by Lila Monroe
Olivia’s eyes brighten. “Who did you just say you wrangled?”
I swallow the donut. “Jack Callahan. You know, the tech investor? I was his assistant.”
“Oh, I’m aware of Mr. Callahan,” Olivia says. “I try to stay on top of all the important movers and shakers in this city. Working for someone that influential must be stressful.”
Her tone prompts an answer. The way she’s looking at me, I suddenly feel as if I’m in the middle of a test I didn’t know I’d sat down for. I lick the powder from my lips. “It wasn’t exactly a picnic, no. But you learn how to read the person’s moods, when to say ‘yes sir’ and when to tell them they’re being a total ass. Once I got the hang of it, there weren’t any problems.”
“Excellent.” Olivia smiles. I must have passed the test, but I still don’t know what she was testing me for. Not neatly eating donuts, I’m pretty sure. I’ve got the powdered sugar all over my sleeve cuffs, too. Damn.
As I brush it off, Olivia reaches into her purse again. This time, she produces a business card: stark black lettering on ivory linen paper. As elegant as she is.
“I think we’re both in luck today. Your interview may not have worked out, but I might have a job for you. It isn’t photography . . . but it could give you a leg up in the ‘who you know’ department.”
I accept the card and examine the text. Olivia Danvers, The Agency. An address on the Upper East Side.
“There’s some paperwork you’d need to do before I can explain further.” Olivia stands up, tucking her purse under her arm. “If you think you might be interested, come by that address tomorrow.”
“I . . .” I stop, confused. Is she trying to be mysterious, or am I just missing the point?
Olivia gives me a graceful little wave goodbye. “Lovely to meet you, Hallie. I hope to see you soon.” Then she breezes out the door before I can say a word.
I stare at the card again.
The Agency.
There’s no other information on the card, but as I run my finger over the heavy paper, I feel something embossed on the bottom corner—invisible to the naked eye.
It’s a heart.
* * *
My favorite camera shop is on the way to the subway stop—if I take a quick detour of about seven blocks. The side trip is worth it. I need to remind myself of my goals. Keep my mind focused on making that dream a reality. Or something like that. I might be mixing up two of the different self-help books I skimmed through after I quit my job with Jack to make it on my own.
The scruffy guy behind the counter raises an eyebrow as I hurry past. I hope he hasn’t been keeping track of how many times I’ve made this pilgrimage in the last few months. I come to a stop in front of one of the glass cases and sigh with pure longing.
Move aside, Hemsworth. Step aside, Hiddleston. The most handsome sight in the world is right there in front of me. Sleek, dark body. A full set of lenses, more megapixels than I’d know what to do with, a processor that’s practically magic . . .
Come to mama.
I set my fingers on the glass, ogling the finest camera I’ve ever seen. I probably look like an orphan in a melodrama peering from a wintry street through a bright restaurant window. Oh well. No one’s here to see me except Scruffy Dude.
It’s perfect. I could take on Mount Everest with that baby. Possibly Mount Olympus too. We’re talking mythic scale, all right? All I need to do is cough up seven grand and—
Excuse me while I die laughing.
My phone rings. My heart leaps. Some part of me still believes it could be Ms. Editor calling to say I got the job. Like I didn’t hear her giving it to someone else right in front of me.
I check the screen, and that hope goes the way of the dodo. Not anyone from Carlisle Publishing. Not the new boss I was aiming to take on. It’s the former boss I walked out on. I wince and hit the answer button.
“Hello, Jack,” I say. “What’s up?”
“Hallie.” He’s frustrated. By now I can tell that in just two syllables. His British accent comes out in full force when he’s annoyed. “I don’t suppose you’d happen to know where the hell the mock-ups from the Faraday presentation got to?”
The Faraday presentation. My mind leaps back into Jack Callahan’s office as if I never left it. “Have you checked the cabinet to the left of the elevators, second shelf from the top?”
