorrow?”
“You want to hire me? We haven’t even met yet.” I pressed a hand to my stomach, hoping to calm the swarm of butterflies inside.
“Given Everly Martin’s glowing recommendation and a letter from the former Vice President, an interview is unnecessary.” Her pause allowed my brain to catch up with the information. “We’re really eager to have you on our team.”
“I—I—I need salary details and benefit information before I can make a decision,” I stammered.
“Of course. I just sent an email with the employment contract and all the information. I think you’ll find the salary more than generous.” As she spoke, the email notification popped up in the right corner of my computer screen. I gaped at the six-figure salary, full health benefit package, clothing allowance, living expenses, six weeks of vacation, and bonus structure. “And, of course, you’ll be given an apartment suite for the length of your employment.”
If I hadn’t been sitting down, I’d have fallen over. I blinked rapidly, certain my eyes had failed me. “Is this for real?”
For the first time, her professional façade broke, and she laughed. “Yes. It’s absolutely true. Blue Sapphire pays its employees very well. The company also expects a lot in return. You’ll be on call twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, unless you’re on vacation. And the job can be quite…demanding…at times.” In retrospect, her pauses around the word demanding, combined with Mena’s warning, should have sent up red flags. The money and perks, however, dazzled my mind. I pursed my lips, thinking. An offer this late on a Sunday evening, sans interview, reeked of desperation.
“This is a respectable offer, but I’m afraid my salary requirements are a little higher.” I held my breath, hoping she’d take the bait. “I’ll need at least another five hundred per week.”
“Um, well, okay. I’ll adjust the contract, and we can go over it tomorrow.” Her rapid response meant I should have demanded more money. Either way, the sum was still way above what Everly had paid me.
“What time should I be there in the morning?” I asked, the decision made. If the job turned out to be intolerable, I could always quit.
“Excellent.” Did I hear relief in her tone? “I’ll email the address and details. Check in at the front desk by eight AM.”
9
Rourke
After a fitful sleep, I awoke with a sore throat and headache. My summer allergies had flared into a frenzy. Fan-freaking-tastic. Due to puffy eyes, I had to wear my glasses instead of contact lenses. The seams of my favorite suit groaned, and the buttons of my skirt threatened to pop off when I tried to force them through the buttonholes. All those croissants and cappuccinos with whipped cream had finally caught up to me. I had to settle for an outdated pantsuit that made my butt look flat and my thighs chunky. Gazing at my reflection, I couldn’t help comparing the girl from the Masquerade de Marquis to this fright. The hair extensions had been removed the day after Everly’s wedding, and the sunny highlights had faded to dark blond. No matter. It would have to do. Christian was back in the city. Once I received the clothing allowance, I’d get him to pick out a more suitable wardrobe.
Julie Baker met me at the reception desk of the Park Place address. She was nothing like I’d imagined. Medium height, smooth brown hair coiled into a low chignon, late thirties. A worried frown added age to her features, but she managed a cool smile and hustled me toward a private elevator. “You’ll need to wear the security badge at all times. The badge will give you access to all of Mr. Menshikov’s private areas.”
The bottom dropped out of my stomach. I placed a hand on the wall to keep from keeling over. “Mr. Menshikov?” I managed to croak. “Roman Menshikov?”
“Yes. Is that a problem?” She studied me intently.
“No, no, of course not. I’m just surprised.” I stared straight ahead and cursed the flare of heat in my face. The elevator seemed to rocket toward the top floor, our final destination. After a deep, calming breath, I tried to soothe my anxieties. Prince Charming wasn’t Roman Menshikov. There might have been a passing resemblance, but the online photographs had been proof. So why did I have this insistent case of panic? What if I was wrong? What if it was him? I couldn’t possibly work for someone I’d screwed, let alone under such notorious circumstances.
“Mr. Menshikov has eight professional assistants. You’ll be assisting him directly in his personal affairs, coordinating his private schedule with his business calendar, running errands, and aiding him in general with whatever personal needs he requires.” She rattled through a dozen other things, most of which my shocked brain failed to capture.
Too soon, the elevator reached the top and opened into a vestibule. We stepped directly into the foyer of the apartment. To my left, water splashed down a granite wall, into a koi pond. Bright light spilled from the glass ceiling two stories above. Straight ahead was a huge winding staircase, and beyond that the walls of the apartment were floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the New York City skyline. She led me to the living room. I sat on a black suede sofa and spent the next hour signing paperwork, including a twenty-page non-disclosure agreement. Afterward, she handed me a set of key cards and security codes.
“There are six floors. The bottom three floors house the security team and apartments for staff. The kitchen, dining room, living room, and sitting room are on this floor. There’s a library, home theater, gym, pool, and bedrooms on the floors above us.”
I lagged behind, entranced by the cool-charcoal-and-gray furnishings, the colorful Picasso hanging over the sofa, and the opulence of details. Understated elegance characterized every piece of furniture. Priceless artwork and sculptures punctuated the open spaces, their loveliness displayed by well-placed lamps, chandeliers, and recessed lighting. An annoyed glance over Julie’s shoulder reminded me to pick up the pace. I trotted to keep up with her rapid strides.
“Mr. Menshikov usually has breakfast in his study on the fourth floor. You’ll want to meet him there each morning with coffee, his personal mail, and to go over his schedule before he heads to work. You’ll also need to scan the news headlines for anything of note. He’s especially interested in political unrest.” The rapid-fire instructions swam in my head. “Make sure his dry cleaning has been delivered from the previous day and that his wardrobe is coordinated for any meetings he might have. I’ll introduce you to the household staff later.”
We wove through a formal dining room, a sitting room, and a series of closed doors. With each passing step, my mouth became drier. What if the man on the other side of those enormous double doors was Prince Charming? How would I handle the situation? Julie rapped on one of the doors. I wiped my sweaty palms over the hem of my jacket.
“Mr. Menshikov? May we come in?”
“Enter,” said a terse, deep, male voice.
Julie opened the door and motioned for me to wait at the threshold. A man stood on the far side of the study, speaking guttural German into a Bluetooth headset. One hand was shoved into the pocket of his elegant trousers, pulling the fabric taut over a hard, muscular ass. I held my breath, waiting for him to face us.
“Jesus, where have you been?” He ended his call and turned.
Nothing about his face seemed familiar. His hair was short and styled with gel. The skin of his lean, square jaw was shaved smooth, his nose less straight and longer than the picture in my head. I tried to compare his face to my memory of Prince Charming but came up short. It had been three long months since that night. The mental image of my prince had faded with time. I had a general impression of his physical appearance, but the intangible things like his heated touch, the taste of his tongue, and his scent stayed with me.
“We’re right on time,” she replied calmly.
Then he saw me. “Who the fuck is this? Where’s Mary
?”
Mortification blazed up my neck.
“Her name was Marsha, and she quit. So did Rene, Enya, and Sheldon,” Julie said. I admired the way she lifted her chin and held her ground in the face of his intimidating posture. He ignored her and strode to his desk. The easy grace of his body as he slid into the high-backed leather chair spoke of power and authority and a man who worked out every day. “This is Rourke Donahue. She’s your new assistant.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” A grimace of displeasure marred the chiseled planes of his face.
“I did, sir. Last night.”
Manicured fingertips drummed on the desk. He shook his head, eyes trained on a stack of printed papers. “Well, there isn’t much to be done about it now, I suppose. You’ll take care of this, I assume? I don’t have time to train another one.”
“She comes well recommended. She worked for Everly McElroy Martin,” Julie said. I marveled at how easily she handled his gruff demeanor. “Former Vice President McElroy gave her a glowing recommendation.” I warmed at the memory of Everly’s father and his kind words for my service to his daughter.