“I have not.” There’s a rustle as he strides over. He sighs. “And there they are. Thank you. And I’m sorry for having to ask. My new assistant is terrible.”
“How many temps have you gone through so far?” I can’t help asking.
“I believe this is number five. Although normally I’d have counted on you to keep track of that. I hope you’re having a spectacular time at the expense of my wellbeing.”
“You survived all those years before I came around.” I smile. “I’m sure you’ll manage without me now.”
“Hmm. I’m glad you’re confident about it, at least.” He pauses. “But seriously, now that I’ve interrupted whatever important thing you were doing, how is the photography business? Everything’s going well?”
My stomach flips. I can’t bear to admit the truth. Not that he’d make me feel bad about it. No, he’d probably insist on helping. And that would be way worse.
“Everything’s great!” I say, with all the brightness I can summon. “Lots of gigs, some interesting clients.” The ones who think dogs make appropriate wedding attendants, for example. It isn’t a total lie.
“Best decision you ever made, then. All right, no need to rub it in. I’ll go back to stumbling around without you.”
I roll my eyes. “You do that.”
My heart feels heavy as I put the phone away. I look at the display case.
Jack would buy that whole setup in an instant if I even mentioned it. He’d call up every business he’s worked for and talk me up for every possible gig. I know that. But this is my dream, and I’m supposed to be pulling it together on my own. It wouldn’t be the same if I let someone else just waltz in hand it to me. It wouldn’t feel like I deserve any success that came with it.
I tap the glass in front of the camera. “I’ll be back, baby. I promise. With a lot more cash in my wallet.”
Next time. I don’t want to walk into this shop again without a way of taking that camera home with me.
I stew on that thought the rest of the way home. As I set my purse on the counter, I remember my donut stop. I dig out Olivia’s card and study it again. She invited me to drop by—and promised it would help with my career.
I trace the hidden embossed heart again, intrigued.
What the hell. What’s the worst that could happen?
4
Hallie
In New York City, there are brownstones and then there are brownstones. The one that holds Olivia’s mysterious The Agency is four stories of absolute old-money glory. I swear the carved stone lintels over the windows have their own lintels. A wrought iron fence surrounds the lowest floor. The door looks like solid mahogany. A sweeping set of stairs leads up to it, with marble lion’s heads peering at me on either side.
Whatever business this Olivia is in, she’s making some serious money here.
I climb the front steps and press the intercom. A soft chirpy voice carries out. “The Agency, who’s come calling?”
Interesting greeting. “Hi!” I say, feeling tongue-tied. “I, um, this is Hallie Gage. Olivia told me I should come by about a job?”
There’s a brief silence. Olivia did mean that invitation, didn’t she? It wasn’t just some polite brush-off? I bob on my feet nervously. Please don’t tell me my one bit of good luck in the last twenty-four hours was a sham.
Before I end up bounding right back down the steps, the chirpy voice comes back. “Sorry about the delay. Please come in, Hallie.”
The lock clicks over. I nudge the door open.
The inside of the place looks . . . surprisingly normal. Like someone’s home. Okay, a really
fancy home, but what else would I expect from Olivia?
There’s a main lobby, with vintage-looking marble floors, a huge vase of fresh lilies on the table, and a staircase sweeping upwards, so I follow it to the top, my pumps sinking into a plush cream carpet so thick, I could lie down and take a nap right here.
A petite young woman appears at the top, dressed in a retro-style pencil skirt and silk blouse. Her fawn brown hair is pulled back in a loose ponytail and her tortoiseshell glasses frame inquisitive green eyes.
“Please come right on up!” she says, beckoning. “I’ll get you set up with everything. Olivia’s on a call, but she’ll be out to see you as soon as she can. Oh, and I’m Alice.”
She gives my hand a firm but quick shake when I reach the top of the stairs. “You can sit in the parlor.”
The room she ushers me into is like something out of a magazine. The vintage French furniture is all upholstered in luxe shades of velvet, with elegant lamps perched on antique tables, and a stunning crystal chandelier overhead.