Was it my imagination, or did Roman’s shoulders tense beneath the straight line of his suit? I didn’t have time to analyze the blip in his cool façade before he turned his gaze on me. Not on me, but at me. Because his eyes never met mine—not once.
“Coffee,” he said.
“I’m fine. Thank you,” I replied.
“Not you.” He shoved a ceramic mug into my hands with the words “World’s Greatest Dad” across the front. “Me.”
Julie gestured to the wet bar a few yards away. Open doors revealed glass shelves filled with decanters, crystal glasses, a mini-fridge, and coffee machine.
“Cream or sugar?” I trotted to the coffee machine and poured rich, dark liquid from the glass carafe. The aroma wafted up to my nose.
“Black.” His sigh of exasperation traveled down to my toes. This had to be the most unpleasant person I’d ever met. At least he was hot. I returned with the coffee and placed the handle in his outstretched hand. He nodded. “Sit.”
After a glance at Julie for confirmation, I perched on the edge of the uncomfortable metal-and-glass chair across from his desk. Whoever this man was, he wasn’t Prince Charming. He couldn’t be; I wouldn’t allow it. Steel-blue eyes stared at the computer screen mounted beneath the glass surface of his desk. His lips, while full, pressed into a hard line. A full minute passed before he spoke again. “I need you in here by six-thirty each morning. You’ll have coffee ready, my full itinerary, and any urgent messages. Afterward, you’ll ride with me to my office. Put your number in my contacts.” He slid his phone across the desk. I caught it before it fell over the edge. “Under Speed Dial 11. Is your passport valid?”
“Yes.” The walls of my throat scratched over the single word. At his frown, I hastily typed my digits into his contact list and handed the phone back.
He slid it into the inside breast pocket of his suit jacket. “I travel frequently, and I’ll need you with me.” His gaze went to my neck and scraped over my outfit. I tugged on the straining buttons of the jacket. Heat burned in my cheeks. “Have you moved in yet?”
“Not yet. I haven’t—” I stopped midsentence when he waved his hand through the air.
“Julie, send movers or whatever she needs. Get her in here today.” With a flick of long, elegant fingers, he shut down the computer. He stood and tugged down his white cuffs beneath the sleeves of his black jacket. Everything about him was crisp and clean and sharp-edged. “Make sure she has computer access and the passwords to my email accounts before tomorrow.”
“Yes, Mr. Menshikov,” Julie said. She followed him to the door.
He paused at the threshold and spoke over his shoulder without turning around. “And take her shopping, would you?”
I watched his broad back disappear into the hallway and blinked, feeling like I’d been run over by a dump truck. The door slammed behind him.
Julie smiled weakly. “He comes off a lot harsher than he really is.”
“Really?” I mused dryly. “Because ‘harsh’ isn’t what I’d call it.”
For the first time since we’d met, a genuine smile cracked her features. “You’ll get used to him. I promise. Most of the time, he’s tolerable. He’s been going through some challenges lately, and it’s made him grumpier than usual.” She exhaled, like she was releasing the tension from her body, and gestured toward the door. “You heard Mr. Menshikov. Let’s get you settled in your apartment.” Julie led me down the hallway to a second elevator, talking as we walked. “There are eight bedrooms and eleven bathrooms. Your suite of rooms is on the fourth floor.” She opened the door into the foyer, clasped her hands behind her back, and waited for my response.
I stood on the marble floor and gaped. Everything was done in tones of cream, taupe, and blush. Crown moldings and plush carpeting stretched as far as the eye could see. I felt like I’d stepped into an article of Architectural Digest. This had to be a mistake. “I’m staying here?” I pointed to the room. “In this place? Just me?”
“Yes. Just you.” After an amused shake of her head, she moved further into the apartment. “It’s small, but there are two bedrooms, two and a half baths, a galley kitchen and dining room. The maid will come in once a day. You can put your laundry outside the door.”