It looks like Olivia: expensive, and untouchable.
I sit nervously down at one end of the sofa. A clear, crisp voice I recognize as Olivia’s filters through the doorway from farther down the hall. I can only make out some of the words.
“Yes, of course. We . . . Every time. You don’t need . . .”
“Meow!” The interrupting noise comes from my feet. A large, mangy-looking ginger cat butts against my calf with his head. His skull is hard enough that I hear a thunk of impact.
“Hey there,” I say. “Try not to leave a bruise.”
He peers up at me with bright yellow eyes. It’s hard to tell which of the markings on his face are stripes and which are scars. He’s not exactly a match for his elegant surroundings. But then again, neither am I.
I scratch gently between the cat’s ears, and he immediately starts purring louder than a revving motorcycle engine. He smacks his head into my leg again.
“I get it, I get it,” I protest. “More scratching, coming right up.”
Alice comes hurrying into the room. “Oh, you met Thor,” she says. “Don’t mind him. He’s our litmus test. Olivia knows which clients to take on from how they treat him.” She watches Thor drool happily all over my suede pumps. “Looks like he really likes you. We’ll just need you to sign this non-disclosure agreement,” Alice continues, handing me a clipboard with a few pieces of paper fixed to it. “And then fill out the form underneath. Like I said, Olivia should be out really soon.”
She scurries back into the hall to sit down at a majestic secretary desk. I look down at the clipboard.
A non-disclosure agreement? What kind of work is this that disclosing it would be a problem?
As I read the agreement, my eyebrows rise. No mention of any activities arranged through The Agency . . . Any use of information overheard while with the client is strictly forbidden . . . What kind of activities? What would these clients be doing? So many questions and so few answers.
Well, I’m not going to get any answers unless I sign this. I scan the rest of the contract, but it’s standard language I recognize from my years with Jack. Nothing crazy, so I scribble my signature and flip to the form. Ah. More questions, these ones for me to answer.
Thor bumps his head against my ankle, purring even louder. As I write in my name, date of birth, and contact info, Olivia’s voice carries faintly into the room again.
“None of our girls would ever . . . That’s between you and her . . .”
None of our girls? Something about the phrasing sends a prickle over my skin. I glance over the rest of the form.
What leisure interests do you enjoy in your spare time?
Do you currently have any romantic attachments?
How comfortable are you making conversation with strangers?
I blink at the paper. What kind of weird employment questionnaire is this? What could my “romantic attachments”—which, okay, I have none—have to do with a job? The uneasy prickling comes back.
“You’ll always get the exact amount of time you paid for,” Olivia’s voice carries. “If she leaves early . . . all activities agreed to in advance.”
Wait a second. My face flushes. “Their” girls going off with clients . . . “Activities” paid for by the hour . . .
Is this some kind of escort service?
I drop the clipboard on the table and leap up. I stride towards the staircase, but Alice scrambles out of her chair “Wait!” She leaps in front of me. “Where are you going?”
“This job, it’s not for me.”
Alice gives me a frantic smile. “Olivia really wanted to talk to you herself. I’m sure if there’s been any confusion—”
“I’m not confused. I just have no interest in being a prostitute.”
My voice echoes, and a moment later, Olivia emerges from her office.
“Good. I don’t hire prostitutes.” She looks as calm and elegant as ever, despite the fact I’m basically calling her a pimp. Or madam. Either way, the fact I don’t even know the right word says I definitely shouldn’t be here.
“Fine. High-class call girl, or whatever it is you call it,” I correct myself. “No judgment or anything, but it’s not for me.”
“Hallie.” Olivia’s smooth voice cuts through my babbling. “Would you please come talk with me just for a minute? I think you’ll feel much more comfortable after I’ve explained. I promise I wouldn’t ask you to degrade yourself in any way.”
I pause. I’ve got to admit I’m pretty damn curious now, and whatever the Agency is about, it’s clearly afforded Olivia some pretty sweet digs. “All right,” I finally agree, curiosity getting the better of me. “But you’re lucky I can’t resist a mystery.”
The corner of Olivia’s mouth quirks up. She motions for me to follow her into her office.
Inside, it’s just as beautiful as the rest of the building, with a sleek, modern desk set against a wall of antique bookshelves. In the corner, there’s a loveseat and chaise, and Olivia takes a seat there, crossing her ankles beneath her like she’s Grace Kelly brought to life.
“Now,” she says, “let’s talk. The first thing I need to make completely clear is that what we do here has nothing to do with sex. In fact, a client pushing for physical intimacy is strictly against our rules. If one did, the contract would immediately be void and you’d be released without penalty.”
“Oh,” I say, sagging back in my chair. That’s pretty clear-cut. “So what does the job have to do with? What’s with all the crazy questions on the form?”
She gives me a warning look. “I’ll just remind you that everything I tell you now is covered by the NDA you already signed.”
I nod. “Top secret, pain of death—or lawsuit. I get it.”
“Good.” Olivia breaks into a smile. “I apologize for the cloak and dagger routine, but, well, discretion is important here. Tea?”
What? I blink. Olivia is pouring from a china tea set. “Um, sure,” I answer, impatient to find out what, exactly, is behind all this mystery.
Olivia passes me a teacup and saucer, then takes a breath.
“Here at The Agency, we solve a problem for wealthy men. Namely, how to find a suitable woman.”
I furrow my brow. “You’re a matchmaking service?”
“In a way.” Olivia looks amused. “But our matches are short-term. And about practicalities, not love. Say you’re a workaholic CEO, but you need a date for work functions, one who understands exactly who you need to network with—and why. Or the terms of your trust fund won’t release until you’re married. Or you’re an A-list actor with a wild reputation, and you need to be seen settling down to make that Oscar campaign work. You need the right woman on your arm, and you’ll find her here.”
“So . . . it’s all pretend?” I ask, fascinated. “The women just do a big public show of being their girlfriend?”
“Exactly.” Olivia beams at me. “The client gets a date without all the messy romantic attachments,
and the women are paid handsomely for their time. Plus, they often find the networking useful for their own careers. Being introduced in high-flying circles in business or the arts can be worth more than any paycheck.”
I nod. I’ve seen for myself how many deals get done over dinner, or drinks at the right club. And with some VIP introducing them . . . It’s a ticket to the big leagues. “So, do people actually believe them?”
“Why not?” Olivia smiles. “And most of the time, they have fun,” she adds. “I’m careful to only match people who will be compatible and get along, and I’m very selective about the clients we accept. So it doesn’t really feel like work at all.”
Well, when she puts it like that . . . I can see the appeal. If my old boss, Jack, hadn’t been so good at picking up women wherever he went—before he went and fell in love—I could have seen him turning to a place like this for the sake of convenience.
“So . . . why did you ask me to come here?” I ask. “Do I really look like the fake girlfriend type?”
Olivia laughs. “There is no type. But personality is very important, and if you could manage an alpha male like Jack Callahan for four years . . . well, that’s exactly what I’m looking for. I actually have a client in mind for you,” she says. “You’re even a little familiar with his business already.”
Okay, now I’m really intrigued. “Who?”
Olivia reaches for a file. “Maximillian Carlisle.”
I blink. “You mean, like Carlisle Publishing?”
“One and the same,” Olivia says. “He needs a girlfriend to accompany him to a family gathering. It’s a week-long contract, down in Palm Beach.”
A week with the Carlisles of Carlisle Publishing? A spark of excitement runs through me. But still . . . pretending to be some stranger’s girlfriend? Is that really something I want to get myself into?
“What exactly would I have to do at this family gathering?” I ask, still cautious.
“Make small-talk, run interference, act as if you can’t resist him.” Olivia smiles. “Everything a normal girlfriend would do.”