“I can do those things for myself.”
“It’s a perk of the job. I suggest you use it. You’re going to be too busy for mundane chores, and when you do finally get some downtime, the last thing you’re going to want is to wash clothes.”
10
Rourke
The rest of the day passed in a whirlwind. While I went over the details of Roman’s schedule with Julie, movers brought my things to the new apartment. By the time I finished the day, they’d unpacked everything. My clothing hung on velvet hangers in the walk-in closet, and my toiletries had been carefully placed in the bathroom drawers.
I wandered around the place, awestruck and overwhelmed, feeling like I’d landed in someone else’s life. In the kitchen, the shelves of the cabinets and refrigerator overflowed with staples. Fresh bedsheets and towels filled the linen closets. Every detail of my needs had been addressed, from paper towels and napkins down to toilet paper and tampons.
After a long soak in the elegant tub, I flopped onto the bed and tried to calm my whirling thoughts. Exhaustion weighted my eyelids. I was almost asleep when my cell phone rang. I answered groggily. “Hello?”
“Rourke?” Everly’s voice brought me to a sitting position. “You sound funny.”
“I’ve got a sore throat. Allergies are kicking my butt,” I said. “What about you? How’s vacation in Tahiti?”
“It’s amazing, like my husband. We’re having the best time.” The joy in her tone brought a smile to my lips. Hearing her happiness made the pain of separation more bearable. “What about you? Someone from Blue Sapphire Group called to get a reference on you. Did you get the job? Have you seen Roman Menshikov?”
“Um, good, yes, and yes.” I lowered my voice. “I’m sitting in one of his apartments right now.”
“No way! Get out,” Everly shrieked. “Is he the mysterious stranger from the masquerade?”
“I thought he might be, and there is a resemblance, but I don’t think so. This guy’s a total ass.” In detail, I enumerated the many discrepancies between the two men. I fell onto my back and stared at the coffered ceiling. “He never even made eye contact with me. Not once.”
“Oh, Rourke, I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay. I’m fine. Everything is fine,” I said, stumbling to soothe her misgivings while shoving aside my own. “This is a great opportunity. One year with this guy, and I’ll have my pick of jobs. The money is great, and this apartment is unbelievable. I’m sending pictures.”
“Well, maybe it won’t be so bad then.” Her voice caught on the last word. “I really miss you.”
“I miss you too.” Th
e backs of my eyelids stung. If we continued down this line of conversation, we’d both dissolve into tears, so I changed the subject. “How’s married life?”
We talked for an hour. She filled me in on the details of life on the opposite side of the globe. I let her talk, enjoying her chatter. The sound of her voice felt like home. After the call ended, however, I felt lonelier than ever. I laid on the bed and stared at the ceiling. Somewhere, above me, Roman Menshikov was sleeping.
11
Roman
For the past week, I’d been fighting a headache. When I woke up on Tuesday morning, I felt like my skull might split in two. The last thing I wanted to do was spend the day in meetings and arguments with a team of legal piranhas over the custody of my daughter. Claudette, my ex, wanted full custody with an exorbitant amount of child support. To punish me, she’d taken Milada out of the country.
Ivan rapped on the door of my bedroom. “Sir, are you awake?”
“Yes, I’m up.” Which was only a partial lie. My feet were on the floor but my ass remained firmly planted on the bed. “Bring me some aspirin, would you?”
He opened the door, silver tray in hand. Two white tablets and a glass of water balanced on the center. As always, he’d anticipated my needs before I did. I shot him a look of gratitude, swallowed the medicine, and gulped the entire glass of water.
“You should drink more water,” he said, staring down his crooked nose with intense dark eyes. “And less vodka.”
“I don’t remember asking for your opinion.” I sauntered toward the shower. Each step sent a knife blade of pain through the center of my brain.
The Exiled Prince Trilogy Page 6